Herbivore Diaries

Leona had been reading the same page for 5 minutes. The book was simple, it was just that Savanaclaw had been too suspicious to ignore.

A group of freshmen burst through the lounge doorway, arguing loudly over a wooden pole and several rolls of cloth. However, the moment they noticed Leona stretched across the sofa, they froze. Usually, they would shout a greeting loud enough to wake the entire dorm. Today, they just disappeared through the back door without another word.

Leona turned a page.

Ruggie had also passed through the lounge several times that morning, always carrying something different: bags of food, ribbon, a wooden crate, then nothing at all - which was somehow the most suspicious trip.

On his next pass, Leona lowered his book.

“Busy?”

Ruggie nearly dropped the bags in his arms. “Me? Nah. Just shopping.”

“For what?”

“Stuff.”

“That answer’s gonna cost you.”

“Put it on my tab.” Ruggie hurried away before Leona could question him further.

Then, several students crept through the back entrance carrying a large rectangular box. It might have been less obvious if a banner hadn’t dropped off the box. The students turned to pick up the banner and saw Leona watching. One of them cleared his throat. “You didn’t see anything.”

“Get out.”

They fled, nearly wedging the box in the doorway.

Leona placed the book over his face. His birthday was today. It would take an idiot not to realise what they were planning, and Leona had no interest in waiting around to see how much noise, property damage, and forced enthusiasm it involved. The easiest solution was to disappear until tomorrow.

He stood, put the book on the table, and headed for the dorm entrance. Ruggie intercepted him in the corridor, a sack over one shoulder and a clipboard tucked under his arm. “Going somewhere?”

“Away.”

“For long?”

Leona looked at him. Ruggie smiled innocently.

“Whatever dumb idea you’ve got,” Leona said, “keep it away from my room.”

Ruggie’s ears perked.

“That wasn’t permission.”

“Wouldn’t dream of misunderstanding you.”

Leona left before Ruggie’s grin could become any more suspicious. And the moment he disappeared through the mirror, Ruggie turned back toward the dorm. “Alright,” he called. “Everybody out.”

After everyone gathered in the lounge area, Ruggie climbed onto a chair and raised his clipboard. “Good news. The Housewarden has personally authorized the birthday celebration. With one condition: Everything stays away from his room. And to keep things organised, this will now be a competitive birthday celebration.”

Jack immediately objected to this interpretation, but by then the competitive spirit had already spread through the crowd.

Ruggie unveiled a point system.

Carrying supplies earned two points. Bringing food earned five. Winning any official birthday challenge earned ten. Preventing property damage earned a five-point bonus, while causing it to lose twenty.

At the bottom of the page, written in larger letters, was an additional rule: paying Ruggie an administrative fee earned fifty bonus points. Ruggie conveniently ignored Jack’s protest again.

“What does the winner get?” someone shouted.

Ruggie spread his arms. “Bragging rights.”

The dorm changed immediately. Students who had been moving decorations together began arguing over ownership of the work. Two second-years seized opposite ends of the largest banner, each claiming the right to hang it because he had carried the more difficult side. Their struggle nearly pulled down a curtain rod before someone remembered the property-damage penalty. 

Nearby, another group unrolled the main birthday slogan.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HOUSEWADEN.

The missing letter produced a brief silence. Then everyone began blaming everyone else. One student attempted to correct the mistake with paint. He used too large a brush, covered half the original word, and continued across the stone behind it until the correction occupied a considerable portion of the wall. The slogan was technically spelled correctly afterward. The wall was not technically supposed to be gold.

While the others argued over whether repainting counted as fixing damage or causing more of it, Ruggie set up a small table near the lounge entrance and began selling betting slips on whoever would finish with the most points. 

The sheets listed odds, names, and several suspiciously specific side bets, including whether the cake would survive the day and how many pieces of furniture would need replacing. Jack confiscated the entire stack as soon as he found it.

