"I’m proud that you’re taking things seriously now," she said, her voice softening.
"Truly. I know I told you before to apply yourself. That magic isn’t sothing to take lightly. That you’ve got a mind you waste when you chase dust in the wind."
He nodded faintly, his hazel eyes dropping to his plate.
He rembered those talks, her gentle insistence that he could be more.
"But this isn’t what I ant," she said, her voice quieter now, more urgent.
That made him look up, his hazel eyes narrowing slightly, his fork resting on the plate.
Mira leaned on her elbow, her gaze steady but warm. "You’re tired, Lor. You’ve been quiet. You co back worn out, like you’re carrying sothing that’s not yours."
"I’m just studying more," he said quickly, his voice casual but guarded, scooping another bite onto his spoon without eting her eyes.
"Studying what?" she pressed, her tone gentle but unyielding. "For who?"
He hesitated, the spoon pausing, his mind flickering to Kiara’s icy blue eyes, Sophia and Lia’s trembling bodies.
Mira reached out, gently brushing his hair back from his face, her fingers lingering a mont too long—asuring his temperature, maybe, or just feeling the boy she’d raised.
"Don’t bury yourself in things just because you finally think they matter," she said softly, her voice thick with love. "I want you to care. But not to drown. Play sotis. Joke. Do sothing stupid again. Gods know you’re overdue."
That pulled a quiet laugh from him, his hazel eyes softening, his lean fra relaxing slightly. "You want to get detention again?"
"I want my son to sleep with light in his eyes," she murmured, her kind eyes searching his, a faint smile on her lips.
He swallowed, his throat tight, and nodded. "I hear you, Mom."
She smiled—brief, but warm, her plump figure settling back in her chair.
Lor finished the last of his food, licking the back of his spoon and setting it down with a soft clink.
He stood, pushing the chair back with a gentle scrape, his lean fra stretching slightly. "I’m gonna crash."
Mira rose with him, trailing quietly to the base of the stairs. As he turned toward his room, her presence remained behind him—steady, grounding."Night, Lor," she said softly.
He glanced back, hazel eyes lit with warmth. "Night, Mom."
Her hand hovered near the banister as he ascended, her gaze following him until he vanished around the bend. Her lips moved in a silent prayer, whispered into the quiet for no one but herself.
Lor stepped into his room, kicked off his boots, and peeled off his shirt with a groan.
He collapsed face-first onto the bed, arms flung wide, the mattress creaking under the familiar weight of him.
In a cliche isekai world where so many stories began with abandonnt, neglect, or distant, broken parents, Lor knew he was different.
He had Mira and Eren—present, loving, quietly extraordinary.
This was a ho. A true one. Safe. Warm. Whole.
The thought wrapped around him like a blanket.
He smiled, eyes drifting shut, and surrendered to sleep.
.
.
.
Lor lay on his back, half-covered by the sheet, one leg dangling over the edge of the bed.
The night air curled in through the cracked window, cool and heavy with the scent of rain that has long silenced.
But his body refused to settle, his heart racing with the pull of the unknown.
His thoughts weren’t on mana or fire runes or even Sophia and Lia’s moans echoing in his ears—they were stuck, riveted, on that damned letter, the folded parchnt he’d slipped back into the Calden nightstand drawer like a secret he couldn’t bury deep enough.
Midnight Bloom.
The Atrium. The Gallery. The Mirror Hall.
He’d tried to sleep, closing his hazel eyes against the moonlight, but the words burned in his mind like a spell half-cast.
Gods—just the idea of it was like at to a starving hound.
No—like smoke to fire.
A strange, intoxicating fuel that didn’t burn out, only deeper, his cock stirring faintly in his pants as he imagined the masked bodies, the whispers, the anonymity.
His cock was hard again.
Unrelentingly, shalessly hard, tenting the thin sheet, throbbing to the pulse of his hungry, perverted curiosity.
Even after what he’d done with Kiara.
Even after Lia and Sophia had ridden his nerves raw.
It wasn’t about being unsatisfied.
No.
It was like so forbidden chamber, extra space for perviness in his mind had opened, and now it was screaming to be filled, his arousal mixing with the thrill of danger, his body responding to the unknown like a spell waiting to ignite.
He sat up sharply, the sheet falling away, his lean fra tense in the dim light.
His eyes flicked to the shelf, where the old to—Noble Holdings of the Eastern Crescent—sat like a silent invitation.
He had a map.
Lor stood, crossed the room, and pulled the old to from the book shelf, the leather creaking softly under his fingers.
He cracked it open on his desk, flipping pages until he found the city’s southern quarter, his hazel eyes scanning the intricate lines and labels under the moonlight filtering through the window.
There.
House Viremont.
Sitting smug on the edge of the inner garden district, ringed with marble walls, a crescent gate, and a private entrance to the central do.
Of course it would be.
He snorted, a faint grin tugging at his lips, his cock still half-hard in his pants.
Then turned toward the window, the cool night breeze brushing his skin.
Outside, the clouds shifted slowly, heavy and low.
The night was dark but not blind.
The air was thick—quiet, expectant.
Lor pushed the window fully open, the creak soft in the stillness.
And climbed onto the sill, his lean fra balanced, his hazel eyes fixed on the distant spires.
He flexed his fingers once.
Breathed in deeply, feeling the mana in his core stir like a waking fla.
Then jumped.
And didn’t fall.
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