The Frozen Prodigys Wrath

The courtyard of Luna Nova Academy blazes with the colors of late afternoon, golden light spilling across the ancient stone pathways and manicured hedges. Students mill about in clusters, their voices a low murmur beneath the rustle of autumn leaves. Franz von Schwarzwald stands at the edge of the fountain, his hands clenched into fists a...

The courtyard of Luna Nova Academy blazes with the colors of late afternoon, golden light spilling across the ancient stone pathways and manicured hedges. Students mill about in clusters, their voices a low murmur beneath the rustle of autumn leaves. Franz von Schwarzwald stands at the edge of the fountain, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, the fine fabric of his white shirt stretching taut across his shoulders. He watches Sieg across the courtyard, surrounded as always by a gaggle of admirers. A first-year girl giggles at something Sieg said. A professor nods approvingly nearby. Even the birds seem to sing louder when that man walks past. The heat rises in Franz’s chest, slow and simmering, a familiar companion these past weeks. He had worked for years. Years of sleepless nights poring over ancient texts, of perfecting incantations until his throat grew raw, of pushing his magical core to its limits and beyond. He had been the prodigy. The heir of Schwarzwald. The one they all looked up to. And now? Now they barely glance his way. His jaw tightens. The magic within him stirs, responding to his agitation like a hound sensing its master’s mood. He could suppress it. He should suppress it. A duke’s heir does not lose composure in public. But the laughter reaches him again, bright and careless, and something inside Franz snaps. He raises his hand. The motion is fluid, practiced, the gesture of someone who has cast a thousand spells before breakfast. Arcane syllables leave his lips in a sharp whisper, and the air around his fingers begins to shimmer, warping with concentrated mana. A sphere of pale blue energy forms, crackling with frost, and he hurls it forward without hesitation. The bolt of ice screams across the courtyard. It strikes Sieg in the back just as he turns to laugh at something. The impact sends him stumbling forward, ice spreading across his cloak in crystalline tendrils, frost biting into his skin. The crowd around him gasps, steps back. Sieg catches himself on a bench, breathing hard, and turns to face his attacker. The courtyard falls silent. Every eye shifts to Franz. He stands with his hand still raised, his expression cold and unyielding, platinum hair catching the light like a halo of winter. His blue eyes, framed by those long lashes, hold no regret. “You have something to say, Schwarzwald?” Sieg’s voice cuts through the quiet, rough with surprise and the sting of cold. Franz lets his hand drop slowly. The silence stretches, heavy and expectant, the entire courtyard holding its breath. He feels their gazes upon him—some shocked, some curious, a few admiring in a way that makes his stomach turn. He takes a step forward, the gravel crunching beneath his brown shoes.

Franz’s voice rings across the courtyard, sharp and clear, carrying the kind of practiced authority that comes from years of standing in his father’s shadow. He takes another step forward, the gravel shifting under his weight, and lets the silence stretch just long enough to make sure every word has landed. “You think you are so great, d...