Ruggie waited until Jack had walked away. Then he reached beneath the table and produced a second bundle labelled REPLACEMENT BETTING SLIPS.

Once the decorations were finished, or at least reached the point where further work risked collapsing part of the lounge, Ruggie announced the first official event.

They had a decorated dorm, a cake somewhere on the premises, and enough food to feed half the school. What they did not have was Leona. A birthday celebration, Ruggie pointed out, could not properly begin without its birthday boy.

He knew most of Leona’s preferred sleeping locations: the botanical garden, the library balconies, the shade near the Spelldrive field, and several quiet corners around campus that no one else had realised were suitable for napping. However, sending the entire dorm to the same place would only create one enormous, noisy crowd.

At least, that was Ruggie’s official explanation. His actual solution was to divide the students into teams and sell each one a different clue. “Premium clues cost extra,” he said, holding out his hand. “Can’t expect accurate information for free.”

Jack stared at him. “You already charged everyone an administrative fee.”

“That was for the tournament. This is field intelligence.”

So, despite Jack’s objections, the clue fees were paid, and the Savanaclaw hunt began. 

Jack’s team took the sensible approach. They searched the path leading away from the mirror chamber, checked for tracks, and followed the faint traces of Leona’s scent through the main school building. Their progress was slow but reliable.

The freshmen took the opposite approach. They entered every building they could find and shouted, “HOUSEWARDEN!” into corridors, classrooms, stairwells, and, in one case, directly into an occupied bathroom.

A third group considered themselves more strategic. They began setting traps. The first consisted of a plate of roasted meat left beneath a tree. The second added a pillow. The third included meat, two pillows, a blanket, and a handwritten sign claiming that all afternoon classes had been cancelled. By the fourth attempt, they had built a shaded sleeping enclosure with snacks, cushions, and a fake notice bearing Crowley’s forged signature.

Leona found that one particularly insulting. He had been sleeping comfortably on a high library balcony when the freshmen’s shouting reached him from below. He moved to the botanical garden, only for Jack’s group to pick up his trail. From there, he relocated to the Spelldrive stands, where he discovered the meat trap waiting in plain sight. So, relocating again before the stupidity could reach him.

Elsewhere, the search began spreading beyond Savanaclaw. Students from other dorms were stopped in corridors and questioned about Leona’s location. With a very pleasant and nice questioning manner and attitude, of course.

By late afternoon, Leona had been driven from six separate sleeping spots. Every time he settled somewhere new, shouting, footsteps, or the rustle of another poorly concealed trap followed soon after.

Eventually, he stopped running. If the entire campus had decided to become unbearable, he might as well return to the one place where he could order everyone to shut up.

He entered the lounge and regretted his decision. The furniture had been pushed against the walls. Decorative streamers marked boundaries across the floor. Two makeshift goals stood at opposite ends of the room, and painted lines divided the carpet into something resembling a playing field. 

The gold wall now read: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HOUSEWARDEN. Someone had underlined it three times.

Leona stood in the doorway and surveyed the transformed lounge. Ruggie appeared beside him with his clipboard. “Welcome back,” he said. “Perfect timing.”

Leona slowly turned his head toward him. “What,” he asked, “did you do to my dorm?”

Before Ruggie could answer, the students surrounded him. And they refused to let Leona leave again until he agreed to judge the birthday exhibition match. 

It was supposed to be a miniature version of Spelldrive, adjusted for indoor safety. No flying, no direct magical attacks, and a strict duration of seven minutes and twenty-seven seconds in honour of Leona’s birthday.

However, despite how a proper Spelldrive match required two teams, Savanaclaw currently had five teams, three substitutes, and several students who insisted they were independent players.

Someone tossed the disc into the centre and the match began. For the first few seconds, it almost resembled Spelldrive. Then a student produced a second disc from behind his back. And before anyone (Jack) could confiscate it, both discs were already moving.

