Royauté Oblige - I

Some people spend their whole lives clawing for attention. They make unnecessary connections, parade before empty crowds, wear masks they think the world will love — only to make fools of themselves, vanish into the hive of nothing, be the crowd, or lose their identity.

And then there was Liam.

He had to do everything that didn't draw attention.

Walk with his head down, avoid the center table, yawn during lectures with strategic timing — but nothing worked in his favour.

A unique set of rules and sequences marked his enrollment.

An identity of the first royal prince to be enrolled in the institute.

An attention magnet in every lecture — whether the professor's eyes narrowed in scorn or lit up in reluctant praise, there was no "in between" in Liam Orlean's life.

Finally — finally — when he thought he'd secured some semblance of peace in the quietest corner of the cantina, he somehow found himself keeping company with the most beautiful and intelligent girl in the year — according to the secret, unofficial "boys' locker room vote" — been unanimously titled The One Most Likely To Cause Academic Despair With Her Smile.

And as if fate wasn't finished drafting its comedy, it added fuel to this forest fire:

The Battle of Silverstreak, as the entire Arthur Royal Institute now called it.

The arena battle that flipped House Zervas onto its back and turned the underdog House Orlean into a name whispered in awe — in corridors, stairwells, lecture halls, and even the lavatories.

If people knew who had orchestrated what was now being dubbed the comeback of the century, Liam might have had to denounce his royalty publicly, enroll himself under a fake name in the janitorial department, or take up permanent residence in the outskirts of the kingdom

Which, in his luck, would backfire.

Because Liam's carefully cultivated, thoroughly rehearsed, beautifully tragic attempt at normalcy had been officially flushed straight down the drains.

Away from the noise outside — the cheers, the retellings, the wildly exaggerated versions of the Battle of Silverstreak circulating like wildfire — Liam sat quietly in his dorm room.

Sounds from the EchoVault floated about Professor Graves' lecture on Illusionary Overlays in a dull monotone, the words slipping in and out of focus as Liam reviewed them in Serena's notes.

Despite the dull ache in his limbs and the silent throb behind his eyes from yesterday's match, Liam had no choice but to press on. Final exams waited for no one. Especially not the prince who enrolled very very late.

He had skipped every class even before the beginning of the House Wars. He had the leverage — a tournament participant was allowed flexibility during prep. But he had another reason, one only he would admit: unnecessary attention was poison right now.

He didn't need whispers. Or stares. Or worse, applause.

With a tired sigh, Liam turned the page of notes and increased the playback speed of the EchoVault lecture by two notches. Professor Graves now sounded like a goose in a thunderstorm, but the point got across. Barely.

A knock broke the rhythm of the lecture.

Liam tapped the EchoVault crystal, pausing the spectral playback mid-sentence. "Come in," he called, voice even.

The door creaked open, revealing a man in a cantina apron balancing a wooden tray and a folded napkin under his arm.

"Delivery, sir."

Liam blinked. "Joe?"

"You're a lifesaver."

Joe gave a warm smile but could not help himself. He stepped forward, bowed low, and said with exaggerated reverence, "An honour to serve, Prince Liam."

Liam sighed, already reaching for a small booklet — the student handbook, sitting on his cluttered desk. He waved it lazily in Joe's direction.

"Joe," he said dryly. "Campus Code Dictates. No external titles or ranks shall be acknowledged within the Institute grounds. That includes your theatrical bows."

Joe straightened, smiling sheepishly. "Only if I get caught, Prince Liam."

Liam scoffed and tossed a pillow in his direction. "I'll make sure you're caught."

They both laughed.

Liam took the tray from him and inhaled the aroma wafting up from beneath the cover. "What's on the menu today?"

"Spiced mushroom risotto," Joe said proudly, "with baked bell peppers and herb-dusted focaccia. Chef's choice today."

Liam reached into the drawer, produced a small pouch, and pulled out ten bronze coins.

Joe immediately raised a hand. "No need. I told you — you're registered on the student-care ledger."

"And I told you," Liam muttered, stepping forward and shoving the coins into the pocket of Joe's apron, "you don't argue with a royal."

Joe rolled his eyes but smiled. "Fine. Consider me bribed."

Liam chuckled and was about to thank him again when Joe snapped his fingers, suddenly remembering.

"Right — nearly forgot. This came with the tray."

He reached into the pouch slung around his waist and produced a sealed letter. A familiar wax insignia gleamed on the envelope — House Zervas.

"From student Rion," Joe explained. "Said it was important. And also — Princess Cassandra asked me to tell you she's been waiting in the Demo Room since morning. Still waiting, I might add."

That last bit came with a raised brow and a smirk as Joe turned and let himself out.

The door clicked shut.

Liam reached for the letter opener from the quill tray beside him. With practiced ease, he slid it beneath the wax seal, careful not to tear the crest of House Zervas.

