Final Exams & Graduation

The early summer air carried the scent of blooming wisteria through the pristine courtyards of the Academy, the gentle warmth of the afternoon sun marking the passage of another year.

For most students, the final weeks of the academic season were filled with an air of relief and bittersweet nostalgia. For Delphia, it was another step in carving out her place in this world—one that no longer saw her as a footnote in someone else's story.

She sat at her desk, a single quill gliding effortlessly over parchment, the ink flowing in smooth, measured strokes as she neared the completion of her final written exam. The silence of the grand examination hall was broken only by the rhythmic scratching of quills, the rustling of parchment, and the occasional creak of wooden chairs as students adjusted their posture. Sunlight streamed through the high arched windows, casting long, shifting beams of gold across the rows of students bent over their desks.

The questions had been insultingly simple. She had finished her responses with ease, taking extra care only to ensure that her penmanship remained impeccable. Now, with time to spare, she lifted her gaze, her sharp eyes drifting over the room.

To her left, a girl with ink-stained fingers tapped her quill anxiously against the desk, her lips moving in a silent repetition of some half-formed answer. Across the aisle, another student frowned so deeply that a crease had formed between his brows, his hand locked in an iron grip around his quill as though sheer force would summon the correct response.

Delphia's lips twitched in amusement. Was it truly so difficult?

In the row ahead of her, Crown Prince Alaric sat, his head tilted slightly, his quill hovering above the paper before he resumed writing. He, too, was graduating this year, though with his future already paved by birthright, these exams were little more than a formality. Yet, as she studied him, she caught the subtle tension in his shoulders, the way his grip tightened when he paused to collect his thoughts. Even a prince was not immune to the weight of expectation.

A rustle of movement near the front of the hall drew her attention. A boy a few rows ahead had pushed his paper away, leaning back in his chair with a resigned sigh. From the way he ran a hand through his hair, frustration radiating off him, it was clear he had simply surrendered to whatever fate awaited his score. Others were not so bold. A girl with neatly braided hair continued to scribble furiously, eyes darting over her parchment as if the very words might disappear if she did not commit them fast enough.

Delphia exhaled quietly, shifting her gaze back to her own work. Her answers sat before her in neat, precise lines—thorough, articulate, and undeniably correct. There was nothing left to refine, nothing more to add.

She set her quill down, smoothing out a non-existent wrinkle in her sleeve, and folded her hands over her desk. Let them struggle. Let them chase knowledge as she had once chased recognition. She had long since learned that the true measure of power was not in the struggle itself—but in surpassing it with ease.

As the minutes stretched on, she remained still, waiting. Not because she needed to. But because she wanted them to see it.

The moment when she rose first.

The moment when she walked forward, unburdened, and handed in her paper without hesitation.

Because this was not a test of knowledge for her; It was proof that she had already won.

***

Days later, the graduation ceremony took place in the Academy's Grand Hall, a breathtaking chamber of marble and gold, reserved only for the most prestigious academic occasions.

Sunlight streamed through towering stained-glass windows, casting intricate patterns of color across the polished floor. Though the gathering was far smaller than the grand banquets and opulent balls of noble society, the air thrummed with a different kind of weight—one of quiet reverence and unspoken expectations.

Professors and high-ranking Academy officials sat at the front, their robes heavy with embroidered sigils of knowledge and rank. Beyond them, family members and distinguished guests filled the viewing galleries, their hushed conversations weaving a soft hum beneath the formal proceedings.

Delphia stood near the center of the hall, her gown a shade of deep violet—so dark it appeared nearly black—the official color of the Academy's graduates. The fabric was smooth and elegantly cut, its simple sophistication setting her apart from the nobles who draped themselves in excess. At her side, Alaric stood with his usual composed air, his golden epaulets gleaming under the flickering light of the chandeliers. He exuded confidence, his posture unwavering as he waited for his name to be called.

Then came hers.

"Delphia Vosswell."

A hush fell over the hall, followed by a polite smattering of applause.

Lifting her chin, she stepped forward, her heeled-boots clicking against the polished floor with each measured step. The weight of a thousand whispered judgments pressed against her back, yet she did not falter. Her rose-gold hair cascaded over her shoulders, catching the light, a stark contrast to the dark fabric of her gown. As she ascended the stage, she noticed the shift in the audience's expressions—subtle yet unmistakable.

Once, they had dismissed her. A mere daughter of a Duke, a girl meant only for the periphery of greater stories. But now? Now they watched her with something closer to wary respect.

She reached the podium where the headmaster stood, his lined face impassive as he handed her the certificate—a simple parchment, yet weighted with years of toil and triumph. As her fingers closed around it, a small yet significant smile curved her lips. Turning to face the assembled crowd, she let her gaze drift over the sea of faces until it landed on one.

Zypher.

He stood near the front, a row directly in front of the Vosswell family, but only slightly to the side of them. Clear but distinct. His maroon eyes gleaming with something soft and proud as he wore one of his dark grey suits, looking deft amidst the crowd, clapping louder than the rest.

