"I guess it's just that easy!"

Thought I'd draw my young Merlin, Fyo, with her friends and peers. After all, she's returning to continue her final year in the Lyceum and graduate since things didn't turn out as planned (cough CHAINS OF ETERNITY cough)

It only makes sense to familiarise again with the people she used to/is currently going to school with! So meet her fellow graduates (ignore that one of them will drop out shhh🤫)

Minthe belongs to me!

@serenaofesperia - Serena Vaile

@alexivan77 - Sascha Ivanova

@burrowofdelphine - Delphine

@effortlessly-arcane - Sylvaine

@silentsigilist-noctis - Noctis Sylas

@ikigai-nocturne - Ikigai Nocturne

"Truly a wonderful party Serena has hosted, such lovely people, such lovely decoration."

"Oh!" she stops short, dramatically facepalming, "Did i forget to introduce myself again? My apologies, I'm Nehir, a special admission student"

@magister-nehir

[Sylvaine stands poised, carefully drifting between conversations, letting attention gather and disperse at his discretion. Befitting the theme of the party, he came with his hair down, dressed as Celestino, Venus of Dusk. Because of course he did...] Sylvaine turns at the sound of his name, already polished.

“Nehir,” he repeats smoothly.

A faint smile curves at the corner of his mouth — practiced, warm enough to be flattering, sharp enough to be deliberate.

“Handsome?” He places a hand lightly over his chest. “You wound me. I put in far more effort than that deserves.”

“And wooing all the ladies?” He tilts his head, letting his attention narrow until the rest of the room seems to fall away. “Hardly.” His voice softens just enough to feel private. “At the moment, I’m only interested in the one standing in front of me.”

At the mention of Serena, his eyes flick briefly across the room — quick calculation — before returning to Nehir.

“It is a remarkable evening,” he agrees. “The décor is beautiful.”

“Special admission,” he echoes, interest sharpening just slightly.

He steps just close enough to signal attention, but not so close as to suggest its exclusivity.

interesting

She's seen her fair share of men like him, but it was always fun to play long. So why not? There was still time before the actual chaos began, and it was getting quite boring just standing about and pretending to laugh at arguably juvenile topics. This could be fun....fine, two could play the game.

"Ah, my deepest apologies, indeed, just calling you handsome would be an insult to this ravishing ensemble. I'm glad I can hold your attention for as long as I have, I believe that a compliment in itself," she smiles softly, looking up through her lashes.

(There it is.)

Not the usual simpering eagerness. Not the kind that leans in or melts. Willing to play. She holds her ground, meets him cleanly, like this is a game she’s already decided she won’t lose.

“Then I’ll amend myself,” he says, gaze steady, unhurried as it traces back to her face. “Ravishing suits you better.”

He doesn’t step closer this time. Just lets the space settle.

“And I wouldn’t measure anything by how long you hold my attention,” he adds, almost lightly. “It has a habit of… wandering.”

“But you’re doing well so far.”

His eyes flick briefly to the room—the laughter, the masks, the performance—before returning, quieter now.

“The spectacle is all of this,” he murmurs. “People pretending not to be exactly what they are. Dressing it up nicely enough that no one calls it out.”

Another beat. Longer.

“And participating means deciding whether you want to be seen through it,” he finishes, voice dipping just enough to feel deliberate.

He studies her.

“Tell me, Nehir—” a slight tilt of his head, something curious slipping through, “are you here to be understood…” A breath.

A timid feminine voice calls out to him as she walks up to Sylvaine by the sofas at the end of the Lecture Hallway by the staircase,

"It's me, Fyo.. na. I know I look quite different since we last met. My biggest transfiguration spell yet was successful. But I thought I'd drop by, uhm.. how have you been lately?" She shuffles awkwardly in-place, fidgeting with her gloved fingers. The noble sanguine prodigy meets his gaze with that familiar meekness.

"And I'd like to apologise for the scare I gave you in our last assignment together. I hope you're not mad at me but I completely understand if you won't forgive me for that.."

