Election Day.
A normal day in most schools. For us? It was the equivalent of a coliseum match where instead of bdes and magic, we threw words, chaos, and fming posters of my face.
The entire student body had gathered at the grand pza of Welliston Academy. Banners fluttered above. Professors stood in rows, whispering bets. Nobles in training eyed each other like diplomats ready to judge future powerhouses.
And at the center stage?
Two podiums.
One carved with icy elegance, bearing the crest of Princess Celestia—a silver rose wrapped in snow.
The other… scorched, partially cracked from an accident involving Ember, and still smelling faintly of mana-burn. Mine. Of course.
Celestia was called first.
She walked like a ruler born. Head high, posture perfect, her voice the kind that could lead kingdoms or end wars. Even I—Lucien “sarcasm incarnate” Wyrhart—had to admit, she sounded like someone you’d march to the ends of the world for.
Her speech?
Perfect.
Fwless.
Something like:
“I offer unity. Crity. Structure that serves growth, not chains. I promise a council that listens to all voices—noble and common alike—and an academy where every mage, knight, and schor thrives. Not through chaos, but through honor.”
The crowd?
Dead silent. Hanging onto every word.
Even the birds stopped chirping.
I swear I saw Gram wipe a tear.
And then... it was my turn.
My name was called. I didn’t walk to the stage—I strolled. Half-dead inside, half-amused, holding my speech in my pocket (which was just a receipt from a potion shop and some scribbled notes on why sleep was important).
I stepped up to the bckened podium and looked at everyone.
And I said, loud and clear, “Well, our princess from another country sure gives a good speech.”
The crowd blinked.
Then chuckled.
I leaned into the mic like a te-night talk show host who’d just lost a bet.
“So, let’s go over her promises, shall we?”
I pulled out a scroll—which was just me pretending I had notes—and began pointing out all the fws in Celestia’s pristine speech using the tone of a man who was too tired to lie and too sarcastic to care.
“‘Structure that promotes growth’—you mean more rules no one reads?”
“‘Unity’—sounds like we’ll all fail together instead of individually now.”
“‘A council that listens’—I have a better chance of Ember learning to write a compint letter than some nobles changing their mind when a First Year begs for curfew extensions.”
By now, the students were ughing—not all, but enough that the air was shifting.
I ended with:
“My promise is simple. You stay decent, follow some rules—not all—and you’ll get fair rewards. I won’t force my version of ‘good’ on you because I don’t even know what that is.
And if you don’t like me—fine. I don’t give a damn.
But if you do?Vote for a school where your weirdness, chaos, and actual dreams get supported… not silenced.”
Then I stepped down to appuse. And some cpping from faculty. Even Headmaster Davian smiled like, “Well, this will be my legacy now, huh.”
The ResultsVoting started.
Boxes filled.
Halls buzzed.
Campaign posters were torn down or scribbled with hearts and devil horns, depending on whether you loved or hated Squad 7.
Finally, the results were announced on the main stage.
Celestia Ardyn Sarnhild: 803 votesLucien Wyrhart: 783 votes
A difference of twenty votes.
Just twenty.
I stood there, staring at the result board with dead eyes.
Then I whispered, “Are people really this insane? Or is this school just broken?”
Rielle? She didn’t take it well.
She turned to me, eyes glowing with fury, and decred, “I’m killing that princess and giving you the seat.”
Eli immediately tackled her. “We do not assassinate royalty, Rielle!”
“I’ll make it look like an accident!”
“She’s stronger than you!”
“Then I’ll blow up the dorm!”
Gram, traitor that he is, was nowhere to be found.
Until...
We turned.
And saw him—our little potion gremlin—wearing a campaign sash for Celestia and distributing celebratory potions.
“...Gram?” Eli asked. “What... are you doing?”
Then came the voice of doom.
“What he’s doing,” said Celestia, appearing behind him like an ice spirit, “is helping me celebrate. He is my admirer, after all.”
Rielle froze mid-argument. “What?”
Eli pointed. “Wait, what?”
And Gram, smiling like an idiot, held up a glittery heart-shaped potion. “I... believe I’ve fallen in love with her.”
I blinked.
Then muttered, “Sure. Why not. We’re already in hell.”
I stared at him, then asked, “So, Gram. You staying with us? Or following the enemy princess?”
He hesitated.
Everyone stared.
He looked at Celestia, then at us.
Finally, he said, “I... I should probably—”
“Nope,” I cut in.
We stormed off. Squad 7 in awkward silence. Gram trailing behind like a puppy who peed on the wrong rug.
Back in the dorm, which—surprise—now had joined rooms (thank you, headmaster, we needed less privacy), Gram entered.
And as he stepped inside...
BANG.
The door shut behind him.
And I began the oldest ritual of Squad 7.
The Torture of Betrayal.
Which, in our case, included:
Tying him to a chair with magic ropes.
Making him drink mystery potions while guessing their effects.
Letting Ember lick his face until he begged for mercy.
Rielle sitting cross-legged, arms folded, muttering curses in elf and decring vengeance.
By the end of it, Gram was sobbing.
“I DIDN’T EVEN KISS HER!”
Eli handed him a tissue.
Rielle gred. “You thought about it.”
“But she was—beautiful! And elegant! She smelled like—”
“Say it and I’m burning your b!” I warned.
The ughter that followed, the mocking, the chaotic yelling—it was Squad 7 in its purest form.
And in that moment, as Gram promised to win Celestia’s heart “for the sake of the squad,” we found our next goal.
A new mission.
Not politics.
Not monsters.
But romance.
Operation: Make Gram Date the Ice Queen.
And thus, the legend of Squad 7 grew. Stronger. Weirder. And somehow more united than ever.
Gods help Celestia.
Because she didn’t just win the election.
She earned our full attention.
