Royal Games

Chapter Two: Coexist or Combust

Rhea Egerrene stood in the center of her new dorm and seriously considered burning it to the ground.

The manor-style suite was objectively impressive: sleek black marble floors, enchanted chandeliers dripping with crystal stars, fireplaces that sparked to life at the flick of a wrist. Each wing of the shared dorm had been designed with luxury in mind—probably to impress the heirs of powerful nations.

But Rhea didn’t give a flying damn about the velvet chaise lounges or the gilded walls or the spiral staircases.

Because Dean Nivovia had already claimed the west wing.

And his aura—his actual magical aura—was currently seeping under the threshold between wings like smoke.

“How are you still alive?” she hissed at the enchanted doorway, eyes narrowing.

As if on cue, a voice echoed from the other side of the wall, rich and smug and far too relaxed.

“I could ask you the same, Egerrene. You’ve been suspiciously quiet. I was starting to think you choked on your own entitlement.”

Rhea didn’t scream. Not externally. Internally, however, she was already stabbing him with a dozen metaphorical swords—gold-plated, of course.

Instead, she turned with a huff and stormed back toward the common room, her royal guards—two loyal attendants from Aelwynn—trailing silently behind her, levitating her luggage like proper nobility.

Because obviously, she didn’t carry her own trunks. She was a princess, not a peasant.

“I want the Headmaster,” she snapped, snapping her fingers at the nearest wall rune. “Now.”

The rune shimmered, fizzled... then displayed a polite, glowing message:

All Headmaster appointments must be made through the Central Registry. Magical emergencies only. Do not abuse school resources.

Rhea’s nostrils flared. “This is a magical emergency. My dorm has been corrupted by war-born vermin with a superiority complex and no concept of personal space.”

Dean’s voice floated down the hall again. “If you wanted personal space, maybe you should’ve earned the top ranking.”

“I did earn it,” she shouted back.

“Oh? Then why am I here, too?”

Rhea practically combusted on the spot.

An hour later, she stormed into the Central Registry Office like a goddess of wrath in heeled boots.

The registry was a floating library built into the bones of a Leviathan’s skeleton—massive and humming with bureaucratic magic. Crystals whizzed overhead like enchanted pigeons, and every clerk looked like they hadn’t smiled since before the last war.

The nearest attendant, a pale elf woman with ink-stained fingers and a floating quill, blinked slowly at Rhea as she launched into her tirade.

“I want a new dorm,” Rhea declared. “Immediately. Preferably in a different dimension.”

The clerk didn’t even flinch. “Name and request?”

“Princess Rhea Egerrene of Aelwynn. Assigned to Dorm 3C. I demand reassignment.”

“Reason for reassignment?”

“Dean Nivovia exists.”

A pause.

“Specific reason?”

Rhea inhaled sharply. “He is a threat to my magical equilibrium, my psychological stability, and possibly the structural integrity of the dorm. He’s smug, condescending, and—I cannot stress this enough—unbearable.”

The elf blinked again, scribbled something on her floating scroll, and hummed.

“Dorm 3C is designated as a House Unity Suite. Chosen specifically to encourage diplomatic engagement between rival nations. Requests for reassignment are currently restricted.”

Rhea's jaw dropped. “You want me to engage diplomatically with a lizard in a custom-tailored coat who’d sell his own mother for a better seating chart?!”

“That is not a recognized reason,” the clerk replied calmly. “Would you like to file a formal complaint with the Housing Tribunal?”

“Yes.”

“Estimated hearing: three months.”

Rhea stared at her.

The quill hovered expectantly.

“…No. I’ll figure it out myself.”

She stormed out, dragging at least three runes off the wall in pure spite.

By the time she returned to Dorm 3C, the air was charged with smugness.

Dean was lounging in the common room, one boot kicked up on the arm of a sapphire velvet couch, reading A Treatise on Subtle Assassination Techniques (Revised Edition). The fire crackled behind him. His hair glinted like treacherous silk.

“Well?” he drawled without looking up. “Did the clerks send you to live with the kitchen staff?”

Rhea stopped cold.

“You know what?” she said sweetly. “I did get something from the office.”

She raised a rune crystal the size of her palm and slammed it against the wall. Instantly, the room hummed and vibrated as new enchantments took hold.

Dean’s brows lifted.

“What did you just—?”

“Soundproofing,” Rhea said. “Full spectrum. East and West wing now have zero auditory overlap. So you can scream all night about your daddy issues and I won’t hear a single note.”

Dean stood slowly. “That was custom enchantment work. Where’d you even get that rune?”

“I bribed a fae registrar with imported moonwine.”

He tilted his head, impressed. “How very underhanded of you.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll sink lower.”

They stared at each other across the room, firelight casting twin shadows that clawed toward the center of the space.

Dean finally broke the silence. “You know, you could’ve just asked me to keep my distance.”

“And you could’ve choked on a crystal shard and saved us both the trouble.”

A heartbeat passed.

He grinned. “You always this charming?”

“Only when I want someone dead.”

Later that night, Rhea sat in her suite, sipping sleep-draught tea and reviewing tomorrow’s class schedule.

A knock came at her door.

She considered ignoring it.

Then a second knock, louder.

She opened it to find one of her attendants hovering nervously behind a floating tray of documents.

“Your Highness,” they said, bowing, “a message from the Headmaster. Placement is final. Dorm changes will not be reconsidered.”

Rhea stared at the letter.

It wasn’t just a rejection. It was a glorified pat on the head, signed in actual shimmering ink. Typical.

Dean passed by in the hall at that exact moment, shirt untucked and smirk fully loaded.

“No luck with your little dorm crusade?” he purred.

Rhea closed the door in his face.

The next morning, the magical wards lifted just enough for Dean’s alarm charm to bleed through the barrier.

It was loud. And deliberately set to Aelwynn’s royal anthem played backwards on a cursed harpsichord.

Rhea nearly threw her tea cup at the wall.

The war had officially begun.