Perianthes Struggle
[Monda — Royal Secondary Academy of Fleurein]
The bell for the midday recess rang out in sonorous waves across the grounds. Lisabelle gathered her satchel, her movements neat and unhurried, and made her way towards the canteen. She walked alone, as always. The white half-cape draped over her shoulders — delicate as a spray of jasmines in bloom — shimmered faintly with each step. She knew well enough that this very symbol was what had sealed her solitude.
Two years ago, as a wide-eyed freshman, her days had been livelier. Back then, laughter had accompanied her stride. Now, even the flies seemed to think twice before venturing near.
The change had a name — two, in fact: Rudd Donovan, second son of the Marquis of Grassit, and Lucas Fortez, heir to the most powerful exploration guild in Rosmayne. Both fellow Perianthes. Both adept at poisoning wells without ever wetting their hands.
Lisabelle took her meal from the old dinner lady — a nod of thanks, curt and habitual — and surveyed the emptying tables. Isolation had its privileges. Wherever she sat, others scattered as if her presence disturbed the air itself. She minded none of it. And for those foolish enough to make her mind it, she makes sure to make it memorable for them.
The silent campaign against her had begun over a year ago, in the fourth semester, when subtleties gave way to threats. The other Perianthes never dirtied their own fingers; they sent proxies — upperclassmen, hangers-on — to educate Lisabelle in shadowed alcoves and forgotten corridors. It took three months and more than a dozen hospital beds before they understood: the hard way was a fool’s way with her.
So they shifted tactics. More cunning now, more insidious. They did not strike Lisabelle — they struck her would-be friends. Bags were ruined, shoes stolen, reputations shredded with rumors that slithered beyond academy walls. One by one, people peeled away from her, weary of the unrelenting pressure. In the end, only her books and the lonely gymnasium equipment — which she practiced on after dusk — remained loyal.
As she ate, her eyes occasionally locked with those she once called companions. They would falter, glancing away with a kind of mute apology they never voiced. Lisabelle understood; better for them if she pretended not to notice.
But this time, her gaze caught someone different.
Lucas Fortez.
He stared at her from across the hall, hostility flickering behind the thin veil of his composure — but beneath it, unmistakably, fear. Lisabelle held his gaze. Steady. Unblinking. A quiet, practiced defiance that weighed heavier than any words.
Lucas flinched and dropped his eyes, hastily returning to his meal before rising to leave.
She watched him go, the line of her jaw unmoved.
He had expected her obituary today. Expected her to be broken, absent, or buried. And yet, here she was — unscathed, seated squarely in a spot where he and his gang usually sit.
From across the bustle, she caught fragments of his voice. Low, venomous grumblings. The clatter of plates and hum of chatter blurred the words, but she didn’t need to hear them to know their shape.
She had heard it all before.
[After School — Main Building, East Wing]
The day had slipped by quietly, a welcome reprieve. Lisabelle was grateful for the calm. The tasks assigned by the lecturers were all but completed, and there were no extracurricular obligations to weigh her down. The gymnasium, as always, was booked by the older students on Monda. There's nothing left to do for Lisabelle but leave.
Her steps were steady as she packed her things, the weight of solitude settling over her once again. But as she turned a corner in the east wing, her quiet rhythm was interrupted.
Thud.
“Ouch...”
"Ah, sorry. Are you okay?"
"Uh, I think I sprained my legs."
The girl winced slightly, then looked up. There was a slight pause before Lisabelle recognized her. It took a moment—too long—but when their gazes met, it hit her: Pristine Lucraveli, her classmate from the first grade.
Back then, Pristine had followed her everywhere. She’d been like a shadow, clinging to Lisabelle through the smallest of things, even during the most private moments. Now, seeing her here, the memory stung like a forgotten cut.
“Pristine…?” Lisabelle asked, offering a hand to help her up. "Let me help you. I'll take you to the infirmary."
Pristine accepted the assistance, but her eyes didn't show the discomfort of injury. Instead, there was an odd gleam, a strange joy in her gaze, and her cheeks flushed with something Lisabelle couldn’t place as she carries her like a princess. making their way through the busy halls.
"Move. Someone is injured."
Lisabelle’s voice was sharp, and she nudged a male student out of her path with a firm shove. He looked up, irritated, but his expression faltered when he saw whose shoes had made their mark on his back. A quick glance, a silent retreat — nothing more than a reprimanded dog backing away.
Lisabelle didn’t care. She kept walking, focused on her task.
"It's rare to see you by yourself, especially when you have someone like George who is always so keen on staying with you all the time. Where's that butler of yours?" asked Lisabelle filling the quietness in the air
"He’s away on another duty. My mother wanted to discuss something—insisted on speaking with him alone," Pristine replied, her lips curling into a soft, almost wistful smile. "Sigh... now that you mention it, I do wonder what they're talking about."
