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Even from the arena’s backstage, the crowd’s roars could not be stifled.
Rook Hunt could swear that the ground was even shaking because of how loud and galvanized they were. He supposed it was a good thing that they were so excited; after all, he could understand the intense desire to witness beautiful things, and what could be more beautiful than an SDC championship match between the Night Raven College and the Royal Sword Academy?
Well, most of the people in the audience were probably anticipating RSA’s performance the most, and it was highly likely that no one studying outside NRC will root for him. Still, the idea of competition between two known rivals was perhaps the most thrilling part of today’s event. Even though it brought a somewhat bitter taste in Rook’s mouth, he could hardly blame the audience for such things.
“Yes, I’m on standby at the moment,” said one of the technical staff into their radio. “No, I can’t leave my station, alright? I’ve got to usher Mr. Ajib any moment now; find someone else to get the confetti replacement.”
Another staff member walked past Rook, a basket of costumes in his arms. They nearly collided, brushing past each other’s shoulders, but they were both so preoccupied that there was no time to say their apologies.
It turned out that how ever excited the waiting crowd was, so, too, were the working committee members increasingly pressured. It was kind of fascinating to Rook, seeing the involved crew members in action. Like a hive that’s been struck, they shuffled around with clipboards pressed to their chests, radios mumbling in varying frequencies.
This havoc wore a nervous face, an entirely different species to the creature outside, where the crowd’s excitement swelled and spilled, a bright and buoyant bird that couldn’t sit still.
Rook found both beautiful—the careful devotion of those who made the moment happen, and the wild, unburdened joy of those who will receive it. In a way, it was like two planets orbiting the same star; never touching, yet utterly dependent on each other’s gravity.
This excitement burned brightly and restlessly in the air, impossible to ignore amongst the nerves that now buzzed within Rook. He hadn’t been eagerly looking forward to it all that much, but now he was starting to get swayed by all the fanfare.
This was the Song and Dance Competition, after all—the long-awaited match between the rival schools. And while the crowd’s favor leaned toward RSA, already half-celebratory in their cheers, underestimating NRC was no wise deed on their part. What they lacked in spotless character, they made up for in raw, undeniable power—a dangerous edge honed by ambition, pride, and the sheer refusal to lose.
And today, well, that edge was sharper than ever.
With a soft sigh, Rook returned to his familiar pre-performance rituals: a careful stretch here, fumbling with the buttons of his costume there. Rolling his shoulders slowly, feeling for tense knots in his muscles. He did vocal warm-ups, too, testing the limits of his range as he tugged his boots into place. The leather creaked as he tightened the laces, heels braced against the floor.
He was a confident man and an even confident performer, that much he was certain. Still, this event was no small feat, and it would have been foolish to pretend otherwise. He couldn’t fault himself for the nerves that crept in now and then.
Meanwhile, Alif Ajib found himself surrounded by his fellow RSA students. They were here to show their support and hope that their constant presence would assure him. It was his first time standing on the stage for the SDC, and calling his nerves mere anxiety would have been a kindness. The school’s pride rested heavily on his shoulders as a glorious but unyielding weight.
Do not mistake him, though: he trusted very well in his own skills, and he knew his talents had carried him this far in life. But still—confidence did little to quiet the restless pounding in his chest.
“Alif,” he friend said, leaning in to catch his attention. “You’re doing great. You know that, right?”
Coming from his friends, the compliment felt rather grounding than just empty words, which he was grateful for, and he let out a shaky laugh. “Thanks. I know I do. It just… feels larger than life now that I’m actually here.”
Gratitude bloomed easily in the garden of his heart. Gratitude for his friends and their unwavering support. But with all of them so close, their urgent spirits caving in on him at all sides, at some point it just became too much, and what meant to be his malacca of support instead choked him out of breath.
“We’re all proud of you no matter what happens out there.”
