She paused, holding out the bedraggled bunch of wildflowers in her arms.
“For the Boss.”
The rain pitter-pattered.
Freya looked down at the flowers. The petals were battered by the rain, and a few stems had snapped, drooping limply. Mud dripped from the roots, leaving a small stain on her clean threshold.
But she looked at the bouquet. She looked at it for a long time.
Then she reached out and took the messy, broken, mud-stained wildflowers.
“Thank you.”
Her voice was very soft, nearly drowned out by the sound of the rain.
But Lyra heard it. She smiled, her eyes curving into two crescent moons, brighter than any flower in the bunch.
“I’m glad the Boss likes them!” she said, then let out a loud sneeze.
“Achoo!”
Freya watched her. She looked at the girl’s soaked hair, her pale lips, and those red eyes that still sparkled. She turned and walked into the room.
“Come in.”
Lyra blinked, then hurriedly followed her inside. The door closed behind them, shutting out the sound of the rain.
In the washroom, hot water gushed, and white mist soon filled the room. Lyra sat in the bathtub with only her head showing, her white hair clinging wetly to her face. She looked at Freya, her expression a bit sheepish.
“Boss, I can wash myself…”
Freya ignored her. She picked up the showerhead, adjusted the water temperature, and began rinsing the mud from Lyra’s hair. The hot water rushed through the strands, carrying away the scent of rain and earth, leaving behind the faint fragrance of shampoo.
Lyra squinted comfortably, letting out a small, satisfied sound from her throat.
“Boss—” she suddenly spoke up. “There were so many flowers on that hillside. I wanted to pick more, but the rain was too heavy. The pretty ones grew in steep places, and I didn’t dare go over there…”
“Mm.”
“I’ll go again when it’s sunny. I can get even prettier ones.”
“Mm.”
“What colors do you like, Boss? Pink? White? Yellow?”
Freya’s movements paused for a moment. She looked down at the back of Lyra’s head—at that fluffy head turned slightly red from the heat of the water.
“Anything is fine.”
Lyra smiled happily. “Then I’ll pick them all! A huge bunch! I’ll put them right on your desk, Boss!”
The water rushed. The white mist swirled. Freya didn’t answer, but when her fingers ran through Lyra’s hair, her movements were gentler than usual.
At breakfast, the canteen was quieter than usual. The rain continued to fall outside, shrouding the world in a gray, damp haze. Students gathered in small groups, conversing in low voices.
Freya found a seat in a corner and sat down with her tray. Lyra followed behind her, chewing on a piece of dried meat she had swiped from the serving counter.
Anke hadn’t arrived yet. Freya lowered her gaze, picked up a piece of bread, and slowly tore off a corner.
Just then, a slight commotion broke out at the canteen entrance. She looked up.
Irina Ewell walked in. She wore a pale pink dress and carried a matching pink umbrella. When she closed the umbrella at the door, her movements were as elegant as a painting. Raindrops dripped from the tip, creating tiny splashes at her feet. Her face wore its customary gentle smile, and her pink eyes seemed exceptionally bright in the dim canteen.
Following behind her were several students of commoner origin—Mira and Sara were among them, chattering away. Irina tilted her head slightly, listening to them and nodding. She responded softly every now and then, making the girls laugh even harder.
They walked toward the serving window, and students constantly greeted Irina along the way. She responded to each one with a humble and gentle attitude, without any air of superiority.
Lyra’s brow furrowed. “Why is she so popular?” she muttered, her voice full of confusion and a hint of resentment.
Freya didn’t answer. Her gaze fell on Irina, as calm as if she were observing a piece of scenery.
After getting her food, Irina turned around and scanned the canteen. Then, she saw Freya. A minute change flickered in those pink eyes—so fast it was almost impossible to catch.
Then she smiled slightly. The smile was gentle and appropriate, with nothing out of the ordinary. She carried her tray and walked toward Freya.
Lyra’s body tensed instantly, her red eyes narrowing. Irina stopped in front of Freya.
“Freya—” she greeted softly. “Good morning.”
Freya looked up at her. “Good morning.”
Her tone was flat, devoid of any emotion. Irina didn’t seem to mind the coldness; the smile on her lips actually deepened.
“The rain is so heavy today—” she said conversationally. “Do you have an umbrella, Freya? If you didn’t bring one, you can borrow mine. I have an elective class in the building next door later anyway, so I won’t be using it.”
As she spoke, she held out the pale pink umbrella. The students at the surrounding tables all looked over.