Pristine Lucraveli, daughter of Trevor Lucraveli, a timber tycoon who is the sole earner of a harvest permit for Black Tears Forest, was a familiar name among the upper echelons of society. Yet, almost everyone in the circle knew how far from grand the head of the house truly was. The true architect of power was none other than his wife, Evelyn Lucraveli. Lisabelle, ever cautious, knew better than to meddle in the labyrinth of intrigues that Lady Evelyn weaved. Whatever she was plotting, it was in Lisabelle’s best interest to stay well out of it.
Soon, they arrived at the infirmary and luckily it was empty, so there was no need to wait for turns. The medevist on duty went to check at Pristine, but she couldn't find anything wrong with her leg. Of course, that's because she was never hurt from the start. Meanwhile, knowing that Lisabelle would leave immediately the second she hears the diagnosis, Pristine is starting to play her card well.
"Miss Jane! The gardener is looking for you. He was talking something about some . . . Gangrea? Ganggalia?"
"Oh my! Has my yellow-crown hydrangea bloomed?! I'll be right back!"
The medevist bolted out of the room and slammed the door shut.
"Hey! Wait! What about—?" Lisabelle started to protest, but Pristine was already there, darting for the door, twisting the lock with the swiftness of a practiced hand. Before Lisabelle could register what was happening, Pristine launched herself into Lisabelle’s arms, her small frame once again forcing Lisabelle to carry her as if she were some princess.
"But I thought... your sprained leg?" Lisabelle blurted, genuinely confused.
Pristine’s laugh was light, but there was a touch of mischief to it. "You look so much more interesting when you're all flustered, Lisabelle."
Without warning, Lisabelle spun Pristine off her back and threw her onto the bed with an ease that belied the tension swirling between them. But at the last moment, Pristine reached out, grabbing Lisabelle’s sleeve, and in a flash, they both tumbled onto the bed, a chaotic pile of limbs. Pristine kicked her legs in the air, laughing wildly as they both collapsed into the soft bedding, the world outside of the room fading into nothing.
"Pristine," Lisabelle muttered, her face flushed from the unexpected tumble. "What’s your game?"
"Do you know how BORING it is when you have to put up with this and that and this and that and basically every little thing that you never cared about OR at least, you wished you never HAVE TO care about in the first place? Like, how to sit properly, how to talk properly, how to walk properly, how to dress, bath, eat, and relieve yourself properly. Pristine do this but don't do that, do that and don't this, should've done that, but try to do this too! UGH!" Pristine emphasized each word with exaggerated annoyance.
"Uh... I don’t quite follow..." Lisabelle stammered, still caught off guard by the sudden outburst.
Pristine’s expression softened, a spark of bitterness seeping into her words. "It feels like shackles, Lisabelle—being chained to this bothersome world where everything is about what they expect, not what you want. And when you live like that, it feels like being half-dead!"
Lisabelle turned away slightly, her gaze shifting as she took a slow breath. She didn’t know what to say. Yet, suddenly, Lisabelle felt Pristine’s delicate hand take hers. The warmth of it sent an unexpected shiver through her, and then Pristine's face was pressed against the palm of her hand, her breath soft and intimate against her skin.
"Lisabelle..." Pristine’s voice softened, almost tender. "When I look at you being excluded, I feel... connected. And the way you responded to all of that ... elated. I admire you so much, Lisabelle."
". . . You shouldn't waste your time on me doing something like this," she said, her voice steady but carrying an edge of warning. "They are watching, and they might come for you also. Their family outranks yours and mine. It's fairly easy for them to cause millions of inconveniences to us."
For a moment, Pristine was silent. Her hazel eyes shut tightly, as if holding back something more. Her long, perfectly maintained black hair fell softly over her shoulder, the scent of her perfume—a mix of sweet cherry and apple—wafting up in the still air.
Finally, Pristine spoke, her voice small but resolute. "Then, if it's just the two of us without anyone watching, can we spend some time alone like this more often in the future? I know you are a busy lady, but what if we make it work two or three times a week?"
Lisabelle exhaled deeply, her hands resting on her stomach as she turned to face the ceiling. "I don’t know what you're after, Pristine," she said, her tone thoughtful but guarded. "But I don’t make promises I can’t keep."
Pristine’s eyes lit up, and she broke into a wide grin. "Alright, alright. I know how much you love your sports and your steel. But why bother with all of that? Why not just be for once? This is supposed to be a time of peace, isn’t it?"
"I wouldn’t be so sure," Lisabelle replied, her tone hardening just slightly. "As long as people like Ethelar Aramid is alive, peace is just a fleeting dream. And besides, it’s like they say—'better to be a warrior in a garden than a gardener in war.'"
