"Good evening to you too, girls…"
The woman with white hair stepped into the embroidery club room.
Her voice like velvet over ice—gentle, composed, but carrying a tone of command.
Her crimson eyes scanned the room, taking in every detail with a calm precision.
Her heels clicked softly against the wooden floor, each step measured and elegant, her long, snow-silk hair swaying behind her like a tail of light.
"Were the supplies moved?"
She asked, her tone practical, clipped.
"Yes, Club Patron…"
Lumi responded quickly, her hands tucked behind her back, her posture bright and proud.
She wore her usual smile, one that beamed effortlessly through her sparkling blue eyes.
The club patron's gaze lingered on Lumi, eyes narrowing not in suspicion but in silent observation—Lumi always looked so present, so radiant, so...unshakably enthusiastic.
Then her eyes slid sideways toward Grassia, who was standing with a sheepish grin plastered across her face, one hand nervously scratching the back of her head—while the other still clutched a half-eaten taiyaki pastry.
A faint sigh tugged at the corners of the club patron's lips.
It was obvious who had done all the heavy lifting.
But then again, Lumi was the club manager, and no one could say she didn't take that role seriously.
"Okay, that's—"
The woman's voice stopped mid-sentence.
Her eyes widened slightly.
A silence passed.
Her nose twitched.
"Something wrong, Miss—?"
Lumi started, head tilted in polite concern.
"Yes, yes… nothing is wrong," the club patron interrupted quickly, waving a gloved hand in the air.
"I just thought I smelled—"
She stopped again, cutting off her own sentence.
Her throat cleared.
"Ehem...
Anyways, did the other club members arrive for today's meet-up?"
Lumi shook her head, still standing tall, though her voice turned a little hesitant.
"Umm… we couldn't afford to meet up today.
Grassia and I were, of course, together—but Sallie was caught up with her last lecture.
Their instructor didn't let them out, and it went way past the designated time.
As for—"
Click.
The door to the club room suddenly swung open with a sharp creak.
"I'm sorry, guys… our instructor wouldn't let anyone leave…"
A boy with short black hair walked in, carrying a thick textbook under one arm and a smaller notebook tucked into the crook of the other.
His uniform was slightly disheveled, likely from rushing.
Behind him, a girl followed quietly.
She had jet-black hair as well, but hers hung long with sharp bangs curtaining over her eyes.
She held a set of embroidery needles and a delicate square of unfinished stitching between her fingers as well as books.
"Sallie!"
Grassia called out with relief clearly to the girl, waving with her pastry-filled hand.
"Ohh… I thought you were leaving the club..."
Lumi said softly, her eyes glancing to the side and then downward as if she'd been preparing for that possibility and then looked at the boy.
"I—" the boy began to explain, but he was abruptly cut off.
The club patron leaned forward suddenly—closer than anyone expected—and took a very distinct sniff over his shoulder.
The room froze.
Lumi's brows furrowed.
Grassia… simply froze in place.
Her jaw dropped, and with it, the half-eaten taiyaki slipped from her fingers and splattered dramatically on the club room floor.
"C-Club Patron, what are you—"
Grassia mumbled, her voice trembling as if she had just seen a dragon sniffing a scholar.
The club patron blinked.
As if suddenly realizing what she had done, her posture snapped back, eyes wide.
Her pale cheeks turned the faintest shade of pink.
She pulled back quickly, brushing her pristine white hair over her shoulder in a flustered, elegant motion.
Her dignified, stoic composure crumbled for a split second—just long enough for her nose to wrinkle and her lips to purse in embarrassment.
"Ahem...Right… well…"
She cleared her throat again, eyes darting everywhere but at the students.
"Let's postpone today's meeting.
We'll reconvene over the weekend instead.
Lumi—Deputy Manager Grassia—you're in charge of finding more potential club members.
Put up posters. Approach students personally if you must."
"Y-Yes ma'am!"
Both girls responded, still stiff with confusion.
The club patron turned swiftly, her heels clicking again, and closed the door behind her.
But she didn't walk away immediately.
She leaned against the door from the outside, her hand resting softly against the polished wood.
Her eyes stared ahead—unfocused.
'I thought… he had started wearing his brother's perfume…
But clearly not…'
"..."
'Still… I was certain I smelled him.'
The thoughts lingered like phantom scents in her mind.
For a moment, the cool composure of the club patron faded into something… unsure.
Then, like snow untouched by footfall, her expression reset.
The fleeting emotion was swept away beneath her usual serious demeanor, like a mask slipping firmly back into place.
Without another glance back, she began walking down the hall—shoulders square, gaze forward, and lips drawn in a thin, unreadable line.