- Magister Fyo

“FYO—”

Sylvaine catches her eyes just as she flinches, and a small, almost imperceptible smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“…na!” he finishes smoothly, letting the syllable hang in the air.

He steps a fraction closer, tilting his head, surveying her.

“Well,” he says, voice dipped in mock concern, “I must say… ambitious spells suit you. And you’ve clearly grown since last I saw you.” His eyes drift over her with just enough weight to make her self-conscious.

“But tell me, Fyo-na…” He lets the syllable linger, deliberately casual, “do you always make such a habit of startling others, or am I merely… honored?”

He lets a small laugh escape — soft, teasing — leaning slightly against the nearest railing, arms crossed. “And as for your father,” he adds lightly, half shrugging as if the man barely exists, “don’t worry about it. He’s… not exactly a challenge. I handled it. No harm done. You can leave the theatrics to him.”

She's heard the 'horror' stories about him from friends and classmates. Regaling his horrendous dating streak, his lack of magical competency beyond bare minimums and now this.. attitude towards her? She couldn't believe she had managed to tolerate him that long during their only assignment together- Sylvaine would witness her doeful expression slowly morph into something more.. aversive, repulsed even. Unfortunately for him, Fyona spots the last person he wants to deal with ever and calls out like an alarm,

“Wait— no, that’s not—” He lifts a hand quickly, too quickly, palm out in a placating gesture as he steps back, putting deliberate space between them.

His eyes flick down the hallway, then back to her. “Fyona, lower your voice.”

“I wasn’t making moves,” he says, fast and controlled, like he’s talking down a volatile spell.

Mid-sentence, he catches himself — straightens his spine, drops his raised hand, deliberately schools his expression into something neutral. Arms fold behind his back.

“I was speaking academically. That’s it. You don’t need to involve anyone else.”

Another glance toward the onlookers. Gods, they’re watching.

“Sylvaine…admiring the new paintings?”

Serena’s voice is saccharine, punctuated with a smirk. She places a hand on Sylvaine’s shoulder. From a distance, it looks flirtatious. Up close, you’d notice her nails digging into his shirt.

“I know the artwork is lovely. But from someone whose family patronizes several museums…the usual rule is to look and not touch.”

She laughs. Her speech is loud enough to make most of the onlookers go back to their business. Before she moves away, she hisses in his ear:

“Keep your hands and eyes off of her, freak.”

For a moment—just a moment—he considers denying it again. Laughing it off. Reclaiming the narrative with something casual and effortless.

But Serena’s nails are still biting through fabric into his shoulder, and the hallway is watching. This scene doesn’t belong to him anymore—if it ever did.

He exhales.

“Tea,” he repeats, the word catching slightly.

(Tea? And spend half an afternoon bracing against thinly veiled insults and sugared barbs, smiling through it like he’s meant to be grateful for the invitation? No. He’ll apologize here and now and be on his way with what’s left of his dignity.)

Then, with careful restraint, he lifts Serena’s hand from his shoulder. “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

His gaze flickers—too quick—to Fyona, then away again.

“…and I wasn’t making moves,” he adds, quieter now, the edge gone from his voice. “Contrary to—” a brief glance down the hallway, at the watching—“popular assumption.”

His jaw tightens, then eases.

“I apologize,” he says, more deliberately this time. “If I made you uncomfortable. That wasn’t my intention.”

The words sit stiffly on him. Practiced politeness, but thinner than usual—stripped of its usual smug ease.

“…I’m aware I don’t have the benefit of the doubt here.”

Another glance—brief, restrained—toward Serena.

“I’ll leave you to your tea.”

A shallow incline of his head—first to Serena, measured and careful, then to Fyona, quicker, quieter.

“Enjoy your afternoon.”

He steps back.

A timid feminine voice calls out to him as she walks up to Sylvaine by the sofas at the end of the Lecture Hallway by the staircase,

"It's me, Fyo.. na. I know I look quite different since we last met. My biggest transfiguration spell yet was successful. But I thought I'd drop by, uhm.. how have you been lately?" She shuffles awkwardly in-place, fidgeting with her gloved fingers. The noble sanguine prodigy meets his gaze with that familiar meekness.

