Harem System in an Elite Academy

[ARIOS' FIRST POV]

It's strange how silence changes after trust begins to form.

Before, silence used to mean tension — the kind that sat heavy in the air, like a question waiting for someone to answer it. Now it feels… lighter. Still, but not empty.

I noticed it first after the karaoke night.

Amelia hadn't said much after her song. She smiled, thanked Lucy, and avoided looking at me too long, as if holding my gaze would make her flustered again. It wasn't the same kind of guarded silence she used to keep when she first came back to classes. Back then, her silence was defensive, like armor. Now, it felt more like thought — like she was processing something, not hiding from it.

I didn't say much either. I didn't need to.

Sometimes, words only get in the way when people start to heal.

When she first returned to the academy after the rumors, people looked at her the way they looked at cursed artifacts — interesting from a distance, dangerous up close. No one said it out loud, but everyone knew what they were thinking.

It wasn't fair.

Even after the council cleared her name, even after the announcement, I could still see the doubt in some faces. They'd accepted the verdict, but not the person.

That's what I hate about people. Once they've decided something about you, it takes more than truth to change their mind. You can present evidence, witnesses, even risk your life for them — and still, they'll cling to the version of you that fits their gossip better.

But Amelia didn't try to fight their perception anymore. She just went back to work. Teaching, organizing lessons, doing her reports like nothing happened.

That's when I started to notice small things.

The way she adjusted her tone when talking to first-years. How she hesitated before entering the staff hall, like she was still waiting for whispers. The way she stayed longer after class, tidying her desk even when everything was already neat.

People thought it meant she was nervous. I thought it meant she was holding herself together.

The karaoke night changed something. Not just for her — for everyone.

When she sang, the room went quiet in a way I hadn't seen before. Even the students who used to gossip about her stared, frozen halfway through laughter. For the first time since the whole mess started, people saw her as human again.

Not as a rumor. Not as a story.

Just Amelia.

Her voice was steady, and I could tell it wasn't confidence that kept it that way — it was honesty. She wasn't trying to impress anyone. She wasn't performing. She was reminding herself that she could still be seen without shame.

When she came off stage and sat down beside us, her hands were trembling slightly. Not fear, but something close to it — the kind of trembling that comes when you've let your walls down and are waiting to see what happens next.

I didn't say anything then either. I just told her she did well.

That's all I could offer. And somehow, that seemed enough.

It's been three days since then, and I keep thinking about it.

Maybe because I've seen people like her before.

When I first came here, I didn't trust anyone either. The academy wasn't a friendly place for someone like me — a transfer with no noble lineage, no powerful house backing me. I had to prove everything from scratch. My worth, my strength, even my right to be in the same classroom.

It made me cautious.

You start to build habits when you live like that. You stop expecting help. You stop believing people mean what they say. Every compliment feels like bait. Every offer feels like a setup.

That's how I used to think.

And now, watching Amelia slowly rebuild her sense of trust in people feels like looking into a mirror from another time.

I can tell when someone's trying to keep their composure while doubting everything around them. It's the same look I used to wear every day.

That's why I didn't push her. I didn't force her to open up or talk about what happened. I just listened when she wanted to talk and stayed silent when she didn't.

Sometimes, silence helps people more than sympathy does.

Lucy noticed the change too.

Yesterday, during lunch, she leaned toward me and said, "Amelia's been smiling more lately. Not the polite kind, the real kind."

I didn't answer right away. I knew she wanted me to agree, but I didn't want to sound like I was analyzing Amelia.

Lucy sighed. "You noticed too, didn't you?"

I nodded slightly. "She's learning to breathe again."

Lucy smiled at that. "You're better at reading people than you pretend to be."

Maybe. Or maybe I've just seen enough broken people to recognize the patterns.

There was one moment earlier today that stood out.

After class, I stopped by the faculty room to drop off some notes. Most of the instructors had already left. Amelia was there, alone, reviewing attendance sheets. She didn't notice me at first.

When she looked up, she blinked in surprise. "Arios? Still here?"

"Forgot to return something," I said, holding out a folder.

She smiled faintly. "You really don't forget anything, do you?"

"I try not to."

She took the folder, set it aside, then hesitated before speaking again. "You've been… different lately."

"Different?"

"Quieter," she said. "Even for you."

I shrugged. "A lot's happened."

"I know." Her tone softened. "You've done a lot for me, more than I expected anyone would. I just wanted to say that I… I appreciate it."

It wasn't the first time she'd thanked me, but it felt different. The first time, it sounded like obligation. This time, it sounded genuine.

