It had been a month since the royal guards stormed their home, since the drawings were taken—stripped from Charles's hands like leaves in a violent wind. A month since the Rous family had been reminded of their place.
The house was quieter now, not just in sound but in spirit. No laughter at the dinner table. No whispers about new drawing ideas. No curious questions from Diana. Even John, whose voice once carried like thunder, now spoke in hushed tones, as though afraid to wake the wrath that had knocked on their door.
The larger Rous family, the extended network of cousins, aunts, and uncles, had made their stance clear. They didn't visit. They didn't send word. They didn't care. In their eyes, John's family had become a shadow of what the Rous name once meant—useful only when their Gana flowed and their talents shined.
Now, they were outcasts.
The market had been flooded with new drawings in recent weeks. Some bore striking resemblance to Charles's stolen originals, but none glowed as his had. None resonated like his tiered work. The rest—his best pieces—were now property of the crown. Locked away. Sealed in a vault meant not to protect, but to imprison creativity.
Charles had never known this kind of misery.
He had been bullied in this world—mocked, pushed, dismissed—but this was something deeper. This was erasure. He wasn't just being ignored. He was being forgotten.
---
In the academy halls, the tension of the upcoming event buzzed through the air like static.
The end-year interschool competition was approaching fast—a kingdom-wide event where students from every academy would gather to compete in Gana arts, drawing mastery, carnation efficiency, and tier application. Even the prestigious Royal Academy would be attending.
This was the event that made names. Where bloodlines solidified legacy and where commoners sometimes climbed beyond their birthright.
But Charles would not be standing beside Diana this time. They had walked many steps together, through discovery and danger, but now they stood on separate stages.
Diana was a Second-Streamer—an advanced second-year student expected to compete in higher-level events. Charles, a First-Streamer, was still considered in training. His participation would be judged accordingly, but the difference meant more than a title. It meant he would be alone.
Diana tried to reassure him. "You're going to be fine," she said, her voice soft in the hallway they both lingered in after classes. "You're better than you think."
He gave her a half-smile. "They took everything, Diana. The drawings, my confidence… I feel like I'm starting all over again."
"Then start all over again," she replied, eyes bright. "That's what artists do."
But he didn't answer. His gaze drifted toward the courtyard, where other students practiced Gana spells and new techniques. Oscar was among them, surrounded by his usual followers. Charles couldn't look away. Not because he admired Oscar. But because he used to.
Oscar had been his best friend once—before everything twisted into silence and suspicion. Before Robert had become a stranger in Oscar's eyes.
Now Charles, carrying Robert's face but not his memories, could only watch as the past played out like a tragedy on repeat.
---
Back home, things weren't any better. John had fallen into quiet routines. Lucy barely left the house. Diana tried to stay strong for them all, but even she carried the weight of the family's fall from grace.
One night, Charles sat with her on the roof, legs dangling over the edge.
"They're going to laugh at me at the interschool event," he said, not asking, but stating.
"Let them," she replied. "They're not laughing because you're weak. They're laughing because they think you might be strong."
He turned to her, eyebrows raised.
She shrugged. "Bullies are always loudest when they're afraid. Don't give them your silence. Give them a reason to whisper."
Charles was quiet for a moment. Then: "Do you ever think about leaving the kingdom?"
"All the time," Diana said, with a sad smile. "But power doesn't disappear when you walk away from it. It follows you. Especially if you have something it wants."
He looked down at his hands. "I haven't drawn anything since the guards came."
"Then maybe it's time to start."
---
The next morning, he did.
Not to impress. Not to tier up. But to remember what it felt like to create something from nothing. His strokes were shaky, his Gana low, but his heart felt fuller than it had in weeks.
The interschool event was days away.
And Charles—though still unsure of what he could offer—was going to walk into that arena with something no one could steal:
Determination.