Students charged across the room, shouting over one another as they attempted to pass, block, and steal from several opposing teams at once. Without flying, the match quickly became less like Spelldrive and more like a crowded brawl with sports equipment.

Leona rested his cheek against one fist.

“Foul,” someone shouted.

“On who?”

“I don’t know!”

“Then it doesn’t count!”

A disc bounced off the floor, struck a banner, and became tangled in the hanging fabric. One student immediately grabbed the banner and pulled it down, using it as a curtain to block the other teams. Then chairs became defensive walls. Someone hid beneath the snack table to ambush anyone who passed nearby.

At some point, one of the goals was quietly dragged several feet to the left.

The match had also lost its timekeeper. The student assigned to the stopwatch had joined the match and was now chasing after the 2nd disc. Eventually, one disc struck a chair, bounced off the wall, passed through a curtain of streamers, and dropped into the relocated goal.

Everyone cheered and Ruggie checked the clock. One hour and three minutes had passed.

Still, the winning team was granted the honour of presenting the birthday cake. There was only one problem. The cake was gone. The table where it had supposedly been waiting held nothing except an empty stand, several plates, and a note reading DO NOT EAT.

The lounge fell silent, then everyone began shouting at once.

“Who was guarding it?”

“I thought his team had it!”

“We were playing!”

“Did somebody eat it?”

“No one could eat that much cake!”

Ruggie climbed onto a chair and struck the edge of his clipboard with a pencil. “Emergency event! Five hundred points to whoever finds the cake!”

So, Savanaclaw hunt part 2.

Students overturned cushions, checked beneath tables, opened cupboards, and searched rooms that could not possibly have contained a multi-layer cake. The kitchen was searched three separate times because no one believed the first two teams.

Nothing.

At last, the dorm gathered in the upstairs corridor. Only one room remained.

Leona looked toward his door, then slowly turned to the students behind him.

“No.”

A small group near the back suddenly became fascinated by the floor. Ruggie noticed. “Something you wanna share?”

One student raised his hand halfway. “We might have remembered something.”

Before the match, they explained, they had needed somewhere safe to ‘protect the cake’. The lounge was too crowded, anyone could enter the kitchen, but no one would think of entering Leona’s room.

“So you put it in the one room I told you to stay out of.”

“We were protecting it,” the student said weakly.

Leona pushed open the door. A wooden support shifted beneath it. From somewhere inside came a loud crack.

The students who had hidden the cake went pale. Leona’s desk had apparently been too cluttered to use. They had refused to put the cake on the floor or his bed. So their solution had been to construct a temporary platform from whatever they could have had at the moment. The door had been holding one of the supports in place.

The platform collapsed. For one second, the cake tipped forward but Leona’s magic caught it inches above the floor.

Ruggie raised his clipboard immediately. “And Housewarden Leona completes the final challenge! That makes him the winner of the birthday tournament!”

Before Leona could object, someone placed a crown on his head. Then the dorm began singing. Leona stood in the wreckage of his room, magically supporting the cake while his dorm congratulated themselves around him.

When the song ended, he lowered the cake onto the least unstable remaining surface. Only then did he look at it properly.

The students had apparently been unable to agree on what kind of cake he would like, so they had included everything.

The bottom layer was decorated with an uneven fondant lion. Above that sat a full meat pie poorly disguised as a cake layer. The next tier was covered in expensive imported chocolate, bought - according to Ruggie - from Leona’s own account. At the top was a small cake shaped like a crown. Across the front, in thick gold icing, someone had written:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO THE DORM’S OLDEST THIRD-YEAR

Leona stared at it. The cheering weakened. One student quietly lowered his party horn. Ruggie began edging toward the door.

Leona turned to face the dorm with a smile.

When you walked into Leona’s room balancing a box large enough to block your view, he was on a call with his nephew. Cheka’s voice was loud enough to be heard from the doorway, the little kid was determined to wish his uncle a happy birthday in as many different ways as possible. Leona finally escaped by muttering something about the connection cutting out and hanging up before the boy could launch into another song.