Franz’s voice rings across the courtyard, sharp and clear, carrying the kind of practiced authority that comes from years of standing in his father’s shadow. He takes another step forward, the gravel shifting under his weight, and lets the silence stretch just long enough to make sure every word has landed. “You think you are so great, don’t you?” He tilts his head, a cold smile playing at the corner of his lips. “Having professors and students line at your feet. Basking in their praise like some kind of hero.” Sieg straightens slowly, brushing frost from his cloak. His expression is hard to read—something between surprise and wariness, like a man who has stepped into a trap and is still figuring out its shape. “But I see through you.” Franz’s voice drops, quieter now, but no less cutting. The words carry in the stillness, meant for every ear. “You are just an upstart peasant who got lucky.” A murmur ripples through the gathered students. Someone gasps. A few of the younger girls exchange uncertain glances. Franz feels their attention like a physical weight, and for a moment—just a moment—it feels good. Familiar. Like the old days, when eyes followed him instead of this interloper. Sieg’s jaw tightens. He takes a step forward, closing the distance between them, and Franz notices for the first time that Sieg is taller than he expected. Broader too, though the school cloak hides it well. Up close, there’s something steady in his gaze, a calm that doesn’t crack under the insult. “Is that what you think?” Sieg’s voice is low, measured. He doesn’t raise it, doesn’t give Franz the satisfaction of a public outburst. “That I’m lucky?” “I think you’ve fooled everyone,” Franz replies, his blue eyes narrowing. “I’ve been at this academy for three years. I’ve broken records in elemental magic, mastered incantations that take most students months to learn. And you—” He gestures sharply, a flick of his wrist. “You show up and suddenly I’m invisible. They all flock to you like you’re something special.” Sieg holds his gaze. The frost on his cloak begins to melt, dripping onto the stones in small, rhythmic drops. “I never asked for their attention,” Sieg says quietly. “I just came here to learn.” “How noble.” Franz’s voice drips with sarcasm. “How humble. The poor peasant boy who doesn’t even know his own worth. Tell me, do you practice that modesty in the mirror, or does it come naturally?” A few students chuckle nervously. Others shift uncomfortably. The professor who had been nodding at Sieg earlier now watches with a furrowed brow, clearly uncertain whether to intervene. Sieg doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he lets out a slow breath, and something in his posture shifts—not aggressive, but resolved. “If you want to prove you’re better than me,” he says, his voice carrying through the courtyard, “then prove it. Properly. A duel. In the arena. Tomorrow at noon.” The courtyard goes utterly silent. Franz blinks, caught off guard for just a fraction of a second. Then he recovers, straightening his vest with deliberate calm. “A duel?” He lets out a short, dismissive laugh. “You want to embarrass yourself in front of the whole academy?” “I want to settle this,” Sieg replies, his eyes steady. “One way or another.” The challenge hangs in the air between them, heavy and irrevocable.

Franz lets the silence hold for a moment longer, savoring the weight of every eye fixed on him. Then he laughs—a short, sharp sound that carries across the courtyard like breaking glass. “Ha.” He shakes his head, the motion sending his platinum bangs shifting across his forehead. “Fine. I will show everyone at the academy just how pathet...

Franz lets the silence hold for a moment longer, savoring the weight of every eye fixed on him. Then he laughs—a short, sharp sound that carries across the courtyard like breaking glass. “Ha.” He shakes his head, the motion sending his platinum bangs shifting across his forehead. “Fine. I will show everyone at the academy just how pathetic you really are.” He takes a step closer, close enough that he has to tilt his chin up to meet Sieg’s gaze. The height difference irks him, but he doesn’t let it show. Instead, he lets his smile widen, cold and deliberate. “I hope you won’t cry afterwards,” he says, his voice dropping to something almost gentle. “It would be so embarrassing for you. In front of the whole school.” A few students whisper among themselves. Franz catches fragments—did he really just—duke’s son—tomorrow at noon—and drinks them in like water after a long thirst. This is what he wanted. This is what he needed. The attention, the anticipation, the way the air itself seems to hum with expectation. Sieg doesn’t flinch. He holds Franz’s gaze with that same maddening calm, his expression unreadable. The frost on his cloak has mostly melted now, leaving dark patches on the fabric, but he makes no move to brush them off. “Tomorrow at noon,” Sieg repeats, as if confirming the arrangement to himself. “I’ll be there.” “Good.” Franz straightens his vest, smoothing the fabric with deliberate precision. “Try to get some sleep tonight. You’ll need your strength. Not that it will help.” He turns, letting his cloak swirl behind him, and begins walking toward the main building. The crowd parts for him automatically—years of ingrained deference to noble blood—and he feels their gazes on his back like a warm fire. But as he walks, something gnaws at the edges of his satisfaction. A small, persistent doubt. Sieg had been calm. Too calm. Even after being hit with a frost spell, even after being insulted in front of half the academy, he hadn’t broken. He hadn’t shouted, hadn’t threatened, hadn’t done anything that would give Franz the moral high ground. He’s hiding something, Franz thinks, but pushes the thought aside. It doesn’t matter. Franz has spent three years mastering magic that most students can only dream of. He has the best tutors money can buy, the finest grimoires from his father’s library, and a natural talent that has never failed him. Tomorrow, he will prove it. Behind him, the courtyard slowly comes back to life. Students begin talking again, their voices rising in excited speculation. A few cluster around Sieg, but he waves them off gently, gathering his fallen books from where they had scattered earlier. The professor who had been watching finally steps forward, his expression troubled, but Sieg just shakes his head and walks away, disappearing into the shadow of the east corridor.