He smiled at them, hoping it was enough to convey his thanks. He hadn’t realized how much he needed to hear that until now. “I guess I just need a second to breathe, guys,” he said with a tad bit of apology in his voice. “If you don’t mind. I warm up better when I’m alone, anyway.”
“Of course. Do what you must.”
Outside, Alif let his feet carry him without direction, and soon, all the noise ceased to exist behind him, replaced instead by the hush of corridors and open air. He walked onward, observing everything from the way the staff moved with practiced urgency to the lingering awareness of warm magic around him.
It reminded him of the stage itself, where cheers and spectacle and limelight were only one part of the story. There was beauty here, too, in the unnoticed and the in-between. He found himself smiling at the thought, and the knotted tension in his chest began to ease.
He hadn’t always been… here, he supposed. Though not his first time in such an environment, taking part in the SDC and actually, proactively, bearing the mantle of Royal Sword Academy was unfamiliar territory.
It was only now that Alif could fully appreciate how far he had come. Every doubt, every long practice, and every breakdown he’d spent wondering if he was good enough had inexplicably led him here, to this simple truth that he was doing well. More than well, in fact, and he had earned this spot.
It was normal for him to be nervous, but no amount of anxiety should ever take him away from the fact that he was good.
With that thought, the burden atop him grew lighter, and so, too, did his feet leave shallower prints upon the earth. The path behind him still felt long, but no longer heavy, and for the first time today, he was reassured by the indubitable fact that this—here, now—was where he would truly shine.
Alif was halfway down the backstage corridor when he ran into something. Or, rather… someone.
“Oof—”
The impact practically tore his soul and jolted it back into his body all at once. His hands shot out on instinct, grabbing into fabric and solid arms before he could stumble to the ground. He looked up, already bracing to apologize—
Oh.
The guy in front of him was just as still, green eyes narrowing in quick assessment. Alif’s first thought was that this man was perhaps one of the prettiest people he had ever seen in his life. Tall, fair-skinned, mid-length blond hair—he was built like a prince, or at the very least some duke’s mischievous son. He had the regal air of someone who did what he wanted to do, no matter how troublesome.
Alif would be lying if he said his heart didn’t skip a beat at the thought of this handsome man’s gloved hands holding him up.
Then both of their gazes dropped at the same time: pinned to their chests were identical contestant tags.
This guy was Night Raven College’s representative. Alif’s rival, the one standing between him and first place.
Immediately, he composed himself, nearly frantically pushing the other guy away. His hands still tingled from where they touched, and the thought brought heat to his cheeks. So in an effort to push it to the back of his mind, he hid his hands from sight and cleared his throat.
“So,” he said. “You must be NRC’s best performer.”
“Rook Hunt,” Rook said with a sly grin on his face like he was daring Alif to throw the first stone. “I wouldn’t put it that way, but I suppose it looks like it.”
Alif did his best to meet his stare with a confident stance of his own. He squared his shoulders, planted his feet firmly and hoped for the best. Did he look intimidating or just awkward?
It felt like there was static crackling all over his skin, gathering and dispersing in uncomfortable waves, waiting for the smallest spark to spontaneously combust.
Personally, Rook thought him interesting almost immediately. His inclination toward beautiful things had followed him throughout his life, and now he found that the man standing in front of him was—annoyingly—beautiful. He didn’t look like the type that commanded attention, but it was clear that he did, anyway.
His gold eyes caught the light when he moved, and when he looked at Rook, there was a fire in them that only intensified with each second that passed. Rook had seen plenty of performers with striking features, but there was… something about the way those eyes gnawed at him. Something he couldn’t pinpoint.
Then there was his hair—black at the roots, dark and rich, percolating into green at the tips that reminded Rook of lush forests and cool breeze. And his skin… warm and kissed by sunlight, it contrasted beautifully with his stage makeup and the gold details of his costume. He looked so flawless that if he didn’t blink every so often, Rook would have mistaken him for an ancient Greek hero’s statue.
