She was supposed to be used to it by now—the silence that wrapped itself around the Crown Room like a vice. The kind of quiet that wasn't peaceful, but sharp, calculated. Every whisper meant something. Every glance carried weight. At fourteen, Leina Reinhardt had already mastered the art of walking with purpose. Even if her bones ached from the weight of everyone's expectations, she never let them see her buckle.
The walls weren't just white—they were the kind of white that swallowed sound. The light buzzed overhead in a way that made her scalp itch. The chairs were sleek, the floors polished, and everything about the room screamed order. Precision. Power. This was Westdentia Academia's crown jewel, and she was its youngest gem. And sometimes, gems cracked under pressure.
She could feel eyes on her. Not always malicious, but curious. Studying. Analyzing. The Crown Room wasn't a classroom—it was a chessboard, and she was always two moves ahead, or at least pretending to be. The others were older, sharper, forged in this system of relentless brilliance, where your brain was currency and your silence was strategy. Leina? She was still figuring out how to breathe in it.
She missed air that didn't taste like ambition. Missed conversations that didn't feel like negotiations. And lately, she missed him.
Alexander.
She hated that she even thought about him. He wasn't here—hadn't been for a while now. But memories had a way of showing up uninvited, curling around her like smoke, sweet and suffocating. He used to talk to her like she was someone, not something. Not the Reinhardt girl. Not the golden child. Just Leina. And now?
Now, she was barely sure who that even was.
Puberty had hit her like a late train—fast, unexpected, and leaving dents. The mirror didn't lie. There was something different in her reflection these days. Not just the softness in her cheeks fading, or the new curve of her waist. It was in the eyes. She was becoming. What, exactly, she didn't know yet.
But people noticed. The way their tone shifted. The sudden compliments that made her skin crawl. They said she was beautiful like it was news. Like it mattered. She didn't want to be admired—she wanted to be understood. Respected. Left alone.
And yet she couldn't afford to flinch. Not here.
Crown Room teachers didn't spoon-feed. They dissected. Their words came clipped and quick, laced with challenge. You either kept up, or you fell behind and out. One professor once told her she was "too elegant to be underestimated," as if that was a compliment. Another warned her not to let her emotions cloud her genius. She'd smiled politely, heart bruising a little more under the pressure.
There were moments—rare ones—where she caught herself staring out the long window at the lower wings of the Academy. Where laughter actually echoed, and kids moved like they weren't carrying dynasties on their shoulders. She wondered what it felt like to study without needing to prove a legacy.
Still, there was a thrill in conquering. In knowing she belonged, even when it hurt. She held her pen like a sword and wrote answers that sliced through impossible equations. She outwitted classmates who towered over her. She was tired, but she was relentless.
Leina Reinhardt did not fold.
But she did feel. And some days, it was too much.
When the lectures ended, and the books shut, and the footsteps faded down polished corridors, she stayed behind sometimes. Sitting in the emptiness. Letting her spine relax against the chair. Letting the girl underneath the genius take a breath.
She missed being nine. Not because it was easier. But because Alexander still looked at her then. Like she was more than titles and intellect and Reinhardt pride. Like she was just Leina—silly, stubborn, endlessly curious. She missed how he used to ruffle her hair even when she hated it. Missed how he used to listen. Really listen.
Now, he barely looked at her. Barely spoke.
And maybe that was what hurt the most—being invisible to someone who once saw you clearer than anyone else.
She stood up, the echo of her chair scraping the floor bouncing back at her. The hallway beyond the Crown Room was darkening with the late afternoon light. Her steps were quiet, but her mind was loud.
She wasn't done becoming. Not yet. Not even close.
The world would keep watching, and she'd keep making sure they saw exactly what she wanted them to see.
But behind the walls, behind the sharp stares and straight posture, behind the title of prodigy and heiress…
Leina Reinhardt was still learning how to be a girl. And a fighter. And maybe—just maybe—a human too.