Their gazes locked for a heartbeat, and in that moment of light applause for her accomplishments, an unspoken acknowledgment passed between them as Zypher sent her a wink. Delphia felt a blush creep onto her cheeks as she stared at him, her eyes flicking briefly to meet Duke Vosswell's, before returning to Zypher's. She then turned and walked towards the other side of the stage, descending the stairs and moving towards the arranged seating for the newly graduated class.

This is just the beginning.

The next name was called.

"Alaric Aramore, Crown Prince of Avalon."

The applause swelled instantly, more fervent, more eager. Of course, it did. He had been born for this moment, after all.

Alaric walked forward with effortless grace, his golden hair catching the candlelight like a crown of its own. Every movement was precise, practiced. The room seemed to breathe in time with him, drawn into the quiet gravitas of a man destined for greatness.

Delphia watched as he accepted his diploma, his expression poised yet touched with genuine gratitude. But as the audience showered him with their admiration, she felt it—that shift in the tides, subtle yet certain.

For years, the original Delphia had lived in the spaces between his story, a character whose presence only served to highlight his brilliance.

No longer.

As she sat next to the other graduating students of Class 1552, diploma in hand, with the weight of her own accomplishments resting on her shoulders, she knew—

I am no longer merely a supporting character in their story.

*

Returning to the Vosswell Estate after the graduation ceremony, Delphia immediately sensed the subtle changes in the air. The original Delphia had lived under this roof for years, yet for the first time, the new Delphia felt truly noticed—as if her mere presence unsettled those who had once comfortably dismissed her.

Lucian no longer met her with veiled arrogance but rather cautious curiosity, his glances lingering longer than before, as if he were attempting to understand the enigma that his stepsister had become.

Seraphina, however, remained wary. Her smiles were tighter, her words carefully measured, but the sharpness that once lined her every syllable had dulled. Even she could not deny that Delphia had surpassed the role of a disgraced villainess. The power shift was undeniable.

Duchess Larissa, too, had become more reserved around her. There was something almost hesitant in her gaze when their paths crossed, as if she had underestimated how much of a threat Delphia could become. Not a threat in the traditional sense—Delphia had no interest in the Vosswell title—but in influence. And that, in a noble family, was just as dangerous.

The tension culminated one evening when Duke Vosswell himself sought her out.

Delphia had been reading in the estate's grand library, the faint scent of parchment and aged leather surrounding her, when the heavy oak doors creaked open. She did not turn immediately, merely continuing to flip through the pages of her book.

"Delphia," her father's voice broke the silence.

She lifted her gaze, meeting his light brown eyes with an expression of neutrality. "Father," she replied, her tone neither warm nor unkind.

He hesitated, taking a slow step inside before closing the door behind him. "I… wanted to congratulate you on your graduation."

She tilted her head slightly, watching him with quiet amusement. He hesitated. That's new. "Thank you."

A beat of silence passed before he cleared his throat. "You've changed," he admitted, his voice more subdued than she'd ever heard it. "I underestimated you."

She let out a small hum, closing her book with deliberate slowness. "You did," she agreed simply.

Another pause. Then, finally, he sighed. "I cannot change the past, Delphia. What's done is done. But I would like for us to move forward."

She studied him for a long moment, searching for sincerity in the lines of his face. "Move forward?" She echoed. "And what would that entail, exactly?"

His jaw tightened slightly, but he remained composed. "Getting to know you properly. Not as the daughter I expected to have, but as the woman you've become."

Delphia's fingers drummed lightly against the hardcover of her book. "I see," she murmured. "Well, that's something, at least." She met his gaze, unwavering. "I don't think I can ever truly forgive you for the way you dismissed me. But I can acknowledge that people are capable of change. If you truly mean it, then we'll see where it goes."

It was not forgiveness, nor was it acceptance. But it was a door—one left slightly ajar, where before it had been firmly shut.

Duke Vosswell inclined his head in acknowledgment. "That's all I can ask for."

With that, he turned and left, the sound of the library door clicking shut behind him echoing softly in his absence.

Delphia sat in silence for a moment, staring at the space where he had stood. The scent of old vellum and dust lingered in the air, but beneath it, there was something faintly new—a shift. A possibility.

For years, she had longed for acknowledgment. And now that she had it… it felt hollow.

It didn't undo the cold silences, the calculated neglect, or the way he had watched the original Delphia fade into the background of her own life. His words, though earnest, came far too late to soothe the wounds carved by years of dismissal.

And yet, strangely, she felt no bitterness. Only clarity.

It doesn't change anything.

But it didn't need to.

She no longer needed his approval. She no longer needed anyone's.

What mattered now was the life she was building—the story she was finally reclaiming.

Delphia exhaled slowly and reopened her book, her fingers finding the crease where she had left off. The ink on the page seemed darker now, sharper. The weight of the past didn't vanish, but it no longer pressed so heavily on her shoulders.

She had rewritten her story.

And the next chapter was hers alone to dictate.