Woke

Isabella's POV

I lay there, motionless, a defeated noble on a couch meant for victors. The ceiling above me is a blank canvas, as empty and mocking as my thoughts. I lost... I lost to that barbarian. The notion is a vicious sting, a wound to my pride that refuses to be ignored. I should be on my feet, conjuring tempests and thunder, not here, lying in silence, save for the chirping of birds outside that dares to pierce my turmoil.

My spells, each one a masterpiece of elemental fury, were swatted aside with infuriating foresight. It's impossible, unthinkable. He has never fought against me before; how could he have anticipated my magic? The more I think, the heavier my head feels, the longer the shadows become in the corners of my mind.

A whole minute passes—a minute of silent disbelief—before I let myself blink. It's as if that simple act could dispel the reality of my defeat, but it's a hollow hope. The memories flood back in relentless waves: his movements, so sure; his strikes, so precise; his taunts, a blade to my ego.

My teeth grind together, the sound grating in the quiet of the lounge. It's not just anger; it's a tempest of humiliation and fury that swirls within me. A noble—a scion of a storied house—felled by a commoner, a brute who dares to stand above me? Unacceptable. Intolerable.

I replay each moment, dissecting them with a surgeon's precision. How did he predict my lightning? My fire? My ice? With every spell that comes to mind, the indignation grows, sharp and bitter. I can see it all again: the way he dodged, the way he smirked, the way he—without a trace of his own magic—rendered mine useless.

I remain still, my body a false testament to calm, as a storm brews within. It's a tempest that threatens to tear the very foundations of my being asunder. Because what does it mean if not that I was seen through, completely understood by someone I viewed as less than myself?

The chirping continues, a soundtrack to my spiraling thoughts. But the birds sound less like nature's music now and more like a chorus of mockery. It's as if the world itself is reveling in my downfall, in the crumbling of the invincible facade I have upheld all my life.

I press the heel of my hand against my forehead, the pressure a futile attempt to quell the rising storm within. I lost... I lost to that damn cur. The realization is like acid upon my tongue, the bitter tang of defeat mingling with the coppery taste of blood where my teeth sink into my lip. I should've ended it, swiftly, decisively, instead of indulging in the arrogance of giving him a chance to bow before me willingly.

My breath catches in a deep sigh that feels as if it drags the very depths of my soul with it. All I craved was his submission, his recognition of my power, my lineage. My fingers curl into my palm, the nails digging crescents deep enough to draw forth droplets of blood. A crimson betrayal seeping out, staining the opulent fabrics that adorn the couch—a throne that mocks me now.

With every pulse, I can feel the echo of our duel, the blood thrumming in my ears like a war drum. Every spell I wove, every incantation I whispered, was as if announced to him before I could even finish my thought. His anticipation was uncanny, almost otherworldly, as if he danced on the delicate edge of precognition. How could he, a mere commoner, attune so perfectly to the rhythm of my magic, the intimate dance of my will?

The droplets fall, pat... pat... pat... onto the floor, a metronome to my rising fury. How dare he? How dare he upend the natural order, a commoner toppling a noble as if he were flipping the very heavens on their head? My hand loosens, my grip easing as I catch myself. I'm allowing him to control my narrative, to seed doubt where conviction once stood unchallenged.

Pathetic. The word coils around my heart like a serpent. Am I truly so weak as to heap blame upon him, a man of no noble birth, for my own failings? My chest heaves with the effort of each breath, the lounge suddenly feeling more like a crypt than a sanctuary. I'm suffocated not by the lack of air but by the shattering of the illusion of my invincibility.

The pain from my hand brings me back, the present moment sharp and clear. I'm Isabella, scion of a noble line, and yet here I am, wallowing in self-pity and defeat. It's this, this raw wound to my ego, that I cannot abide. I will not be undone by a commoner. I cannot allow it. 

Raising my hand, I watch, transfixed, as my blood slides down my wrist, a slow, scarlet river marking the stark white of my skin. That guy... My eyelids drop heavy as if they themselves are weighted with the gravity of my defeat, shuttering my vision and forcing me inward, to the clarity that comes with reflection. He read my magic circles, those intricate patterns of power that I wove with the finesse of an artist. The realization pierces me sharper than a blade. From those luminous designs, he either retreated or charged—it was a dance, but one where he alone heard the music.

But how? Reading a magic circle is no trivial feat; it demands time, patience, an intellect honed on the whetstone of relentless study. Yet, for him, the lines and curves of my spells were as clear as the words on a page. It's maddening, this thought, that all my efforts, the spells I crafted through the trials and tribulations of my childhood, were rendered null, void, as if they were mere child's play.

A slap to my own face—a sharp reminder of reality. Why is he so obtuse? If he deciphered my spells, he stands unparalleled, a prodigy in the arcane arts. And yet, he still commits to training his aura as if the mastery of raw magical talent is not enough. If he were to pour his essence into the arcane alone, how vast could his dominion over magic become?

