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He wasn't supposed to be carrying her.
In fact, he wasn't supposed to be carrying anyone.
He was supposed to have a bad leg—injured from the war, don't ask. Most times, Professor Conrad Dietrich couldn't be seen without his walking cane.
They say that inside the cane's pommel, if you pried the jaws of the crow's head open, there was a vial of poison that could kill a man with a single drop in his tea. And Professor Conrad liked his tea.
They say there's a sword hidden in that cane, slim, sharp, and quiet as a whisper when drawn in the shadows.
They say the crow's red eyes gleamed red if you caught the professor in one of his moods.
But he was always in one of those moods.
Tonight was no different.
Just as he was about to end his security patrol around the academy's perimeter—a faculty duty he insisted on keeping despite his leg—he noticed the lamps of the academy greenhouse still glowing their warm, golden hue.
He checked his pocketwatch. 2328H.
It was almost midnight.
He was supposed to be done with rounds.
He was supposed to be back in his office.
He was supposed to—
The glass door of the greenhouse swung open, the humid air clinging to his coat as he took in the scene before him. Lamps were still glowing, mana circuits were humming, some semi-sentient trees creaking as if turning around to face him, silently judging him for being there again.
He didn't know why he was there either.
All he knew was that there, slumped over the small writing bench, was Professor Ava Valen.
Her hair spilled like moonlight over her parchment, her ink-stained fingers twitched around her quill, as if even in her dreams, she was still working.
"Valen."
No response.
Only the soft rise and fall of her breathing, the faint sway of the frills on her collar, and that ridiculous monocle still hanging on her face.
"Valen," he said a little louder, walking slowly toward the bench.
"…Just five more minutes… the mana conversion rate is wrong…"
He sighed.
Insufferable. This woman was insufferable.
He didn't even know why she worked so hard. "Licensure," she mentioned to him over tea one time, as if she wasn't already holding three separate certifications on Potioncraft and an honorary seat from the Elyrion Botanical Council.
He reached her at last, muttering as he slid off his coat before draping it around her shoulders. She immediately leaned into the warmth, curling around it, the tiniest sigh escaping her.
Gently, he removed the monocle still hanging on her face, wrapping it in his handkerchief and putting it in his breast pocket for safekeeping.
She barely stirred.
Conrad's jaw tightened, his fingers tensing before curling into a fist. He shifted his weight before he realized—Ah. That. Bad leg. He reached into his coat and retrieved a purple magic card with a crest on it. He tapped the crow's beak to the card, and a muted hum of mana stirred around him, reinforcing his leg.
She was out cold.
He slid her arm across his shoulders for support, but the moment he moved her, she half-consciously fumbled for his cane. She latched on to it like a lifeline.
He froze.
"…Valen," he warned.
She did not care, only half muttered something about keeping it safe as she clutched it close to her chest. The crow head's eyes almost glinted accusingly at him.
The Order's assassins couldn't pry that thing off of him if they tried, yet here she was, clutching it like a damn teddy bear.
Fine. Fine.
He sighed, weary and resigned to his fate, and adjusted her gently onto his back. Her arms looped instinctively around his shoulders, breath warm against his neck. Her fingers curled firmly around his cane, though the rest of her was relaxed.
She really did trust him too much, he thought.
So he carried her out of the greenhouse, through the cobblestone path to her home, steps steady as she murmured every once in a while about potion ratios and over steeping plant roots.
He tried not to wake her.
He only held her a little tighter, like he wasn’t sure he wanted to let go.