The dorm wasn’t much quieter though. Somewhere down the hall, several Savanaclaw students were arguing over birthday decorations. A crash followed, then a chorus of accusations.

Leona sat on the edge of his bed with several unopened presents at his feet. His brows were drawn together, and his tail flicked against the mattress in a steady, irritated rhythm.

He looked up, then his gaze moved to the enormous box in your arms. “What’s in that?”

You lowered the box to the floor with a dull thud and pushed it to the foot of the bed. “Your birthday gift. What else?”

“Actually,” you added, “gifts. Twenty-one, to be exact.”

Leona’s ears angled back slightly. “You tryin’ to bury me in junk?” Still, he moved aside to clear space for your gifts on his bed. 

You knelt beside the box. When you lifted the lid, rows of smaller packages were revealed inside, each wrapped separately. Leona leaned forward, resting an elbow on his knee as his eyes passed over the collection. “You weren’t kidding.” 

You rested your hands on the edge of the larger box. “You’ve lived twenty years. I wanted to give something to every version of you that made it this far.”

He picked up the box marked with “1”. “Twenty-one gifts,” he murmured. “You’ve got too much time on your hands.”

He hooked one finger beneath the ribbon. “Better be worth it.”

“It is,” you said. “You are.”

He opened the first box and pulled out a soft blanket embroidered with traditional Sunset Savanna patterns. He ran his thumb over the stitching. “This is for a baby.”

“It was meant for you at one.”

“I had better blankets than this.”

“I know. I still wanted to give it to you.”

He gave you a flat look, though he folded it carefully before setting it aside. The second box contained a carved wooden lion family. Two larger lions stood beside two smaller figures. He held the smallest one up to his eye’s level. “Why is this one frowning?” “I thought that was your default facial expression.”

He smacked you with his tail before placing the figures on top of the blanket.

The third gift was an animal puzzle. The fourth was a children’s coloring book filled with savanna animals and landscapes. Leona looked from one to the other. “You expect me to use these?”

“No. They’re for the versions of you who might have.”

“Hmph.” He flipped through the coloring book. “The lions look ridiculous.” 

“They can always be corrected later.”

“I’m not coloring.”

You chuckled. “Of course not. But Cheka might. Maybe you can give these to him later?”

“I’ll think about that.”

The fifth box was heavier. Inside was a chess set, its pieces polished and neatly arranged. Leona picked up the lion-shaped king between two fingers. 

You leaned closer. “Is that like the one you used for your matches with Kifaji?”

“Close enough.” He set the piece back in its place. “His was just a bit more worn.”

“Even if it was new, I’m sure it would be worn in no time. Kifaji said that you demanded him to play chess with you all the time.”

“I couldn’t let that old bird win forever.”

“How many matches did it take?”

“Seventeen.”

“Seventeen?”

“So what? The eighteenth was mine,” he said, his head held high like the victory had happened yesterday.

The sixth gift was an illustrated field guide bound in green cloth, its cover stamped with small golden paw prints. Inside were bright drawings of Sunset Savanna animals, plants, feathers, tracks, and insects. Short notes had been written beside them in your handwriting: where certain birds liked to nest, which flowers opened after rain, how to tell apart different animal paw prints, what to look for when searching for certain insects.

Leona flipped through several pages. “Why does this sound like Hunt?”

You hesitated. “I asked him for a few details.”

“You involved that freak in my birthday present?”

“He knows a lot about animals.”

“You could’ve asked me.”

“That would have ruined the surprise.”

Leona scoffed, but he continued flipping through the guide even as his ears flattened whenever he encountered a particularly dramatic note. “I’m crossing these parts out.”

“That’s why I used pencil.”

The seventh gift was simpler: a black notebook with no title or decoration. Its pages looked ordinary until Leona brushed his thumb across one. The writing sample you had left there disappeared beneath his touch, leaving the paper clean again.