In the middle of their conversation, Pristine casually ran her hand up and down Lisabelle's arm, her fingers tracing the contours of the muscles beneath her skin. Lisabelle couldn’t help but notice how toned and well-defined her arm was—a stark contrast to what one might expect from a young woman of her age.
"So... all this strength," Pristine mused, her voice playful but curious, "was it for protecting someone? A loved one, perhaps?"
Lisabelle's response was quick but guarded. "I guess you could say so."
"Someone . . . Like your little sister, for example?" Pristine's voice was almost too casual, but there was something off about the way she said it, as though she had too much information to be asking such a question.
Lisabelle froze for a split second. There was something in Pristine’s gaze—a flicker, almost imperceptible—that sent a jolt of unease through her.
"Haha. What are you talking about? You all know I am an only child."
"Is that so?" Pristine’s voice was light, too light. "Well, I’m glad I was worried for nothing." she laid her head back on the pillow, her smile sweet and serene.
Lisabelle's mind raced as the words sank in. Something wasn’t right. She didn’t understand why, but she had to ask.
"What do you mean?" Lisabelle demanded, her voice rising with sudden urgency as she wakes up from the bed. "What are you worried about?"
Pristine’s demeanor shifted slightly, as if she hadn’t expected the intensity in Lisabelle’s voice. "Hm? Oh, it’s nothing, really. Why are you so riled up about it? Let's stay like-"
"PRISTINE!"
Lisabelle's voice cracked through the tension like a whip. Her hands shot forward, seizing Pristine’s collar in a sharp, desperate grasp, her chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. The panic in her eyes was undeniable, and the force with which she held Pristine was enough to make even the usually composed girl tremble.
Pristine’s pulse quickened. For a brief moment, an unexpected thrill surged through her, a sharp blush spreading across her cheeks as Lisabelle’s proximity seemed to burn through her defenses. There was something magnetic about Lisabelle's anger—something that excited and frightened her all at once.
"I-I was just..." Pristine stammered, trying to steady herself under Lisabelle's intense gaze. "I overheard something."
Lisabelle’s eyes didn’t waver, her grip tightening on Pristine's collar as she glared at her. "Tell me." Her voice was low, a dangerous edge to it.
Pristine swallowed, her voice shaking as she recalled the fragments of conversation she had overheard. "I was late to lunch today, and as I was heading to the dining hall, I saw Lucas and his crew coming from the other side of the door. They seemed... irritated, but also strangely amused, like they were planning something. I pretended to be busy with my book, hoping they'd pass me by."
Pristine paused, her hand twitching at her side as she reluctantly continued, feeling the weight of Lisabelle’s unblinking stare on her. "They were talking about looking for a girl... No, wait— a little girl, I think. About 120 cm, blue eyes, and wavy raven-black hair."
.
.
.
At that exact moment, Lisabelle's entire demeanor changed. Her eyes locked onto Pristine’s with the intensity of a predator, her fury turning her features cold and dangerous. In the span of a heartbeat, Lisabelle seemed to transform into a force of nature. A violent, crushing force. It was enough to make Pristine’s blood run cold, a sudden fear seizing her chest. Her breath caught as Lisabelle's hand released her collar, and the next thing Pristine knew, Lisabelle had stormed off the bed, her footsteps heavy and fast.
"W-Wait, where are you going?!" Pristine yelled, panic creeping into her voice.
"I forgot about something. See you, Pristine. Take care," Lisabelle responded curtly, her voice tight with urgency. Without another word, she was gone—dashing out of the room with the grace and speed of a huntress, leaving Pristine to stare after her, heart pounding with a mixture of concern and fascination.
After the quick answer, Lisabelle left as fast as she could. It's still 4 PM now, but the sky is already dark like it's going to rain soon. However, she doesn't give a damn about anything, even if there's a hurricane or an earthquake. There's only one objective in her mind and she will do whatever it takes to do it.
From the window, Pristine watched as Lisabelle’s figure blurred into the distance, moving faster than even the most seasoned athletes. Her outfit barely held together as she pushed past a lecturer in her frantic rush, showing no regard for the damage to her shoes or the havoc she was causing. The air around her crackled with purpose and intensity.
Pristine’s heart fluttered as she gazed at the retreating figure. She had never seen Lisabelle so raw, so driven. It was both terrifying and intoxicating. There was something about the way Lisabelle carried herself in those moments—her clenched teeth, the fire in her eyes—that drew Pristine in like nothing else.
Pristine sighed softly, her voice barely a whisper as she spoke to no one but the empty room. "Ah~ Yes! Run! Run as fast as you can! I was, am, and will always look at you, Lisabelle . . . My Hero. My Love."