It read —

To Prince Liam Orlean,

I write to you not in the spirit of rivalry, nor of reparation, but in the interest of a conversation.

What occurred yesterday in the Arena of Accord was, by every measure, remarkable. I believe it would be in our mutual interest to discuss the events — away from the eyes and ears of others. Not as opponents, not as nobles, but as students

Should you permit it, I would like to meet with you at a time and place of your choosing.

In respect and earnest,

— Rion Zervas

Liam exhaled softly, the corners of his mouth twitching.

"Does this guy want me in trouble?" he thought, eyes narrowing at the words To Prince Liam scrawled in fine, deliberate ink.

He reached for his parchment — less ornate, the kind used for class notes — and pulled out a clean page. His pen hovered for only a moment before he began to write, clean and straight:

To Rion Zervas,

I'll be free by five in the evening. You're welcome to visit my dorm room — it's quieter than most halls and less likely to gather unnecessary attention.

No schemes this time.

— Liam Orlean

He folded the note neatly and slid it into a plain envelope. The chuckle slipped out before he could stop it.

Liam rose, slipping into his sandals. He opened the door, peeked out into the corridor — left, then right.

A guard stood near the corner post, arms behind his back.

"Delivery," Liam said simply, holding out the envelope.

The guard approached without a word and took it, offering only a nod in return.

No salute. No "Prince Liam." That was the beauty of campus order — even the guards abided by the handbook.

Liam closed the door gently behind him and returned to his desk, he straightaway resumed the EchoVault.

His sister could wait. He wasn't worried.

Liam exhaled deeply as he set the last of his notebooks aside. His cluttered desk now sat in a neat arrangement — notes stacked, EchoVault crystal muted and idle.

Outside, the distant clang of the Time Tower echoed once, then again — the fifth hour was close.

He barely made it to his bed before gravity claimed him. Stretching out with a long sigh, Liam let the fatigue seep from his limbs. His eyes fluttered shut, not to sleep, but to rest.

Knock knock.

Liam groaned softly and sat up.

Another knock, gentler this time. Then a familiar voice:

"Prince Liam?"

Liam stood and crossed to the door, opening it to find Rion Zervas, still in his uniform.

Liam said, stepping aside. "Come in."

Rion entered with a small nod. "I hope I wasn't interrupting anything, Prince Liam."

Liam closed the door behind him and turned with a sigh.

"Please," he said, with half a smile, "just Liam."

Rion sat stiffly on the edge of Liam's bed, arms resting loosely on his knees, eyes fixed ahead like he was watching the whole battle unfold again — in reverse. Liam, slouched with practiced ease in his study chair, spun slowly from side to side with a picture of casual mischief.

"Well, what is it?" Liam asked, tone light, teasing. "You wanted to talk."

Rion took a moment, scanning the modest dorm room, lingering on the quiet EchoVault crystal, the fading scent of ink and worn parchment. Then he met Liam's eyes.

"I just want to know… how. When," he said. "I just want to know."

Liam tilted his head, feigning ignorance. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Rion exhaled through his nose. "Liam, if I may — I'm sorry. I tried to bend the proposal, I did. I agreed to give you the upper hand, yes, but I never said I'd allow you to win."

Liam didn't answer immediately. He just watched Rion, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "I know," he said finally. "Well… I was hoping for that in the first place."

"Pardon?"

"Ask what you want, Rion. Don't be vague. I'll answer if I can. I'm already sick of reviewing EchoVault lectures."

Rion flicked a glance at the crystal on the desk, then back at Liam. His voice lowered slightly.

"First and foremost… did you intend to fix the match?" Rion asked. "Back then, I thought you did. But now…"

"Is that a question or a confession?" Liam chuckled.

Rion shook his head, annoyed. "Sorry."

"I'll be truthful then," Liam said, resting his chin on his palm. "I didn't. Not once. I only pretended I did. We wanted you to scheme. And you did. You saw me as naïve — a boy trying to scrape a symbolic win. We needed you to think that."

Rion blinked, chest rising with a slow, heavy breath. But he didn't show the full impact. Or at least… he tried.

He pressed forward with another question. "How were you so sure I wouldn't comply? That I'd break the deal, override your expectations? How were you certain I'd — I'd accessed your battle plan?"

Liam's smile widened — amused, almost pitying. "It's bad manners, you know," he said lightly. "Your people going through my things. My sister paid a steep price for that DreamVault. He was careful — I'll give him that — he restored everything back perfectly, watched the whole recording without leaving a trace. But still…" Liam shook his head dramatically. "One must be careful."

Rion didn't find it funny. Liam did.

"And yet," Rion murmured, "I allowed the initial damage. I let it happen. I could have countered the opening assault. I had the opportunity, but I chose not to."

"You were trying to trap me," Liam added with a grin. "Yes. We figured."

Rion's teeth clenched, embarrassment flashing through his expression. He trapped me. I thought I was laying the snare… and he walked me straight into my own.