You elbowed his ribs. “I assumed that 7-year-old you already stewed a lot of thoughts inside.”

He flicked your forehead and shut the notebook before setting it beside the field guide, closer to himself than the earlier gifts. 

The eighth package contained a small mechanical puzzle box made from interlocking pieces of dark wood. Fine gold lines ran across its surface, forming a pattern that appeared decorative. Each panel shifted only after another had been aligned correctly, and false mechanisms reset sections of the puzzle if handled carelessly.

Leona worked in silence, turning it in his hands, testing pressure points with the tip of his finger. After 10 minutes, the box opened with a crisp click.

“You made it too easy,” you rolled your eyes.

“I thought that was meant for 8-year-old me? Of course it was easy for me.”

Inside was a small bronze-colored coin. One side bore the image of a lion, the other had a simple crown engraved. He rolled the coin over his knuckles once, before slipping it into the pocket of his trousers. 

The ninth gift was a box of sweets. His eyebrows raised. “Finally. Something useful.”

“They’re for after martial arts training,” you said. “For when nine-year-old you got beaten up and needed cheering up.”

His hand paused over the lid. “I didn’t need sweets to feel better.”

“What did you do instead?”

“Learned where I made the mistake and made sure it didn’t happen again.”

“That sounds healthy and not at all vindictive.”

“It worked.”

You reached for one when he opened the box but he pulled the box out of your reach. Not petty at all, this one.

The tenth gift was the most carefully wrapped so far. When Leona removed the paper, he found a slim collection of copied inscriptions bound between two stone-gray covers. Each page contained a reproduction of an ancient script, followed by a small amount of contextual information. There's a complete translation at the end of the book.

His earlier irritation disappeared. He sat straighter and turned the first page toward the light. “These aren’t all from the Sunset Savanna.”

“No. They’re beginner-level inscriptions from several regions.”

“Beginner-level,” he repeated, offended.

“You were ten.”

“I could have handled more than this at ten.”

“I’m sure you believed that too.”

His eyes moved over the inscription. “Where did you get these?”

You hesitated for half a second, but as always, Leona noticed.

“Who?”

“Lilia.”

The book lowered.

“You keep involving the worst possible people.”

“He has access to very old material.”

“He is very old material.”

You covered a laugh with your hand before leaning against his shoulder while he skimmed through the inscription. This way you had better access to the sweet box too. What a coincidence.

The eleventh gift was a book on resource management in arid countries. It was a serious-looking volume, bound in weathered brown leather and thick enough to require both hands. Maps, irrigation diagrams, trade routes, mineral surveys, and case studies filled the pages. Several sections had been marked with thin slips of paper.

Leona glanced at the title, then at you. “You’re giving an eleven-year-old economic policy?”

“You’re telling me you didn’t dig through the royal library for these types of books at 11?”

He opened the book and skimmed one of the marked chapters. It described a kingdom that had improved rural water access by combining underground reservoirs with seasonal flood channels.

“At least you know your audience.”

The twelfth gift was more narrow than the others. Inside was a high-quality fountain pen, its body made from dark wood with gold detailing around the grip. Leona rolled it between his fingers. Then he removed the cap and tested the nib against the corner of an old envelope. The ink came out in one clean, dark stroke. “Acceptable.”

Coming from him, it sounded almost extravagant.

The thirteenth gift was the only one that hadn’t been wrapped completely. A small potted plant sat between your hands, its thick green leaves edged with pale silver. A few grains of soil had spilled onto the wrapping despite your attempts to keep it upright.

“This one needs very little water,” you placed it in his hands. “It likes sunlight and being left alone, so I thought you two would get along.”

His eyes narrowed. “Funny.”

“I thought so.”

The pot looked unusually small between his palms. One leaf had folded beneath the paper, and Leona carefully eased it upright with the side of his hand.

