The classroom at Rozzlax Academy was a study in contrasts. The walls, lined with polished steel and mana-infused glyphs, gleamed under the sterile light of Voluran sconces. The air was thick with the hum of magic, the faint crackle of energy emanating from the students’ Voluran staffs, and the quiet murmur of hushed conversations. The room was a microcosm of Aether itself—orderly, efficient, and cold.

Ivan Rozzlyn sat near the back of the room, his posture relaxed but his mind sharp. He had learned long ago that blending in was a survival tactic, but today, the tension in the room was palpable. The topic of discussion was one that had been brewing for weeks, ever since Prin Keli’s broadcast had solidified Aether’s new laws. The Honorary Aethan Initiative, the embedding of Aethan chips, and the restrictions on magic had become a dividing line, not just in the city, but within the academy itself.

Fent Erasmus sat a few seats away, his copper-toned skin glistening faintly under the harsh light. He was one of the few students who didn’t carry himself with the rigid precision of an Aethan elite. There was an energy to him, a quiet defiance that set him apart. But today, even Fent seemed subdued, his usual grin replaced by a tight-lipped expression as he stared at the holographic projection at the front of the room.

The instructor, Dr. Alvis Nephron, stood before the class, his lab coat billowing slightly as he gestured to the floating diagrams. The topic of the day was mana refinement—specifically, the process of extracting and purifying phildrons from the earth. It was a subject that had become increasingly relevant since the invasion of Millinggarde, and one that carried a weight far beyond the academic.

“As we’ve discussed,” Nephron began, his voice smooth and methodical, “the refinement process is crucial to maintaining Aether’s dominance. Without it, our magic would be unstable, our infrastructure would crumble, and our way of life would be unsustainable.”

Ivan’s gaze flicked to Fent, who was staring intently at the diagram, his jaw clenched. The topic was a sore spot for him, and for good reason. Fent’s grandfather, Kenai Erasmus, had been a Millinggardan scientist who had worked on the early development of phildron technology. He had been one of the few Millinggardans to earn Aethan citizenship, but even that hadn’t shielded him from the prejudice that came with being foreign-born.

Nephron continued, his tone clinical. “The phildrons extracted from Millinggarde’s soil are of unparalleled quality. Their purity and density far exceed anything we’ve found in Aether’s own mines. This is why the annexation was not just a strategic move, but a necessary one.”

A low murmur rippled through the room. Ivan’s fingers twitched against the edge of his desk. He could feel the tension building, the unspoken resentment simmering beneath the surface.

“Of course,” Nephron added, almost as an afterthought, “the Millinggardans themselves were unable to utilize this resource effectively. Their reliance on science over magic left them blind to the potential beneath their feet.”

Fent’s hands clenched into fists, his knuckles whitening. Ivan could see the anger building in him, the frustration at hearing his people dismissed so casually. But Fent stayed silent, his eyes fixed on the diagram.

It was one of the other students who broke the tension.

“Well, it’s not like they could have done anything with it anyway,” a voice drawled from the front of the room. Ivan recognized it immediately—Lorcan Vey, one of the more outspoken members of the elite. His blond hair was slicked back, his uniform immaculate, and his expression smug. “I mean, let’s be honest. Millinggardans aren’t exactly known for their… sophistication.”

A few students chuckled, their laughter sharp and condescending. Fent’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond.

Lorcan leaned back in his chair, his smirk widening. “I mean, look at Erasmus over there. He’s practically one of us, but even he can’t hide where he comes from. It’s in the blood, you know?”

The room fell silent. Ivan’s eyes narrowed, his grip on the edge of his desk tightening. He could see Fent’s shoulders tense, the anger simmering just beneath the surface.

“That’s enough, Vey,” Ivan said, his voice low but firm.

Lorcan turned to look at him, his smirk fading into a look of mild surprise. “Oh, come on, Rozzlyn. Don’t tell me you’re defending him. He’s not even a real Aethan.”

Ivan’s gaze hardened. “He’s as much an Aethan as you are. More, maybe.”

Lorcan scoffed. “Please. His grandfather was a Millinggardan. That makes him… what, half-breed? Quarter-breed? Either way, he’s not one of us.”

The room was deathly quiet now, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Ivan could feel the weight of everyone’s eyes on him, waiting to see how he would respond. He stood slowly, his movements deliberate, his expression calm but dangerous.

“You’re right,” Ivan said, his voice cold. “He’s not one of you. He’s better.”

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The tension in the hallway was palpable as Ivan and Fent walked side by side, the echoes of their footsteps reverberating off the polished steel walls. The confrontation in the classroom had left a mark, not just on Lorcan and Ivan, but on the entire academy. Whispers followed them as they moved through the corridors, students casting furtive glances in their direction. The divide between the elitist Aethans and those of Millinggardan descent had always been present, but now it was out in the open, raw and unignorable.

