⋆˚✿˖°｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡⋆˚✿˖°

The soft morning breeze stirred the curtains as Randall stood on his balcony, gazing over the academy gardens. The early sunlight bathed the landscape in gold, making the dewdrops on the flowers shimmer like tiny stars. His silver hair caught the light as he leaned against the railing, his eyes lingering on a patch of delicate blooms swaying in the wind—pink, red, white, lilac, and mauve asters.

Lost in thought, he barely noticed when Wren stepped out beside him.

“Why so melancholic this early?” Wren’s voice broke the silence.

“Ready for class?” Randall asked, sidestepping the question.

“Yeah. Took me long enough to catch up to your proper schedule. At least now we can finally walk to class together,” Wren said with a grin.

Randall gave the asters one last glance before turning away from the balcony. “Let’s go.”

༺｡° ༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻. °｡༻

The golden morning light filtered through the tall, arched windows of Celentine Academy, casting a soft glow across the polished marble floors. Thursdays were always a welcome change—a reprieve from the endless formulas and calculations of Numerical Analysis.

The start of the week was grueling. History, which Aster enjoyed, was followed by the dreaded Numerical Analysis, a subject she could barely tolerate. Afternoons were no lighter, with “Etiquette and Diplomacy” leading into “Magic Theories.” Katharina thrived in the latter, but for Aster, it was more of a struggle.

By Thursday, however, the rhythm of their lessons shifted toward the arts—something that brought her genuine relief. The morning subject, Melodic Literature, combined poetry, music, and storytelling. Unlike their usual classrooms, this subject was held in a separate wing designed specifically for music and literature.

When Aster stepped inside, she felt her shoulders ease. The room itself seemed to invite creativity. Rows of desks stood alongside grand pianos, harps, and other instruments, the polished wood gleaming in the morning light. Here, literature and music intertwined, and for once, the air felt less rigid with rules and more alive with possibility.

At the front stood their instructor, Lady Shane, a refined baroness whose elegance commanded attention. “Alright, class,” she began. “Today’s lesson is about poetry. I expect to hear the poet in each of you. Now, I trust everyone remembers the assignment from last week?”

Aster straightened, a flicker of excitement in her eyes. She had prepared carefully, choosing asters as her subject, and poetry had always been something she loved.

To her left, Katharina sat poised and unbothered, her dip pen resting neatly beside the inkwell, as though she had been waiting for this moment. On Aster’s right, however, Wren stiffened, looking anything but ready. Beyond him, at the end of their row, Randall remained his usual composed self.

“Assignment? We weren’t even here last week! Did you know about this?” Wren hissed toward Randall.

Randall, ever calm, responded with little more than, “Shh. Listen.”

“Listen?! That’s it? What if it’s some long essay? This is only my second day…I can’t afford to lose face in front of all these nobles…” Wren muttered, trying to keep his voice low enough for only Randall to hear.

Lady Shane’s sharp eyes swept in their direction. She arched a brow but her tone was calm and reassuring. “For those who were not present last week, the task is simple: choose either love or your favorite flower as your subject. The purpose is to practice how a noble conveys emotion through words.”

She let the silence linger for a moment, her gaze moving across the room. “Poetic expression is not a frivolous ornament. It is an essential skill—useful in diplomacy, in courtship, even in leadership. Eloquence, my students, is both an art and a weapon. But remember this: the finest words mean little unless they come from the heart.”

Wren slumped back in his chair with a groan. “Love or flowers? Both sound… ugh.”

From a few seats away, Ranley smirked to himself, convinced that Randall, who hadn’t prepared at all, was about to fail.

One by one, the students presented their answers.

Flavia stepped forward first, her voice sweet yet confident, laced with theatrical flair.

“Love is admiration—an admiration that grows from witnessing someone’s brilliance. It is to be dazzled by charm, lifted by intelligence, and steadied by responsibility. Love is the yearning to claim such radiance and hold it as one’s own.”

Her gaze subtly drifted toward Randall, and the message was clear to the class. He was the most admired among the ladies. Flavia made it clear that Randall was not to be coveted. A shiver ran down his spine, but he showed no reaction.

Renie and Isadora both chose flowers, weaving their speeches with predictable elegance. They spoke of lilies and roses: symbols of nobility, grace, and beauty. 

Katharina, however, chose a snapdragon. Her tone was calm, deliberate, and strong.

A snapdragon symbolized courage and heroism. A fitting choice for a daughter of a military powerhouse.

“These flowers do not speak, yet their stance is a language of its own. They honor the courage of those who stand up for their beliefs.”