***
At the academy's sprawling cafeteria.
Where high vaulted ceilings shimmered with a soft enchanted glow and long tables sprawled across polished marble floors.
Students and professors alike had gathered to take their evening snacks and drinks.
Conversations rose and fell like waves; laughter mixed with the clinks of porcelain, and warm, spiced scents filled the air.
Toward one side, where the coffee and tea section buzzed with its own little crowd, Clara stood alone.
Now officially appointed as Assistant Instructor under Noel, she had the same access as the staff, which included a wide array of foodstuffs, imported teas, and magically brewed beverages.
But tonight, she wasn't hungry.
Her shoulders slumped slightly.
A long sigh escaped her lips as she stared blankly at the glowing panel on the coffee dispenser.
"Who knew that work at the Academy would be just as tedious as being a civil servant back at the ISD...
If anything, it might be worse."
Her fingers lightly pressed the magic panel for a macchiato.
The coffee-making machine let out a mechanical hum that sounded far too cheerful for her current mood.
The machine itself was a masterwork of Magic Engineering.
Sleek black panels lined with silver trim, embedded with faint glyphs that shimmered with light.
From the top arched a thin metal spout, curving gracefully downward like a swan's neck, from which steamed milk poured in smooth streams.
Nearby, smaller nozzles—each shaped like blooming flowers—dispensed syrups, sugar dust, or chocolate infusions depending on the drink selected.
As her cup sat centered on the glowing rune-inscribed circle beneath, it filled automatically with the perfect ratio of milk and espresso.
Clara stirred her cup absently, a tiny silver spoon clinking against the ceramic, her thoughts somewhere else.
Then, a voice.
"Oh, you're the new Assistant Instructor."
A man sidled up beside her, just a few inches too close for comfort.
His posture screamed aristocracy—shoulders squared like he expected praise, a grin tugging one side of his lips upward in a smug arch.
He had golden blond hair, long enough to be tied back, but instead he swept it dramatically with one hand, brushing it away from his eyes with practiced flair.
"I'm with Professor Brael..."
He continued, flashing the silver crest pinned to his coat—the symbol of the Magic Engineering Tower.
"I know the inner workings of this place like the back of my hand."
He placed one arm against his chest and extended the other with flourish, like he was mid-performance in a noble play.
"I must say, though… how's a beautiful individual like yourself working under that vile Instructor Noel?"
Clara said nothing.
She didn't even look at him.
Her spoon stirred once more with a low, metallic clink.
"...get lost..."
She murmured.
The man blinked.
"HUHH?..."
"What was that?"
Clara turned.
Her eyes were wide.
Unblinking.
Her pupils seemed to constrict and glow, and faint veins had started to rise visibly across her temples, throbbing with something dark and electric beneath her skin.
"I said…"
She leaned forward, her voice sharper now, louder—drawn like a dagger through grit and glass—
"LEAVE ME ALONE AND GET LOST."
The man stumbled back and fell, shocked by the sudden shift.
His coffee cup jolted in his hand and spilled over his tan trench coat—its brown liquid trailing down the fabric in jagged splashes.
Gasps echoed across the cafeteria.
A student dropped their fork.
Heads turned.
Every pair of eyes found him.
Silence settled like a heavy fog.
Clara, however, blinked and tilted her head.
As if nothing had happened.
Her expression softened.
Her eyes widened into a mask of innocent concern.
She stepped forward, carefully setting her macchiato on the counter.
"Oh no! Are you okay? That looked like it really hurt..."
She said, squatting down beside the man and reaching out gently.
Her voice was light again, airy, the concern painted so naturally across her face it almost seemed sincere.
But the man scrambled back, arms flailing like she'd touched him with fire.
"Get away from me!"
He barked, pushing her back with both palms.
Clara hit the ground with a soft thud, her body landing on her lower back.
A collective gasp filled the cafeteria.
Cups paused mid-air. Chairs scraped.
Clara winced, her fingers reaching behind to clutch her back.
"Sir, I was just trying to hel—"
"You… You're sick in the head!"
He yelled, pointing a trembling finger at her before storming off.
The MET badge on his coat was still dripping coffee as he shoved past tables.
More gasps.
Then whispers.
"What's wrong with him?"
"Professor Brael must be overworking him again…"
"Did you see his eyes? He looked possessed…"
Clara didn't move immediately.
Her lips were pressed into a thin line.
Her fingers clenched softly against the tiled floor.
Then, as if brushing the entire incident under the rug of her mind, she stood back up.
Her eyes, once round with false concern, narrowed into a dangerous, unreadable glare.
She picked up her drink—her fingers curled tightly around the warm ceramic.