A deep breath drags air into my lungs, and with it, the scent of old parchment and ink—the perfume of my ambition. Since childhood, ancient magic has beckoned to me, a siren's call. I yearn to unlock the esoteric knowledge of dusty tomes, to chase the whispers of power that have danced just beyond reach, across the ages, to learn ancient magic. They label me a fool, those short-sighted imbeciles, unable to fathom the lure of a dream that transcends the limits of our world. But that is the essence of a dream, isn't it? To grasp the unattainable, to master what lies beyond the horizon of possibility.

And that's precisely why I want him—no, why I need him. I require a mind that mirrors my own in its unquenchable thirst for knowledge, a spirit that refuses to be shackled by the mundane, an ally in the quest for ancient magic. The prospective servants from both the ranks of commoners and nobles, they are nothing but vacuous shells, intellects as barren as the void itself.

★ ★ ★

Footsteps echo in the high-ceilinged room, deliberate and unhurried. Isabella does not turn to acknowledge the newcomer; the cadence of the steps is as familiar to her as her own heartbeat. Aira, with the grace that befits her royal lineage, moves into Isabella's field of vision and settles herself across the wounded noble. She exhales deeply, her eyes drawn to the dried blood caked on Isabella's hand, the color a stark contrast to her pallid skin. A long pause fills the space between them until Isabella's voice, laced with impatience, cuts through the silence. "What is it?"

Aira rubs her temples, the lines on her forehead deepening with concern. "You're taking this a lot better than I expected. But you shouldn't hurt yourself over a duel."

Isabella doesn't dignify the observation with a response. Instead, she lifts her head, her gaze locking with Aira's. "It was an accident," she says, the tone of her voice leaving no room for debate.

Aira overlooks the comment, her attention snagged by a deeper thread. "You lost to V... I never thought that would happen." Her words hang in the air, heavy with implications.

"It was unexpected," Isabella replies curtly, her voice a fortress guarding her tumultuous emotions.

Aira, sensing the delicate ground, shifts the direction of their conversation. "Since you lost... are you giving up on making him your servant?" she probes, her voice a mixture of curiosity and concern.

Isabella rises, a tower of wounded pride and untamed determination. "No, he still has one more test, and I already made it so he loses." Her voice is a blade, sharp and certain.

Aira sighs, the weight of Isabella's resolve pressing down upon her. "Isabella, I don't think forcing him into being your servant is the best choice. How about you let me—" Her words are cut short, snipped by the cold edge of Isabella's interruption.

"Thank you for your advice, Princess, but please refrain from touching on what I claimed," Isabella retorts, her glare icy and penetrating.

Aira meets the glare with a disarming smile. "I didn't mean it like that. Well, regardless. Are you positive he will lose?" Her question is casual, but her eyes search Isabella's for certainty.

A smirk plays upon Isabella's lips, a shadow of her former confidence flickering in her eyes. "Oh, there's no way he'll win, it would require a miracle."

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Breathing deeply, I try to steady the tumult within me. "Okay, okay, calm down," I mutter under my breath. "There's no need to be wary." But the thought of Isabella worms its way into my brain, igniting a fire of resentment. "Fuck Isabella! That bitch! I knew she would pull something but I didn't expect it to come to this."

Clutching my sword, I let a small smile break through. It's an anchor, a reminder that I still have a fighting chance. "Hey, Isadora, can you do me a favor and forfeit?" I call out, trying to keep my voice light, but it trembles with the weight of desperation.

Across the platform, Isadora doesn't falter. She stands there, sword raised firmly, a statue of determination. Oh no, this is bad... I can't afford to lose the bet, but standing here, facing her like this, I feel like I'm staring up an insurmountable cliff. "Hey Isadora, how about I cook you something really good? Like, really, really delicious~" I pitch my offer, hopeful.

She blinks, which is about as much of a reaction as I can hope for from her emotionless facade. For a second, she seems to ponder the offer, her stance relaxing ever so slightly. "It will have coconut in it," I press on, "and it'll taste like the best thing you've ever eaten. You just have to give up, and I'll make it for a whole month~"

Isadora blinks again, her unreadable eyes giving nothing away. She taps her chin, appearing to calculate the offer with the focus of a mathematician solving an equation. But, to my dismay, she remains unmoved, her sword rising again in a stance that declares her silent refusal.

Oh, fuck Isadora! Dammit... I can't be mad at you since you've never backed down from a sword fight, but... please, just this once...

Each thought is a loud echo in my head, bouncing around and gaining intensity. I'm not usually one to pray, but right now, I'm sending all my hopes out into the universe that she'll change her mind. The anticipation is a living thing in my chest, heavy and fluttering like a bird trapped in a cage. I should've just punched Isabella harder, seriously manipulating the match so I duel against Isadora when The professor literally said she wouldn't even be dueling a whole week ago!