Shards of Memory [English - Under Revision]

Chapter 34: Palawan

Skylane

After the whirlwind of the anniversary celebration and the chaos of the school festival, life at the academy slid back into its old rhythm—lessons stacked on lessons, assignments piling like waves, queen duties squeezing into every gap of free time. Yet a subtle glow lingered over everything, a quiet satisfaction humming in the halls.

Our class had placed first in overall income—official, stamped, announced over the intercom with a cheer that shook the floor: highest income from a booth, favorite costume (thanks to Blaise's unwilling yet unforgettable stint in a king's cape). We didn't win because we were perfect. We won because everyone shoved tables, scrubbed pans, nagged each other about receipts, and showed up even when we were exhausted. Because the boys leaned into the bit (crowns, capes, and all) and the girls sold their lungs smiling. Because I asked too much and no one said no.

The school board's treat came that night: an ultra-polished, all-you-can-eat BBQ palace in BGC with glass walls and chandeliers that threw glittery light across silver tongs. The hiss of meat hit hot iron—fat spitting, air sweet with sugar glaze and garlic. Blaise stood at the head of our grill, sleeves pushed to the elbows, forearms cut with light. He laid down marinated slices like he was running a play.

"Don't touch that," he said, scooping perfectly seared pieces onto my plate. "You'll ruin my masterpiece."

"I'm not helpless," I muttered—already chewing.

He only grinned. "I know. I just like doing it."

My classmates teased Blaise endlessly for piling meat on my plate before touching his own. We went home full and loud, smelling like charcoal and butter, the kind of tired that feels like a medal. Those were the moments that carved themselves into my heart—simple, ordinary happiness, shared with people who made school feel less like a battlefield and more like a home.

The next days slid back into rhythm—lessons, council meetings, Queen duties, homework, my planner a battlefield of sticky notes. But between the grind and the group chats and the late-night spreadsheet edits, a single bright thread pulled me forward:

And then, after weeks of preparation, anticipation finally bloomed into reality.

The long-awaited school trip to Palawan.

The bus hummed softly as it rolled toward the airport, dawn breaking faintly along the horizon. Voices rose and fell, then thinned as sleep claimed almost everyone.

I sat by the window, pen tapping against my notebook, watching sunlight inch across the sky. Organizing this trip had nearly cost me my sanity—permits, itineraries, a maze of meetings with the Royals and teachers—but my classmates' excitement made every sleepless night worth it.

"Everyone is here. We can go, then," our advisor said after the headcount.

"Yes! Palawan, here I come!" a girl squealed, her friends cheering with her.

Warmth bloomed in my chest. This was why I wanted the trip to be perfect.

"Shut up, commoners! You're irritating me. It's just Palawan." A conceited voice snapped from the back.

The cheerful mood stumbled, but before I could intervene, Chase—one of Blaise's closest friends—cut in.

"No, you shut up. You're killing the fun. No one wants your conceited ass around."

Laughter rippled. The girl flushed and fell silent.

I leaned back, exhaling. At least some battles fought themselves.

Hours later, the bus quieted. Heads nodded with the road's rhythm. Beside me, Blaise slept with his forehead against the window, brows drawn even in rest.