“My 13-year-old self would hate this gift.”

“I thought so, again. Still, I trust it in your hands, despite however your 13-year-old self thought your hands could do.”

He looked away from you and carried the plant to the windowsill. He moved an unopened present aside, checked where the light fell, then adjusted the pot until the leaves rested fully in the sun.

“There,” he said.

You looked at the space he had cleared for it. “See? I know it will thrive in your hands.”

His tail flicked once. “Keep talking like that,” he muttered as he returned to the bed, “and I’ll let it die out of spite.” But when the curtain shifted against the pot, he reached back and moved the fabric away from its leaves.

The fourteenth gift caught the sunlight before Leona had fully removed it from the box. It was a glass sculpture, clear at the base and gradually darkening into warm gold near the top. A lion emerged from a sweep of windblown glass, its body only partly formed, as though it were stepping out of a sandstorm. The mane dissolved into long, curved strands behind it. He held it up, turning it slightly. The light fractured through the glass and scattered across his hands.

“Yesterday, I watched a very interesting video about how glass is made from sand,” you said.

He placed it beside the plant. The glass catched light and sprinkled it between the leaves.

The fifteenth gift was an atlas of the Sunset Savanna. It was the official one: a broad volume filled with regional maps, borders, rivers, mineral zones, roads, grazing land, and population centres. Then Leona opened it and saw your handwriting fill the margins. The pages were littered with fragmented information he had told you over time.

You said the grass here turns silver before the first storm.

The market in this town sells the spiced meat you like, though you claim the palace cooks make it better.

You once said this region could support twice its population with proper water storage.

Leona stopped turning the pages. “You wrote all this down?”

“You talk more than you think.”

“I don’t.”

“You do when you’re annoyed.”

His gaze returned to the atlas. “You missed one,” he said eventually.

You leaned closer. “Where?”

He pointed to a stretch of land near the south-eastern border. “There’s an old seasonal route here. It hasn’t been used properly in years, but it could connect these two regions.”

You handed him the new pen.

The sixteenth gift was the last in that row. A grimoire case lay inside, made from dark leather reinforced with gold-toned metal at the corners. The interior was lined with soft fabric, with adjustable straps to hold books of different sizes securely. His initials had been engraved on the clasp.

At sixteen, his invitation to Night Raven College had arrived. He had already received the best education the royal family could provide. He already knew more about magic than many adult mages. There had been no reason, in his mind, to leave for a school that could offer him nothing new.

Still, this was for the boy standing at the edge of a future he couldn’t yet see, carrying knowledge that belonged to him even when every title around him was defined by someone else.

The seventeenth gift was a travel case. It was compact enough to carry easily but sturdier than an ordinary school bag, made from dark brown leather with reinforced corners and broad straps. The interior had been divided into practical compartments: one for books, another for folded clothes, narrow pockets for pens and magical tools.

He tested the bottom and found the hidden latch. You held up the enchanted notebook. “Oh wow, what a surprise. A secret compartment for your secret journal.” “This is too obvious.”

“It took me three attempts to find it after the craftsman demonstrated it.”

“That says more about you than the case.”

Leona set the case beside the grimoire holder. “At least this one can carry the rest of the junk,” he said.

“You like the junk.”

“Keep dreaming.”

The eighteenth present was a rolled sheet of thick parchment secured with a leather tie. When Leona opened it, a full Spelldrive field spread across the page. The goals, boundary lines, elevation changes, and common player positions had been drawn. Smaller transparent overlays showed different formations, each one marked with movable pieces representing players.

He leaned forward, resting one arm across his knee as he studied the first arrangement. “This formation leaves the left side open.”

“Only if the opposing team commits both defenders to the centre.”

“They would.” He slid one of the markers across the map. “Any decent captain would see the pressure point here and force the attack wide.”

You watched as he moved the pieces across the page, changed the spacing between players, tried different formations… He rolled the map carefully after he finished, though he kept one overlay outside. “I’m testing this at the next practice.”