She wasn't just acknowledging what I did. She was acknowledging that she *trusted* the reason I did it.

That's what's really rare — when someone stops questioning your intentions.

I think about that often — trust.

It's not something you give freely. It's something that happens in fragments.

The first time she looked at me and didn't tense up when I got too close.

The first time she asked for my opinion instead of brushing it off.

The first time she laughed — actually laughed — when Liza made one of her ridiculous jokes.

Those moments add up. They form a pattern.

You start to realize that people don't rebuild their trust in one dramatic moment. They do it slowly, quietly, through small, ordinary interactions.

That's what's happening now.

Amelia's distrust isn't gone, not completely. But it's softening. It's bending instead of breaking.

And somehow, that makes me respect her more.

I'm not good at understanding emotions in real time. I always analyze them afterward, like I'm sorting through data.

Maybe that's why I notice the small details most people miss.

For example — when we walk through the halls, Amelia no longer looks over her shoulder. When she talks to other instructors, she doesn't pause before answering. When students greet her, she doesn't look like she's wondering if it's mockery.

It's progress. Slow, steady progress.

I don't know if she realizes it herself. Most people don't notice their own healing until someone points it out.

I thought about saying something. But then I decided not to.

Sometimes, acknowledgment breaks the rhythm. Some things are better left unspoken until they've fully settled.

It's late now. Everyone's probably asleep.

I can hear the faint hum of mana conduits outside the dorm window, the usual background sound of the academy at night.

Lucy and Liza are in their own dorms. I haven't seen them since dinner.

The quiet is heavy, but not uncomfortable.

Moments like this make me think more clearly. Maybe too clearly.

I keep replaying everything that's happened — the investigation, Garron's expulsion, Regulus' suspension, the council's silence on Chase. It all feels like one long thread that hasn't been cut yet.

But tonight, I don't want to think about politics or hidden agendas.

Tonight, I just want to think about the people who've survived through it.

Amelia isn't the same person who stood trembling in that council room weeks ago.

Back then, she looked like someone waiting for a sentence. Now, she walks like someone waiting for a beginning.

That difference matters.

People assume strength means fighting back. Sometimes, strength means choosing to stay — to rebuild, to face the same halls that once turned against you.

It takes more courage to teach in front of the same students who doubted you than to win any duel.

That's why I respect her.

She didn't run. She didn't leave. She stayed.

And because she stayed, she started to heal.

I know that's something I've struggled with too — staying.

I'm good at moving forward, at focusing on the next problem, the next task. But I'm not good at staying long enough to feel anything.

Maybe that's why I keep people at a distance, even Lucy and Liza.

They're both close to me, in their own ways, but I still hold part of myself back. I always think it's better to keep a safe distance — that way, when things go wrong, it hurts less.

But seeing Amelia change… it makes me wonder if maybe I've been wrong about that.

Because when you wall yourself off completely, you don't just avoid pain — you avoid connection too.

And connection, even fragile, is what keeps people from breaking apart entirely.

When I look at her now, I don't just see someone who was falsely accused. I see someone who refused to let that define her.

That's rare.

Most people get stuck in their trauma. They replay it over and over until it becomes who they are. Amelia didn't. She accepted that it happened but didn't let it consume her identity.

I think that's why she and I understand each other, even without saying much. We both know what it's like to be judged before being known.

We both know how hard it is to trust again.

And maybe that's why her softening distrust feels important to me.

Because it's not just her learning to trust me — it's a reminder that people *can* change, that trust can rebuild even after being shattered.

It means maybe I can too.

I remember something she said once, when we were leaving the council hall after Garron's case ended. She said, "When people see the truth, they still look away. But even if one person chooses to look back, it's enough."

At the time, I didn't respond. But I think I understand it now.

She wasn't talking about public approval. She was talking about belief — about one person being enough to anchor her faith in the world again.

Maybe I became that person without realizing it.

And if that's true, then the least I can do is not let her down.

Tomorrow will go back to routine. Classes, field training, maybe another council update.

The academy never really stops. It just pauses between storms.

But in this pause, in this quiet between words, there's something almost peaceful about knowing that not everything we fix has to involve fighting.

Sometimes, it's about being patient while someone learns to see the world without fear again.

That's what Amelia's doing.

And that's what I'll keep doing too — standing close enough that she knows she's not alone, but far enough that she can walk on her own.

It's funny. I used to think reflection was a waste of time. But maybe it's necessary — not because it changes the past, but because it reminds us why we keep moving forward.

If I ever forget why I fight, why I dig for truth, I just have to remember this week.

A song, a smile, and a person learning to trust again.

That's enough reason.