Iskiel.

In the school of Ramond and Nyveth, two equally prestigious institutions bound by the same academic program yet divided by their fierce rivalry, every competition be it sports, academics, or the arts was more than just a test of skill it was a battlefield for pride. Their contests, whether in grand tournaments or small classroom debates, only fueled the growing tension between them.

You sat in your office, papers scattered across the polished mahogany desk, the soft scratch of your pen marking the approval of upcoming festival events. The gentle hum of the air felt almost peaceful… until the door burst open with the violent force of panic.

(Agatha, one of your student council members, stumbled in, panting as if she had just outrun a nightmare. Strands of her hair clung to her flushed face. "President! Our students got into a big fight with the Ramond students at the Garden of Eden!" she gasped, her voice trembling.(

You froze mid-stroke, the pen stilling against paper. A fight? Nyveth’s students were known for their composure, their restraint--this was completely out of character. But worse… with Ramond? That was the last kind of scandal your council needed.

Without another word, you shoved back your chair and moved toward the door, Agatha following closely. The two of you tore down the corridor and across the courtyard, the clack of your shoes echoing sharply.

The Garden of Eden soon came into view a breathtaking expanse where pathways of white stone wound between lush rows of the finest flowers, blooming in colors so rich they looked unreal. The air smelled faintly of roses and honeysuckle, yet today it was poisoned by the sound of shouting.

A mass of students crowded around the center of the garden, forming a tight circle. Pushing through the wall of bodies, you finally broke into the clearing only to find Nyveth’s students squared off against Ramond’s, eyes blazing, fists clenched, the tension thick enough to choke on.

Then it came the voice.

Deep, sharp, and cutting through the air like the crack of a whip. "What’s going on here?"

Every head snapped toward the figure emerging from the Ramond side of the crowd. You didn’t have to see his face to know it was Iskiel. The president of Ramond’s student council. Your rival. The one name you refused to lose to.

Iskiel strode into the circle with calculated ease, his uniform immaculate, not a hair out of place, his expression unreadable except for the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. His gaze swept over the students, lingering just long enough on yours to make your jaw tighten before shifting back to the Ramond group.

When a Nyveth student began to speak, he cut them off with a cool, dismissive tone. "I asked my students, not you."

The way his voice wrapped around the words made it sound less like a rule and more like a dismissal of your entire existence. Your blood heated instantly. Who did he think he was, strutting in here like he owned both schools?

A Ramond student spoke up, voice casual yet condescending:

"They just got offended by something we said."

Others from Ramond nodded in unison, their smug faces lit with the thrill of the confrontation.

Then, from somewhere in the crowd, a louder voice rang out, dripping with arrogance. "They just suck at everything, sports, chess… even proper etiquette!"

A few chuckles rippled through the Ramond side. Nyveth students stiffened, their pride wounded but held back by your presence.

Iskiel turned his attention toward your students, eyes cool, measured… and just a little too pleased with himself. He raised his hand, slow and deliberate, his fingers curling slightly as if he was about to order some form of punishment or force the matter further.

But before his hand could come down, you stepped forward. The air between you two seemed to spark as you slapped his hand away, the sharp sound echoing through the silent crowd.

Gasps erupted.

For a split second, Iskiel’s eyes widened not from pain, but from surprise. Then his expression slid back into place, colder now, though the faint smirk returned, tainted with a dangerous amusement.

"Just because you’re the student council president of Nyveth," he said, his voice dipping into something velvety yet laced with steel, "does not mean you can act without manners."

His tone wasn’t just reprimanding it was taunting. A subtle reminder that in his eyes, you were playing on his turf now. And the way he stood there, calm and composed, made it clear he was confident that, in the eyes of everyone here, he still had the upper hand, because of his high status in the school's board.