"Look," he said, sliding an apology into his tone like a coin across a bar counter, "you were clear last time, alright? I taught you the binding charms, the mana flow basics. You've got enough to scrape by."

His voice was light, teasing, but his eyes flicked between them, gauging their mood.

"You better have," Lia said, her jaw tight, her dark eyes boring into him like she was measuring him for a coffin. "If we fail this, we're coming for you. And not in a fun way."

"You mean it," Sophia added, her voice softer now but laced with a daring edge, her lips quirking in a way that was a full threat.

She tucked a stray curl behind her ear, her fingers lingering there, and Lor caught the faint flush on her cheeks, a mix of anger and something else that made the air feel a little too warm.

His grin sharpened, a flicker of amusement breaking through his calculated calm.

"I know you do. Relax, I'll be fine—and so will you." He pushed off the wall, straightening, his clothes shifting around his shoulders as he gave them a mock salute.

A few other students drifted by, hurrying through the academy's stone arch, their bags stuffed with scrolls and their faces tight with nerves.

The three of them fell into the stream of bodies, the morning's tension easing into the familiar rhythm of the academy's pre-exam chaos.

.

.

The air shifted inside, the clamor of the courtyard muffled to a dull hum.

The corridor smelled of chalk dust and polished wood, the faint varnish tang clinging to the polished stone floor.

Sunlight streamed through tall glass panes, scattering rectangles of gold across the tiles, catching the hurried steps of students weaving through with that half-panicked rhythm of feigned preparation.

Lor turned left toward Class D, his black hair still damp and tousled, falling into his hazel eyes.

His plain uniform—sleeves rolled, shirt untucked—blended into the crowd, but he felt the weight of eyes before he even opened the door.

The room hushed for half a heartbeat as he stepped in, a subtle pause that prickled his skin.

He'd skipped yesterday, and Class D noticed.

Whispers stirred, too low to catch, but no one called his name.

No one dared, not with Kiara's shadow looming over him like a possessive spell.

Lor kept his face blank, his lazy grin tucked away, and strode to his desk, the chair scraping sharply against the floor as he sat.

The sound cut through the murmurs, drawing a few more glances.

In the corner of his vision, Kiara sat across the room, no longer at his side.

Her sleek black hair spilled over her shoulder, framing her sharp, pale face, her icy blue eyes flicking toward him for a single, stomach-tightening moment before returning to her notebook.

Her tight uniform hugged her busty, curvy figure, the blouse's fabric straining faintly against her full breasts, the black lace of her panties just visible where her skirt rode high on her plush thighs.

The sight stirred a flicker of heat in Lor's chest—anger, longing, betrayal all tangled together—but he forced his gaze away, jaw tight, focusing on the scratched wood of his desk.

The silence between them was thick, heavy with the tick of the classroom clock and the ghost of last night's severed bond.

He dropped his bag under the desk with a thud, leaning forward to feign boredom, his fingers drumming lightly.

The truth was, he didn't know what he'd say if Kiara spoke.

"Sorry I don't want you draining me so I asked Silvia to break your hold on me" didn't feel like it would land well, and the memory of her silhouette in Silvia's window—those blue eyes watching him—still gnawed at him, raw and unresolved.

Soon.

The door creaked open, and Miss Silvia swept in, a stack of papers and a clipboard tucked under her arm.

The room snapped to attention—backs straightened, whispers died, quill froze mid-twirl.

Her auburn hair was pinned up today, a few strands escaping to frame her glasses, her white jacket clinging to her busty chest, the pencil skirt hugging her hips with every step.

"Good morning," she said, her voice calm but clipped, carrying that nervous edge that made her seem more human than teacher.

"I hope you're all prepared for the academic tournament. It's a chance to prove yourselves, so focus." Her eyes skipped over Lor, avoiding him entirely.

She spoke to the room, not the students, and turned to leave, her skirt swaying as she exited with efficient grace.

The door swung open again, and Master Toren lumbered in, Class C's teacher, his thick shoulders filling the frame.