Then her innocent flowery look returned.
She nervously smiled closing her eyes.
Suddenly a boy appeared before her vision handing her a paper towel.
Clara looked at him and the words that came out were.
"Oh you're-"
***
༺ (Noel's POV) ༻
I finally reached my office after another long, bitter walk down the corridor.
The door clicked open under my hand, and the familiar scent of old parchment and faint ink greeted me.
I didn't even pause as I stepped in.
"Clara?"
I called out.
Silence.
No response came from within the room, only the echo of my own voice against polished walls and worn-out bookshelves.
She must be running errands again.
I sighed and stepped further in, my gaze immediately drifting toward the desk by the side wall—the one that had slowly but surely become hers.
What was once my spare table was now lined with little charms and cups of dried pens, color-coded tabs, and a tiny potted plant with a label that simply read: 'Mr. Wiggles'.
But today, it was a mess.
Scattered documents lay across the surface like a small storm had passed through.
Several folders were flipped open, their corners folded in, and Clara's favorite pen—the one with the floating flower petals inside—was nowhere in sight.
I narrowed my eyes.
"Why is her desk like that here? She's usually clean and neat… especially back at the ISD…"
Still muttering to myself, I started sorting through the chaos, stacking papers into a half-neat pile.
My fingers brushed against a crisp parchment—
[Lecture Plan: ME.]
"Ahh… just what I'm looking for."
I muttered with a slight grin.
As I turned to place the lecture plan into my organizer, my arm knocked against a stack of notebooks.
Her pen rolled toward the edge of the desk and dropped, landing with a faint clatter into a partially open drawer.
I crouched down to retrieve it.
But as I reached in, something caught my eye.
A small, leather-bound book lay half-open inside the drawer.
My hand hesitated as the silver lining on the pages gleamed faintly.
Not a typical ledger. It was a journal.
Normally I wasn't one to pry into other people's matters and minded my business.
I should've just picked the pen and shut it.
I would have… if not for the words staring right back at me from the exposed page.
[Manager Noel Saint Grenn - Funds Allocation]
My fingers hovered, then closed over the edge of the book before I could stop myself.
I pulled it out, slowly flipping to the beginning of the entry.
Clara's handwriting was unmistakable.
Neat, but oddly emotional.
Some of the lines curved awkwardly as if written while pacing.
Her voice came alive through the page.
And she'd written in that strange way she always did when she wanted to organize her thoughts without drawing conclusions.
[Entry #43]
{...I—I finally got access to the Treasury records today. It was strange. Not just the fact that I needed clearance...but how quickly the clerk left when I showed the crest.}
{Most of it matched. Almost. Until I reached the [Allocation from Saint Grenn] line. The number was right. The signature was right. But… something about it...felt wrong.}
{I remember...back then, when I worked directly under Manager Noel. He was different. Yes, difficult. Yes, terrifying on some days. But...also driven. He was the kind of person who'd skip meals just to submit paperwork on time. So why—why would he sign off on this?}
{The Empire had designated that money to Security Strengthening and Restoration Projects in the outer provinces. But the funds… never arrived.}
{It's like it vanished. Like it was swallowed into air. Gone. Poof.}
{No trail. No rebudgeting. No emergency clauses. Just an empty hole with his name next to it.}
{I thought—maybe—maybe it was a mistake. Maybe someone forged it? But the wax seal was authentic. The ink hadn't aged. It was him.}
I flipped the page.
[Entry #45 – Recent]
{He acts strange these days. Not just tired. Different.}
{Noel smiles sometimes like it hurts to smile. Other times, I see him stare at the windows like he's expecting someone to come through. And then there's how he winces when people mention the word "home."}
{Something's not right with him. And I don't mean stress or sickness. I mean something deeper—like he's holding something too big for one person. Like he's a vessel that's cracked but pretending he's still whole.}
{...But I'm going to figure it out.}
{What happened to the missing funds.}
{What he's hiding.}
{And most of all...why he needed that money. What could be so important that he'd risk the Empire's trust?}
{Even if it means digging through every document, report, and memory. I'll get to the bottom of it. I have to.}
The page trembled slightly in my hand.
Or maybe it was my fingers that were trembling.
A cold silence settled into the room.
The distant murmurs from the hallway beyond the door faded to white noise as I stood there, journal in hand, eyes wide.
My lips parted.
No sound came out.
I blinked once.
Then again.
Confusion mixed with something heavier—anger? ? Panic?—swirled inside me like storm clouds crashing against each other.
My jaw clenched.
Flustered wasn't even the word.
It was the look of someone cornered—someone who had no idea if the truth had already caught up to them… or was just about to.