Royal academy
1501 Words
CELIA
The moment dinner is announced, my stomach tries to crawl out through my throat.
Annabel helps me change into something I practically bullied her into finding—pants. Actual pants. Not the stiff, suffocating gown that tried to murder me earlier—I'd ordered her to burn my collection of them by the way and she had stared at me as if I'm going insane. This outfit still looks medieval-ish—corset, embroidered tunic, stupidly fancy boots—but at least I won’t trip and die again.
The servants open the wide double doors to the dining hall.
It’s huge. Even more bigger than the headquarters conference room. I'm very much convinced these people just loves wasting space. There are golden chandeliers. Columns. A long table that could seat twenty.
And standing at the far end…
I freeze.
My breath stops.
The room tilts.
No.
No, no, no.
That face.
That voice as he speaks to someone beside him.
That posture.
It’s him.
The man j thought I'd never hear again.
My Papa.
My real dad.
Not a resemblance. Not a coincidence. Not even a similar vibe.
My eyes burn instantly and I hasten my steps.
He turns, maybe sensing me, maybe hearing nothing but still knowing me the way my dad always did, and our gazes meet.
I choke on a sob I wasn’t prepared for.
He frowns in concern, then—
“Celia?”
He even has the same voice!
And I don't listen to that voice in my head that's whispering that everything and everyone in this world is fake. But I grab the stupid fancy hem of my skirt, bunch it up, and sprint—straight across the hall.
Screw nobility.
Screw manners.
Screw everyone watching.
I crash into him with full force and wrap my arms around him like I’m trying to glue myself to him forever.
He staggers a little, caught off guard, but his arms wrap around me instinctively.
Just like home.
“Oh, my princess,” he murmurs, hand cradling the back of my head. “What troubles you?”
Princess.
He always call me that.
Exactly that.
A sob rips out of me and I cling harder.
“I missed you,” I breathe into his chest. “So much. I thought—I thought—”
I thought I'll never see you again.
He hugs me tighter, a breathless chuckle escaping him. “My Celia. But you saw me just this morning.”
I hug him tighter as I peek at the table where three people stare:
Monica, my step mother. Except maybe not Monica. But definitely Monica.
Laureline can't even look at me. She's staring at her plate instead.
And then…
Keiran.
Golden hair. A medieval Kevin with aristocracy installed.
But I barely glance at him. I won't be marrying that bastard. Not in this lifetime or the next.
My dad pulls back to study my face.
“You seem… emotional tonight.”
“I’m just… happy to see you,” I whisper.
He smiles warmly. “Come. Sit beside me.”
He offers his arm, and I take it, walking beside him, my heart still trembling.
We sit—me at his right, monica sitting directly across from me, gaze sharp.
Keiran sits quietly, watching but not speaking.
Dinner begins, servants laying down platters of roasted meats and seasoned vegetables that look edible enough that I won’t cry.
Then, dinner starts.
The clinking of cutlery barely lasts a minute before Monica opens her viper mouth which actually exists in this fake world too.
“Is it just me,” she says sweetly, “or does our dear Celia seem to have changed in just a few hours?”
My spoon pauses mid-air but I clear my throat. “I’m completely fine.”
Monica hums. “Are you? Because you look a bit… lost. And I can’t help but notice you haven’t spared Master Keiran a single look.”
Yeah well, Monica, maybe because I’m trying to prevent a timeline-altering death.
I can feel Kev— No, I don't know how to call him that name because I might act on my anger even if he's fake— Kieran’s eyes on me.
So, my mouth parts but father beats me to it by placing his spoon against the ceramic which makes a clang sound. And then, he clears his throat.
He dabs the corner of his mouth with a napkin, turns to Keiran, and I feel my stomach fall through the floor.
“There is,” Father starts, voice deep, “a reason I invited you here tonight.” He says to him.
No.
Nope.
Absolutely not.
Before he can go full medieval-proposal-ceremony on me, I shoot to my feet so fast my chair screeches backward.
“Father!” My voice cracks but I inhale deeply. “I—um—I need to talk to you. Privately. Right now.”
The whole table freezes and I gulp dryly.
Wait. Is it… actually right for a woman to speak up to her dad this way in this… you know… timeline and stuff.
Or.
I inhale deeply, calming myself. Annabel had said I'm the pampered brat of the Valmorra household so, father will definitely overlook it right?
Monica’s eyebrows shoot up in suspicion.
Laureline’s fork clatters onto her plate.
Keiran goes perfectly, unnervingly still.
My father studies me for one long second.
Then he nods.
“Excuse us,” he says to the table and rises to follow me.
I walk out fast, not even sure where the hell I’m going, skirt swishing violently as I speed through the corridor like a panicked ghost.
We go left, then right, then down a smaller hall lined with candle sconces.
I only stop when I’m far enough from the dining hall.
Then, I turn.
Father stands there, brows drawn, worry etched into every line of his face.
“Princess,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Are you hurt? Are you feeling faint? Tell me what troubles you.”
I shake my head, trying to steady my breath.
“I…”
My fingers fidget with my sleeves.
“I don’t want to marry Keiran, Father.”
The hallway goes painfully silent.
My father’s expression shifts to surprise first, then confusion, then something like disappointment.
“Celia,” he says quietly, “you came to me. Just two days ago. You told me you cared for him deeply and we agreed—”
“I know,” I interrupt quickly even though I don't know. “I know what I said. But I—things are different. I’m different.”
He steps closer, lifting a hand hesitantly before letting it rest on my arm, eyes raking over my outift.
“Princess. Did… did he do something to frighten you?”
“No!” I blurt. “He didn’t do anything. I just— I don't want him. I don't like him too.” I whisper, wishing his medieval mind can understand that.
He sighs.
“Celia,” he begins gently, “I understand that you are nervous. But since you refused to attend the Royal Academy, mating with Keiran and letting him mark you is our best hope for the Moon Goddess oath legacy and your wolf when they awaken.”
I blink, my brain short-circuiting.
Wolf? As in werewolf?
Moon Goddess?
Mark??
My brain is racing through every fantasy novel I’ve ever skimmed on w*****d.
Royal Academy = training.
Annabel did not mention ANY of that.
But I can’t ask him.
If I ask him, he’ll know I’m… well… me.
So I just stand there smiling like a constipated Barbie doll.
Father continues, oblivious to my internal meltdown.
“If you do not mate now, it may get out of hand. And you were adamant about not going to the Academy.”
“The… Royal Academy right?” I repeat, voice flat.
Father steps back a fraction, eyes narrowing.
I panic. Immediate, kneejerk panic.
I throw my head back and laugh like a villain. Like someone whose laugh hasn’t been calibrated for human society.
“Ohhhh, that Royal Academy!” I wheeze. “Yes, yes. I remember.”
He just stares at me.
I want to die.
Why did the me ‘me’ hate training?
What kind of princess avoids the training arc?
Training sounds like gym—okay, medieval gym with swords—but still better than marrying Kevin 2.0.
Before I can stop myself, the words tumble out of my mouth:
“If I… umm…start training and attend the Royal Academy… then I don’t have to get married for the oath legacy and my… wolf. Right?”
[Only mission unlocked: Survive the Royal Academy and have a chance to rewrite your fate!]
I freeze.
My eyes snap up like the voice is on the ceiling, chilling with a cup of tea.
“Oh my god! YOU AGAIN?!” I hiss under my breath. “Wherr the hell have you been?!”
- Writer