His balding scalp gleamed under the chandelier, his soft-jowled face twisting into a greasy smirk that made Lor's skin crawl.

Toren's enchanted robes sparked faintly, a tacky display of minor magic, but all Lor could think of was his wife—her curves pressed against him at the orgy, her breathy moans as he'd tangled with her and Lia's mother in a haze of heat and masks.

The memory hit hard, his trousers tightening as a rush of arousal surged through him, unbidden.

He shifted in his seat, face carefully blank, but Kiara's gaze snapped to him, her blue eyes sharp and knowing, as if she could smell the lust on him.

He didn't look back, focusing instead on the desk's grain, heat crawling up his neck.

Toren clapped his hands, the sound jarring.

"Well, well, Class D," he drawled, his voice dripping with condescension. "The bottom of the barrel, as always. Let's see if you can surprise me this time, or if you're just saving your energy for cheating."

His smirk widened, eyes glinting as a few students stiffened.

A nervous laugh came from the back—probably Joren, Class C's smug bastard with his slicked-back hair—but Lor stayed silent, his grin tucked away.

"Don't dream of beating Class C," Toren continued, pacing.

"Stick to what you're good at—failing spectacularly."

He began distributing the exam papers, dropping them onto desks with deliberate force, his fingers lingering too long near Nellie's desk, her freckled cheeks flushing as she shrank back.

The paper hit Lor's desk with a slap, and the room filled with the rustle of pages and the scratch of pens.

He scanned the questions—elementary mana flows, basic charm structures, potion ratios.

Child's play.

Thirty marks was the plan.

He picked up his quill, scribbling precise answers for the first few questions—correct formulas, neat runes—then shifted gears.

Wrong numbers, inverted symbols, plausible nonsense filled the rest, his handwriting clean to mask the mediocrity.

Around him, the room told its own stories.

Nellie, in the far row, tapped her pen nervously but also scribbled on her paper every few taps, her ash-brown braids swaying, her blouse clinging to her petite chest, thighs shifting, her gray-green eyes wide behind her glasses.

Olivia, her light brown bob immaculate, wrote with ruthless precision, her hazel eyes narrowed, her tight pants hugging her hips as she leaned forward, clearly gunning for the top.

Eva, near the window, hummed softly, her dark blue hair with pink streaks catching the light, her knit top damp with sweat, clinging to her full chest as she traced runes in the air.

Myra and Viora, side by side, looked miserable—Myra's brunette curls falling into her brown eyes as she chewed her lip, her shirt tight against her breasts.

Viora's green ponytail messy, her skirt riding up to flash red lace as she scratched her head, her curvy thighs tense.

Lor's chest tightened with guilt.

He hadn't done their "Guiding Light" ritual.

Instead, he'd been tangled in their hot mothers' arms yesterday—Myra's mother, soft and yielding, her curves pressed against him.

Viora's mother, bold and commanding, her moans echoing in the dark.

The memory sent another pulse of heat through him, his arousal warring with regret as he watched Myra and Viora struggle.

He wasn't noble, never claimed to be, but their frowns and frantic scribbling stung.

He'd let them down, and the weight of it sat oddly on his shoulders.

He sighed, barely audible, and forced his focus back to the paper, locking his thoughts into the cage of calculations for mathematics.

Numbers were easier—they didn't glare or expect anything.

When he finished, he leaned back, his chair creaking, and glanced around.

Toren stalked the aisles, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he casually noted errors that hardly deserved his attention.

His robes flickered with a faint, ethereal glow, a soft hum of power that whispered through the air.

Lor's gaze wandered, almost of its own accord, to Kiara.

She sat poised and unbothered, her back straight as an arrow, a single quill dancing across her paper with effortless grace.

The fall of her black hair framed her face like a veil, a stark contrast to the glowing light around them.

If she felt his gaze, she didn't show it, but he knew she did—she always did, her witch's intuition sharp as a blade.

Her presence was a pull though he tried his best to avoid it.

With the paper finished, he reluctantly redirected his focus, turning his attention to Myra and Viora.

There was work to be done—both the academic kind and the other sort.

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