"And I'd like to apologise for the scare I gave you in our last assignment together. I hope you're not mad at me but I completely understand if you won't forgive me for that.."

- Magister Fyo

“FYO—”

Sylvaine catches her eyes just as she flinches, and a small, almost imperceptible smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“…na!” he finishes smoothly, letting the syllable hang in the air.

He steps a fraction closer, tilting his head, surveying her.

“Well,” he says, voice dipped in mock concern, “I must say… ambitious spells suit you. And you’ve clearly grown since last I saw you.” His eyes drift over her with just enough weight to make her self-conscious.

“But tell me, Fyo-na…” He lets the syllable linger, deliberately casual, “do you always make such a habit of startling others, or am I merely… honored?”

He lets a small laugh escape — soft, teasing — leaning slightly against the nearest railing, arms crossed. “And as for your father,” he adds lightly, half shrugging as if the man barely exists, “don’t worry about it. He’s… not exactly a challenge. I handled it. No harm done. You can leave the theatrics to him.”

She's heard the 'horror' stories about him from friends and classmates. Regaling his horrendous dating streak, his lack of magical competency beyond bare minimums and now this.. attitude towards her? She couldn't believe she had managed to tolerate him that long during their only assignment together- Sylvaine would witness her doeful expression slowly morph into something more.. aversive, repulsed even. Unfortunately for him, Fyona spots the last person he wants to deal with ever and calls out like an alarm,

“Wait— no, that’s not—” He lifts a hand quickly, too quickly, palm out in a placating gesture as he steps back, putting deliberate space between them.

His eyes flick down the hallway, then back to her. “Fyona, lower your voice.”

“I wasn’t making moves,” he says, fast and controlled, like he’s talking down a volatile spell.

Mid-sentence, he catches himself — straightens his spine, drops his raised hand, deliberately schools his expression into something neutral. Arms fold behind his back.

“I was speaking academically. That’s it. You don’t need to involve anyone else.”

Another glance toward the onlookers. Gods, they’re watching.

A timid feminine voice calls out to him as she walks up to Sylvaine by the sofas at the end of the Lecture Hallway by the staircase,

"It's me, Fyo.. na. I know I look quite different since we last met. My biggest transfiguration spell yet was successful. But I thought I'd drop by, uhm.. how have you been lately?" She shuffles awkwardly in-place, fidgeting with her gloved fingers. The noble sanguine prodigy meets his gaze with that familiar meekness.

"And I'd like to apologise for the scare I gave you in our last assignment together. I hope you're not mad at me but I completely understand if you won't forgive me for that.."

- Magister Fyo

“FYO—”

Sylvaine catches her eyes just as she flinches, and a small, almost imperceptible smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“…na!” he finishes smoothly, letting the syllable hang in the air.

He steps a fraction closer, tilting his head, surveying her.

“Well,” he says, voice dipped in mock concern, “I must say… ambitious spells suit you. And you’ve clearly grown since last I saw you.” His eyes drift over her with just enough weight to make her self-conscious.

“But tell me, Fyo-na…” He lets the syllable linger, deliberately casual, “do you always make such a habit of startling others, or am I merely… honored?”

He lets a small laugh escape — soft, teasing — leaning slightly against the nearest railing, arms crossed. “And as for your father,” he adds lightly, half shrugging as if the man barely exists, “don’t worry about it. He’s… not exactly a challenge. I handled it. No harm done. You can leave the theatrics to him.”

She's heard the 'horror' stories about him from friends and classmates. Regaling his horrendous dating streak, his lack of magical competency beyond bare minimums and now this.. attitude towards her? She couldn't believe she had managed to tolerate him that long during their only assignment together- Sylvaine would witness her doeful expression slowly morph into something more.. aversive, repulsed even. Unfortunately for him, Fyona spots the last person he wants to deal with ever and calls out like an alarm,