Freya looked at the umbrella. She looked at the hand holding the handle—slender, white, with distinct joints and neatly trimmed nails painted light pink. Then she looked away.
“No need,” she said. “I have an umbrella.”
Irina’s hand paused in mid-air, then she pulled it back naturally, showing no embarrassment.
“That’s good,” she said softly. “I was just worried you might get caught in the rain.” She paused, her pink eyes filled with sincerity. “After all, you’ll get sick if you get wet.”
Lyra let out a very soft low growl from her throat.
Irina seemed to notice Lyra’s presence only then. She turned her gaze toward her and smiled gently. “Good morning, Lyra. Your hair… it looks like it’s still wet? Did you get caught in the rain?”
Lyra glared at her and said nothing. Irina didn’t mind, simply saying, “Then I won’t disturb you,” before carrying her tray to another empty table.
Mira and Sara followed. As Sara passed by Freya, she gave her a harsh glare. Freya ignored it. She lowered her head and continued eating her breakfast.
Anke didn’t rush in until the first class was about to start. She sat down beside Freya, panting, her brown eyes shining with a complex light.
“Freya—” she whispered. “I heard something.”
Freya flipped open her notes and waited for her to continue.
“Last night, Irina went to see the Disciplinary Director.” Anke lowered her voice even further. “She applied to form a Student Mutual Aid Association—specifically to help commoner students with their studies and daily difficulties. The Disciplinary Director approved it on the spot and even praised her for being ‘kind-hearted’ and ‘responsible.'”
Freya’s quill paused. “And then?”
“And then—” Anke hesitated. “She started recruiting members this morning. Dozens of commoner students have already signed up, including many who previously had a lot of complaints about students from noble backgrounds.”
She looked at Freya, her eyes full of worry. “Do you know what this means?”
Freya lowered her eyes. “She’s winning people over.”
“Exactly!” Anke said urgently. “She’s building her own power base! Commoner students already have a lot of resentment in the Academy. Now that she’s stepped up as their ‘spokesperson,’ they’ll all listen to her from now on!”
The quill stopped on the paper. Freya looked at the line she had just written—it was the title of today’s lesson, neat and clear. A few seconds of silence passed.
Then she continued writing. “I know.”
Anke was stunned. “You know? Then you…”
“No rush.”
Anke opened her mouth to say something, but the bell for class interrupted her.
The Professor entered the classroom, and the noise gradually died down.
Anke looked at the side of Freya’s face, noting her expression as calm as water.
Countless questions surged in her heart, but she could only suppress them for now.
During the lunch break, the rain stopped. Sunlight spilled through the gaps in the clouds, casting dappled shadows on the ground.
The air was filled with the fresh scent unique to the aftermath of a storm, mixed with the smell of earth and green grass.
Freya stood alone in the corridor outside the teaching building, gazing at the distant grass that had been washed vibrant green by the rain. The sound of footsteps came from behind. She did not turn around.
“Freya.”
It was Ross’s voice.
Freya continued looking into the distance. Ross walked to her side and stood still.
His complexion was worse than it had been a few days ago, the dark circles under his eyes deeper, and his golden hair was a bit messy, as if it hadn’t been well-groomed in some time.
“I want to talk to you,” he said.
“About what?”
Ross was silent for a moment. “Irina.”
Freya turned her head and looked at him.
There was no curiosity or surprise in those pale violet eyes, only a faint, almost scrutinizing calmness. Under her gaze, Ross’s Adam’s apple bobbed.
“She… she actually has no ill intent,” he began, his voice a bit raspy.
“She’s just a girl who wants to prove herself. She comes from a poor background and has nothing, so she has to fight for everything bit by bit. You don’t know her, so you think she has ulterior motives. But I know she’s not that kind of person.”
Freya said nothing.
Ross continued, as if trying to convince her—or perhaps himself.
“She formed that mutual aid association to help commoner students. She practices late every day to catch up with everyone’s progress. She’s so gentle to everyone because she truly wants to get along with everyone.”
He paused. “Freya, could you… try to accept her?”
Sunlight spilled from the clouds, spreading a bright band of light between them.
Freya looked at Ross. She looked for a long time—long enough that Ross began to feel uneasy.
Then she spoke. “In what capacity are you saying these things to me?”
Ross was stunned.
“As the Crown Prince?” Freya’s tone was flat, as if stating a simple fact. “Or as someone close to her?”
Ross’s expression changed. He opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but found he could say nothing at all.
Freya looked away, returning her gaze to the distant grass.
“I have no obligation to accept anyone,” she said. “She doesn’t need my acceptance, and I don’t need her pandering.”