Ath’s cottage was dim when she returned, the air cool, the shutters cracked to let in the evening breeze.
She unloaded the cart with quiet efficiency, stacking the leftovers in the corner, their frosted surfaces gleaming faintly in the low light.
Dinner was simple—carrots, potatoes, a slice of bread traded from the baker.
She boiled them quickly, steam curling in the small kitchen, filling the air with the warm, earthy scent of real food.
She sat at her worn table, the bowl before her, the stack of coins glinting beside it in the candlelight.
The broth shimred golden, steam rising to warm her face.
She lifted the spoon, took a sip—hot, rich, grounding.
Her throat tightened, a faint tremor she refused to acknowledge.
Her face remained still, her lips pressed in their usual line, her brow smooth.
But her icy-blue eyes blurred, just for a mont, as she blinked once, twice.
A tear slid down her cheek, unacknowledged, catching the candle’s glow before it vanished into her skin.
She ate in silence, the spoon moving steadily, the coins gleaming with every flicker of fla.
For the first ti in months, her stomach didn’t ache when she set the spoon down.
She was full.
The Guiding Light.
Lor. His ridiculous, perverted ritual.
It had worked.
_____________
_____________
The classroom door swung open, and Miss Silvia’s heels clicked sharply against the stone floor, each step a precise, commanding note that silenced the hum of Class D’s chatter.
Her white jacket clung to her fra, the fabric straining slightly over her bust, buttons pulling just enough to hint at the curves beneath.
The pencil skirt hugged her hips, the dark fabric accentuating their sway as she moved, her auburn hair catching the morning light streaming through the high windows, gleaming like burnished copper.
Her glasses perched neatly on her nose, framing sharp green eyes that swept the room with an authority that demanded attention.
The air shifted, heavy with awe and the nervous quiet of students desperate not to be noticed.
Every seat was filled.
Even Lor, who often strolled in late with a grin, sat promptly at his desk, Kiara at his side, her icy-blue eyes glinting with possessive calm, her long legs crossed beneath the desk, her uniform skirt riding just high enough to draw his gaze.
Her blouse strained subtly over her bust, a silent claim that matched the way her shoulder brushed his, marking her territory.
"Good," Silvia said, her lips curving into a faint, approving smile as she set her satchel on the lectern. "For once, punctuality isn’t a myth."
Lor smirked, resting his chin on his palm, his hazel eyes gleaming with quiet amusent.
Across the room, Olivia adjusted her neat bob, her charcoal-gray pants clinging to her hips as she scribbled in her notebook, her hazel eyes flicking toward Silvia with calculated focus.
Sophia fidgeted, her twin-tails bouncing as she chewed her lip, her hands clutching her pen like a lifeline.
Viora and Myra exchanged a quick glance, their mischievous smiles barely hidden, while Lia’s red curls caught the light as she leaned forward, eager but nervous.
Silvia turned to the chalkboard, her movents swift and precise, her hand carving sigils in sharp, arcing strokes.
The chalk’s soft scratch filled the room, mingling with the rustle of parchnt and the creak of desks as students scrambled to keep up.
"Mana channeling begins with structure," she said, her voice crisp, cutting through the air like a blade.
"Sigils are not art—they’re architecture. One misplaced line, and your spell collapses. Or worse, it backfires." Her glasses glinted as she glanced back, her gaze pinning a dozing student who snapped upright with a guilty flush.
Lor half-listened, his eyes drifting to Kiara’s rough strokes sketching of him.
The lesson flowed—.
Silvia’s voice was a steady rhythm.
Most students scribbled furiously, their pens scratching in a frantic chorus, even Lor.
As the session neared its end, Silvia dusted her hands, chalk powder catching the light like faint snow.
She turned, her skirt shifting against her thighs, and let her final words fall like a spark in dry grass.
"Two days from now," she said, her voice sharp, "the Inter-Class Academics Tournant begins. Co prepared—or don’t bother showing up at all."
Murmurs erupted, a wave of tension rippling through the room—excitent, nerves, the frantic shuffle of students already planning study groups.
Sophia’s eyes widened, her pen trembling; Olivia’s lips pressed into a determined line, her ambition a quiet fire.
Viora whispered sothing to Myra, who stifled a laugh, while Lia’s freckled cheeks flushed with resolve.
Kiara’s hand brushed Lor’s under the desk, a light nudge that sent a spark through him.
He turned his head, catching the faint smirk on her lips, her icy-blue eyes glinting with unspoken promise.
Busy, her gaze said, a silent vow that he’d be very, very busy.
Her fingers lingered, tracing a slow circle on his wrist, the touch subtle but electric.
.
.
The canteen thrumd with life, the vaulted hall alive with the clatter of trays and the hum of voices weaving through the air.
The scent of roasted roots and sizzling oil curled around Lor as he balanced his tray—thick stew, crusty bread, a slab of herb-rubbed at—and followed Kiara to their usual corner, tucked away from the clusters of chattering classmates.
The high windows let in slants of midday sun, catching dust motes and painting the worn wooden tables with golden streaks.
Kiara sat first, crossing her long legs with effortless grace, her uniform blouse pulling taut across her toned chest, the buttons straining just enough to hint at the full curves beneath.
Her dark hair spilled over one shoulder, catching the light like polished obsidian, and her blue eyes glinted with a playful intensity as she leaned forward, elbows on the table.
Lor slid into the seat across from her, digging into his stew, the rich warmth grounding him as he chewed thoughtfully.
"I’ve been thinking," he said around a mouthful, wiping his lips with the back of his hand, his hazel eyes flicking to hers.
"I should start with Olivia. Then Viora and Myra. Maybe Eva too. And Nellie again. Or Lia and Sophia—"
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