Meanwhile, Alif clocked him immediately as a problem. Rook had that expression provocateurs typically wore, that annoyingly smug half-smile paired with too-knowing eyes. Alif had dealt with plenty of those before, and they were always exhausting.
And yet…
There was something about the way he carried himself that made Alif unable to look away, like he wasn’t deliberately trying to prove anything, but that he was just confident enough in himself to rub off as irritating. Ironically, that somehow made Alif want to challenge him, anyway.
His gaze on Rook lingered, a traitorous thing. He wondered what Rook sounded like when he sang, or when the smug, provocative smirk disappeared and an honest smile took its place.
Annoying, Alif decided firmly.
Still… How curious.
“Hmm,” Rook caved and dropped the first barb. “You’re awfully quiet for someone about to perform in front of a crowd that fawns over him alone.” He wasn’t one to let the RSA-NRC beef bother him, but it was a funny thing to use as provocation material. Then his eyes flickered down to Alif’s clenched hands, which he had unknowingly brought to his sides again. “You look a little nervous, sweetheart. This a little out of your depth or something?”
Alif felt the familiar spark flare in his chest, and he quickly unclenched his hands, putting them behind him once more, just in case. He hated that Rook seemed to be able to read him without much effort, hated even more that he said them out loud. Was he truly that much of an open book? Or was it a Rook Hunt thing?
Still, he refused to give the other man the satisfaction. “Nervous?” he echoed. Thankfully, his vocal chords cooperated and didn’t tremble. Emboldened, he stepped forward, though perhaps it was closer than necessary for a simple exchange between rivals who had only just met. “That’s funny; it seems that you underestimate me, Rook.”
Rook’s eyebrows shot up, and Alif didn’t know if he was simply imagining it, or his smile did become softer.
“I didn’t come here to play it safe, you know,” he said. “Not after everything I’d done to get here… Besides, we students of the Royal Sword Academy never go easy on our opponents.”
“That the first thing they teach you in Hero 101?” Rook goaded. “Well, in any case, I was hoping you’d say that, pretty boy.”
Pretty boy? Alif felt his face grow warm again, the heat creeping up his neck like an uncontrollable chill, and he hoped against all hope that it didn’t show on his face. He scowled, but it was more so because he was annoyed at his own reaction than at Rook’s words.
“Don’t call me that,” he stammered, crossing his arms. “If you think flirting is going to throw me off, you’re wasting your time.”
“Flirting?” Rook was full-on mocking him now, Alif was sure. He had a hand over his chest like Alif had said something so utterly offensive. “I was just making an observation.”
“Then, I ask that you keep your observations to yourself,” Alif said. “We still have a long day ahead of us, and I’d rather we don’t make a fool of ourselves on stage.”
“Ha! So it did get to you,” Rook said with a grin, pleased at the way Alif flushed at his teasing. Finally, this was the reaction he wanted to coax out of the guy. “I can’t exactly keep it to myself, sweetheart. It’s part of my process.” He tilted his head as a gesture of challenge.
Ah. Interesting. When Rook provoked people, most students would flinch, bristling and offering righteous retorts polished to a shine. What he liked most especially about pushing RSA' students’ buttons was that more often than not, they rose to his bait like clockwork. It was the heroic sort of indignation to them, he supposed. And Rook had learned the rhythm well enough to play it like a well-used flute.
But this man. He did not take the lure dangled before him. If anything, he even seemed… amused. Whatever thoughts stirred behind those eyes, they remained carefully his own and Rook Hunt found himself—much to his surprise—wanting to coax them out into the open.
How curious, indeed. A dangerous impulse. Rivals were merely meant to be studied and dismantled. And yet, as the air between them became electrifying, Rook had this strange thought that perhaps winning the SDC might not be the only thing worth anticipating tonight.
“Tell me, then,” Rook said. “What do you feel before a performance like this? It must be your first time, right?”