"You want to know how I knew?" Liam said, voice softening now. "I watched how you navigated the river. It… bothered me."

Rion raised an eyebrow.

"You were too comfortable," Liam continued. "Too good at it. That river is a beast, I've trained a lot. Steering through Silverstreak takes practice. It took me practice. You — who were supposed to take a dive — trained for it. Why?"

Rion didn't answer.

"Let's say my escort just stumbled at the Dreamvault and he told you the plan and you — just wanted to know about our plan, plain curiosity. You could've just not practiced, Rion," Liam said, eyes narrowing. "If all you needed to do was lose, why train? But you did. You studied the curves. You were able to match our speed every inch, despite the battleship's maneuverability disadvantage. You kept the chase close — always within reach. That's when we knew… You planned to crush us in one sweep. Use our strategy against us."

Liam slumped in his chair, his hands clasped against his cheeks.

"I'm sorry you didn't get the bye," he added with a mischievous grin.

Rion could only shake his head, eyes lowered, his pride crumbling piece by piece. "Did you plan this from the start… all of this?"

"You give me too much credit," Liam replied, his voice gentle now. "No brilliant mastermind here, Rion. The whole team pitched in — sister Cassandra led the main strategy, and everyone's experience helped set the stage. Honestly, we just borrowed a few fragments of… royal help."

He said it with a shrug, intentionally vague, leaving Rion to imagine what exactly "royal help" meant — hidden tutors, ancient manuals, access to state-level battle analytics, even possibly a private mentor from the capital. He wasn't going to clarify.

Rion let out a long breath, a quiet huff of laughter at his own expense. He accepted it — defeat in full. The reality of it. The taste of it.

"…Liam," he said after a moment, looking up, his voice more earnest now, "Would you permit me to say something? It might offend you."

Liam raised an eyebrow in mock offense. "As my senior, aren't you legally allowed to rag me a little? Don't worry, I'll consider it a rite of passage."

That made Rion smile — faint, but real.

"I would have agreed to lose," Rion admitted. "If you had been anyone but you."

Liam's brow furrowed, but he said nothing.

"If you had been a minor noble or a merchant's son looking for clout, I might've thrown the match and walked away for a decent compensation like you promised." Rion exhaled deeply. "But you weren't. You were the thirteenth prince of Ironhelm. The throne itself is a breath away from your bloodline. And if I — if we were going to lose, it wouldn't be quietly. If I could've taken down a prince, even in a mock battle, I would've carved my name a little deeper into history. Maybe even earned myself a future post… a connection."

He paused, then added, "I never promised to lose. Only to give the upper hand. That's within the rules. Within the titles of the House Wars."

Liam studied him now, but didn't interrupt.

Inwardly, he understood. Completely.

In the Kingdom of Ironhelm, there was an unspoken truth — a core that pulsed beneath all its elegance and order.

Might was everything.

It was a kingdom forged on conquest, tempered by survival, sustained by hierarchy and dominance. It was now in its 28th reign, and through all its ages — despite wars, betrayals, reforms — the Ironhelm line had never faced a true succession mishap. Not like the rest of the fractured kingdoms. There was a reason: strength decided legacy.

And in a system like that, showing worth wasn't just ambition.

It was a necessity.

Rion wasn't some jealous student or petty schemer — he was a soldier in training, a noble by blood, a name with not many centuries of armor behind it. He wasn't just trying to win a match.

He was trying to matter.

Trying to prove — if only once — that he could push against the weight of a bloodline born from the anvil of Ironhelm itself.

And Liam, who had spent his whole life trying not to stand out, finally understood the weight of what standing in the center meant for everyone else.

Rion was not his enemy.

He was just trying to survive the only way this kingdom taught them to.

Rion stood slowly, brushing his palms on his uniform trousers before looking back at Liam.

"No hard feelings?" he asked, offering a faint smirk — one stitched together with pride, defeat, and something like respect.

Liam returned a half-smile. "Not unless you try to sink me again."

Rion chuckled. "Fair warning next time."

As Rion turned toward the door, hand already on the handle, he paused and glanced back over his shoulder.

"One more thing, Liam."

Liam raised an eyebrow.

"That handshake I gave you… Before all of this," Rion said, voice quieter now. "That was real. The proposal you offered — I considered it. Truly. But somewhere after that… maybe my pride got in the way. Maybe I thought I could outplay a prince. So, yeah — I started scheming."

He gave a dry, self-deprecating laugh.

"At least I tried to."

Liam didn't reply at first, but the small, tired smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth said enough.

He headed toward the door, pausing once again to say, "That was one hell of a comeback, Liam. Even if I saw it coming too late… I won't forget it."

And then he was gone, the soft click of the door closing behind him.

Liam remained seated in his chair, staring at the space Rion had left behind.

He leaned back, eyes drifting to the ceiling.

I'm not the prince you think I am, Rion…

He sighed.