Fent broke the silence first, his voice low but steady. “You didn’t have to do that, Ivan. I can handle Lorcan’s crap. I’ve been handling it for years.”

Ivan glanced at him, his expression calm but resolute. “Maybe. But you shouldn’t have to. Not here. Not anymore.”

Fent sighed, running a hand through his curly black hair. “It’s not that simple. You know how it is. They’ll never see me as one of them, no matter how many laws say I am. My blood’s still Millinggardan. That’s all they care about.”

Ivan’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond immediately. He knew Fent was right. The Honorary Aethan Initiative might have granted Fent citizenship, but it couldn’t erase the prejudice that ran deep in Aether’s elite. Still, Ivan wasn’t willing to let it slide. Not anymore.

“They’re scared,” Ivan said finally, his voice quiet but firm. “They see people like you as a threat because you’re proof that their system isn’t perfect. That someone from outside can be just as good—if not better—than they are. And that terrifies them.”

Fent chuckled dryly. “Yeah, well, terror doesn’t exactly make them more friendly.”

Ivan smirked faintly. “No. But it does make them predictable.”

As they turned a corner, they were met with a small crowd of students gathered near the academy’s central courtyard. The air was thick with anticipation, the murmurs of conversation rising and falling like waves. At the center of the crowd stood Lorcan, his face still flushed with anger, his arms crossed as he spoke animatedly to a group of his peers. When he saw Ivan and Fent approaching, his expression darkened.

“Well, well,” Lorcan sneered, his voice dripping with mockery. “If it isn’t the hero of the hour. Come to save the day again, Rozzlyn?”

Ivan stopped a few feet away, his posture relaxed but his gaze sharp. “Just passing through, Vey. Unless you’ve got something else to say?”

Lorcan’s smirk widened, but there was a dangerous glint in his eyes. “Oh, I’ve got plenty to say. But I think actions speak louder than words, don’t you?”

The crowd around them shifted, their murmurs growing louder. Ivan raised an eyebrow, his expression calm but curious. “And what exactly are you proposing?”

Lorcan stepped forward, his voice rising so that everyone could hear. “A duel. Right here, right now. No magic, no staffs—just you and me, settling this like real Aethans.”

The crowd erupted into excited chatter, the idea of a duel sparking their interest. Duels were rare at Rozzlax Academy, reserved for the most serious of disputes. They were a test of skill, strength, and honor—a way to prove one’s worth without the interference of magic or politics.

Fent stepped forward, his expression wary. “This is stupid, Lorcan. You’re just trying to save face after Ivan humiliated you in front of the whole class.”

Lorcan’s smirk faltered for a moment, but he quickly recovered. “This isn’t about saving face, Erasmus. This is about proving who’s stronger. Who’s better. Or are you too scared to let your little friend fight his own battles?”

Ivan held up a hand, cutting off Fent’s retort. He studied Lorcan for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Alright, Vey. You want a duel? You’ve got one.”

The crowd erupted into cheers, the excitement palpable. Fent grabbed Ivan’s arm, his voice low and urgent. “Ivan, this is a bad idea. Lorcan’s been training for this kind of thing since he could walk. He’s going to wipe the floor with you.”

Ivan turned to him, his expression calm but determined. “Maybe. But if I back down now, it’ll just prove him right. And I’m not about to let him think he can push us around.”

Fent hesitated, then sighed. “You’re insane, you know that?”

Ivan smirked. “Probably.”

The crowd began to move, flowing toward the academy’s training grounds—a large, open courtyard surrounded by towering iron walls. The space was typically used for combat drills and magic practice, but today it would serve as the stage for a very different kind of battle.

As they walked, Ivan’s mind raced. He knew Lorcan was a skilled fighter, but he also knew that brute strength wasn’t everything. Lorcan was arrogant, overconfident, and prone to underestimating his opponents. If Ivan could use that to his advantage, he might just have a chance.

When they reached the training grounds, the crowd formed a loose circle around the center of the courtyard, their voices rising in anticipation. Lorcan stepped into the ring, rolling his shoulders and cracking his knuckles. He shot Ivan a smug grin. “Ready to lose, Rozzlyn?”

Ivan stepped forward, his expression calm but focused. “We’ll see.”

The rules were simple: non lethal magic and no outside interference. The first to yield or be incapacitated would lose. It was a test of skill, endurance, and willpower—a battle not just of bodies, but of ideologies.

As the two combatants faced off, the crowd fell silent, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Lorcan’s smirk widened, his confidence unshaken. Ivan, on the other hand, remained calm, his gaze steady and his movements deliberate. The duel was about to begin, and with it, the clash of two very similar yet different worlds