Alif did not answer immediately. This must be his angle, he thought. He must be prying for any weaknesses of mine that he can use against me. NRC students were infamous for that sort of thing. Alif didn’t want to stereotype, but really, with the way this Rook was acting, what else was he supposed to think?
“I focus on the performance alone,” he said at last. “Everything else is just a distraction to me.”
“How disciplined,” Rook preened. “And yet you talked to me first.”
“You were blocking the hallway.”
It was a blatant lie, and it was clear they both knew it, too.
“You wound me,” Rook said. “I was hoping it meant you found me interesting.”
“Interesting isn’t the same as important,” Alif replied smoothly. “And importance is certainly in short supply tonight.”
If Rook was offended, he didn’t show it. “Ah,” he said, almost fondly, “then I suppose I shall have to earn it. I do so enjoy learning what makes a person tick—especially when they insist on hiding it.”
Alif’s gaze flickered briefly to Rook’s lips, then back to his eyes. It was an unconscious movement, a betrayal by his own body, and he didn’t realize it until a split second later. He could only hope that Rook missed it.
“You’ll have to content yourself with the performance,” he said to try and cover up his mistake. “Isn’t that what we’re here for?”
“For now,” Rook agreed. “But do be careful, my dear rival. You’ve made me curious.”
“Right,” scoffed Alif. He had this childish urge to snap back, but he was secretly relieved that Rook didn’t bring up his earlier blunder, if he had even noticed it. All the same, though, it irritated him how he had this… awareness of Rook and how they interacted. “Try not to get in my way next time, okay?”
“You’ll have to do better than that if you want to goad me.” Rook winked, and there went Alif’s heart and its strange tendency to do backflips at the worst possible moment.
“That the first thing they teach you in Villain 101?” Alif was particularly proud of that quip, a callback to Rook’s earlier retort, and thankfully, he was able to say it despite the racehorses in his chest.
And the man himself actually burst into laughter at that. It was annoying, but Alif couldn’t tamp down the odd sense of pride he felt, seeing Rook laugh so whole-heartedly over something he said.
“You done?” he asked, pretending to sound unimpressed.
“Hardly,” Rook said, wiping at his eyes while his other hand clutched at his stomach. He leaned back against the wall as though he had all the time in the world to play around. “Oh, that was a good one. Truly.”
It took a while for him to sober up, and in that time Alif waited for him, he found himself staring.
Rook Hunt was not handsome in the way Alif was used to seeing in RSA. His foxlike eyes were too sharp, too keen, and there was an intensity to him that RSA students would likely find off-putting. He carried himself with the confidence of a man in power, someone who knew exactly how he was perceived, and enjoyed it.
Predatory, almost, Alif thought, and then immediately dismissed the word as unfair. He’d been calling Rook a lot of names in his mind, and it was not honorable of him to be so lightning-quick to judge.
And then his staring was cut short, as Rook’s mirth finally faded, his eyes sharpening back to focus, the corner of his mouth tugged up in satisfaction like he’d enjoyed their exchange far more than he let on.
When his gaze finally lifted to meet Alif’s again, the man in question found that he could not look away.
There was no challenge in their eye contact now, nor was there any sign of retreat. The pounding in Alif’s chest was uneven, and if he was being honest to himself, overwhelming, too.
It seemed that this was no longer driven by rivalry, or the precarious need to prove himself, but rather by a strange, disorienting gravity forcing him into Rook’s orbit, making his breath catch and his thoughts indistinguishable.
His body reacted before his mind could catch up, warmth spreading through him, impossible to ignore. He could only hope that it didn’t show on his cheeks, or else that would truly be mortifying.
Rook’s stare was nothing short of intoxicating, unflinching as he was, like a hunter that did not rush for the killing strike. There was curiosity in the way he looked at Alif, yet it was tempered by patience rather than restraint. It looked as though he were cataloging him piece by piece, searching for something to remember him by.