Aster smiled, admiring how fitting her words were. Katharina had always been someone who stood by her beliefs, unyielding no matter the opposition.

Ranley was next, and he, predictably, chose love. His voice carried the assurance of someone used to being heard.

“Love is the bond that ties a noble heart to duty. Love must be fitting to one’s status. In choosing a future wife, compatibility should go beyond feelings. True love is not fleeting passion, but a harmony between power and responsibility.”

Aster listened, her chest tightening. His words, so practical and cold, left no room for her. Nothing in his definition reflected the love she imagined. 

‘Do I really have no chance?’ she thought.

Randall silently observed Aster’s reaction, fully aware of her feelings toward Ranley.

Then, it was Wren’s turn. With no better option, he hesitated before choosing love.

“Love is loyalty. It is the oath of one’s heart, pledged without hesitation. It is the unwavering honor of dedicating one’s life to a cause, or to a person deemed worthy of protection. Such devotion does not waver, even in the face of ruin.”

Though he never named anyone, Randall immediately recognized the weight behind those words. Beneath Wren’s clumsy panic and casual airs lay a vow unspoken—one that bound him, quietly and absolutely, to Randall.

Finally, all eyes turned to Randall.

“Would he choose love or a flower?” the students whispered among themselves, curiosity thick in the air. Many longed to hear his definition of love. Even Aster, nervously waiting for her turn, found herself listening intently.

Randall’s cool gaze swept across the room. His voice came low and steady, carrying without effort.

“Aster.”

The word lingered in the air, simple yet arresting. A ripple of surprise coursed through the class. Murmurs rose immediately “Was he confessing? Was it love?

Aster flinched, her face heating up instantly. She struggled to remind herself that he was merely referring to the flower.

Randall continued, unbothered by the stir.

“Asters symbolize wisdom, faith, and patience. They endure hardships, blooming even as summer fades into autumn. They are pure, carrying a quiet strength that doesn’t need to be loud to be felt, resilient enough to endure even through the winter.”

He stopped there, but for some reason, Aster couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t just describing a flower…he was describing her. Or yet again, maybe she was just overthinking it.

The students exchanged murmurs.

“Oh, it’s the flower.” A collective sigh of relief spread through the room. Those who admired Randall found themselves learning something new about him.

But Aster remained frozen, a single thought lingering in her mind: asters were also widely known as a symbol of love.

Did he intentionally leave that part out? Not that it mattered—it was his own interpretation, after all.

From his seat, Wren glanced sidelong at Randall, his eyes narrowing slightly before flicking toward Aster. Suspicion lingered in his expression, as though he’d caught a hidden meaning no one else had.

The tension broke when Lady Shane smiled and called the final student. “Miss Winslow, your turn.”

Aster swallowed. Randall had already spoken of asters, and he had done it so beautifully that she couldn’t bring herself to say the same. Should she repeat the same answer? No, that would make it seem like she was copying him. And after yesterday’s humiliation in Numerical Analysis, she couldn’t afford another misstep.

She closed her eyes for a brief moment, drawing courage from the way poetry always made her heart feel light. 

“I will… choose love,” she began softly.

“Love is an unshaken bond that exists beyond time and memory. Even if one forgets, the other continues to remember. It is a feeling that lingers, even without memories. Like a melody you cannot forget, even if you’ve lost the words.”

Her voice grew gentler, almost as if she were speaking to herself.

“It is the kind of love I hold for someone I can’t remember, and the kind of love I imagine for someone who may have long forgotten me.”

The room fell silent until Flavia cut in with a sharp laugh. “So dramatic!”

Aster’s cheeks flushed red, mortified.

‘Oh no. Why did I say that? That was so embarrassing.’

Ranley frowned slightly, as if trying to piece together her words.

Randall’s icy blue eyes lingered on Aster for a moment longer before shifting away.

“Very well said, Miss Winslow,” Lady Shane said, her tone calm and warm. “That is precisely what poetry asks of us: to reach for what cannot always be explained—whether it is a feeling, a memory, or an echo that lingers even when unseen.”

She swept her gaze across the class. “And I must say, each of you did well today. Every presentation showed thoughtfulness and heart, whether you spoke of love or of flowers. Remember, there is no single way to express admiration or affection. The true test of poetry is sincerity. Speak from your heart, and your words will resonate.”

Lady Shane’s expression softened further. “Let this be your guide, not only in literature but in all that you do. Never fear to feel deeply. That is what makes a noble heart both wise and strong.”

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