Call Alif ridiculous, but somehow, part of him wished he was memorable enough for Rook to think of when the applause died and the competition was over. He pushed the thought aside at once. Wanting did not serve him, and indulgence had no place in the Royal Sword Academy.
“Mr. Ajib, Mr. Hunt,” called a staff member from down the corridor. “In five minutes, you are to line up for stage entry. There’s a short segment before the championship round starts.”
Alif was the first to look away, stepping back to reestablish the distance between them.
“Duty calls,” Rook said, that damn smug smirk still on his lips.
“Guess we’ll have to settle this in the contest itself,” Alif said, brow raised. If he had been blushing earlier, it was best to counteract the blunder with bravado. “May the best performer win. Although, I doubt it would be much of a competition, since the clear winner should be me.”
Rook scoffed, helplessly amused. “I do so admire confidence. Especially when it’s so… absolute.”
“Try not to get in my way next time, Rook Hunt.” Alif turned to follow the staff member who had called for their attention without waiting for his rival’s response. From the wings, the noise of the arena was amplified, cheers and applause bleeding through the walls in waves. He was still nervous, but this time, he let the anticipation wrap around him like a familiar armor.
This… this was his element. Whatever distraction Rook wanted to do to him, it would not touch him here.
Seconds later, he heard footsteps beside him, and he knew without turning that it was Rook, falling into place at his side.
“Well,” he said pleasantly. “If that was an attempt at a dismissal, I’m afraid it lacked conviction.”
Alif didn’t bother to respond, swallowing thickly, and then the curtains began to rise. Stagehands urged them forward, and the crowd’s roars surged louder as they stepped onstage.
Rook acknowledged the audience with an easy flourish, and Alif—not one to be bested—gave them his best smile. They cheered louder. An opening performer soon took the stage once the introductions were done, and they were ushered back to the wings while waiting for her to finish.
To ease his nerves, Alif rolled his shoulders once, then again. He flexed his fingers and tried to calm his breathing. Somewhere backstage, he knew Rook was doing last-minute exercises too, and the thought strangely brought him comfort.
I’ve got this, he thought to himself just as the final notes of the opening production rang out. By the time the applause crested and it was time for his performance, he was ready.
More than ready.
As the boy from RSA stepped into the spotlight, Rook watched as the stage welcomed him easily. Clearly, that was where he belonged. The crowd responded at once, enraptured by his grace. He had this confidence that did not clamor for attention yet demanded it all the same. It was kind of irritating, how compelling he was.
And yet.
Just like the crowd, Rook felt drawn to him, too. So this is how you hunt, he thought, by letting the world come to you.
When he first heard of the RSA boy, he hadn’t expected someone who would make him want to know more. To wonder what lay beneath that gorgeous exterior once the lights dimmed and all the performance came to a stop.
Curious. Deeply so.
“Ladies and gentlemen, once again, give it up for RSA’s Alif Ajib!” Rook was yanked out of his musing when the host reclaimed the stage. It escaped his notice how he had been thinking so cavernously that he hadn’t realized at all that the performance had already ended, and the RSA boy had at once exited the stage on the other end.
Alif Ajib. So that was his name, huh?
Rook let it roll over his tongue in thought, imagining it murmured under different circumstances, perhaps with less glitz and glamor. He stared at the empty space where the boy had disappeared with a faint smile that was softer than his usual smirk.
If there presents an opportunity to get to know you better, he mused, I will take it.
“And now, ladies and gents, please help me welcome to the stage… representing the Night Raven College, Rook Hunt!”
Hearing the announcement, he stood straighter immediately, brushing his hair back and smoothing the hem of his costume. He would meet this challenge head-on, but he also made a promise to himself: Alif Ajib would not slip from his grasp.
First things first, though—the stage awaited him.
And so, he stepped into the limelight, boots clicking on the floor as surely as his heart raced at the thought of a certain RSA boy.