You smiled. “So you like my junk.”

“I said I’m testing it.”

The nineteenth package was smaller. Inside was a captain’s armband, handmade from dark brown fabric and edged with Savanaclaw gold. The stitching was not perfectly even. One section had clearly been redone after someone pulled the thread too tight. Leona ran his thumb across the embroidered captain symbol. Then he turned it over. The inside was covered in signatures.

Leona’s face gave away very little, but you could see the way his eyes tracked every name. “I’m surprised you can convince all of them to sign this.”

You took the armband and wrapped it loosely around his upper arm, just below the edge of his tattoo. “It took very little convincing. It’s for their reliable housewarden, after all,” you said.

“Hmph.” His fingers passed once over the fabric where the names were hidden underneath. “I can imagine their stupid faces when you asked them that.”

The twentieth gift came in a small black box. Leona opened it and found a signet ring resting against dark velvet. The metal was warm gold, and on the face of the ring, a black lion curved around the surface in the same shape as the tattoo wrapped around his upper arm. Beneath it, almost invisible unless the ring was turned toward the light, were his initials.

Leona lifted the ring from the box and turned it slowly between his fingers. The polished metal caught the room’s light, making the black lion seem to move across its surface.

“You had this made?”

“I designed it.”

“That explains why the proportions are slightly off.”

“They are not.”

“The tail should curve lower.”

You reached for the ring. “Give it back, then.”

His hand closed before you could take it. “I’m feeling accepting today.”

He slid it onto his finger. Then his gaze moved to the gifts surrounding him. The blanket. The carved lions. The puzzles and books. The plant standing in the sunlight. The atlas filled with his own observations. The grimoire case marked with his initials. The travel case, the tactic map, the armband signed by the dorm that had placed its hope in him.

Twenty versions of Leona Kingscholar, gathered together in one room.

“So, twenty gifts for twenty years.” Leona’s tail curled around your waist. “You said there were twenty-one though.”

You reached into your pocket and pulled out a velvet pouch. Leona watched as you loosened the cord and tipped a single brass key into your palm.

He stared at it.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

He took the key from you, turning it once between his fingers. It was old, slightly tarnished, and unmistakably ordinary compared to the other gifts. “What does it open?”

“Ramshackle.” You reached out and moved the tip of your finger slowly over the worn teeth of the key. “You already steal my bed, complain about the furniture, and treat the lounge like your private nap room. I thought you might as well have your own key.”

You pulled back and looked into his eyes. “Not just Ramshackle though. Whatever happens next, I hope you know that you’ll always have a place with me.”

The noise in the hallway seemed farther away now. His tail, which had been resting loosely around your waist, tightened just slightly.

Leona closed his fingers around the key. “I’ll show up whenever I want.”

“You already do.”

“I could stay for days.”

“You already do that too.”

“I might move my things in.”

You glanced around at the twenty gifts surrounding him. “Apparently, you have luggage now.”

Your gaze had just been turned back towards him when his arm hooked around your waist and pulled you against him. You landed partly across his lap, one hand braced against his chest. He pressed his face briefly into the side of your neck, hiding his expression. His ears brushed your hair, and his grip stayed firm around your waist.

The key remained secure in his other hand. “You better not give anyone else one,” he murmured.

You smiled against his shoulder. “Possessive.”

“Answer me.”

“No one else.”

“Hmph. Good.”

He pulled back, then kissed you. It was unhurried, warm, and far gentler compared to the way his arms trapped you against him. You felt like he was taking every word you had said, every breath you let out. He kissed you until the room, the hallway, and the twenty opened gifts around you blurred into irrelevance. Until the only things you could feel were the way his hand grasp at your shirt, the warmth of his skin underneath your hand, the soft tickle of his breath beneath your nose, the thud of your combined heartbeat.

When he finally pulled back, it was only far enough for you to breathe. You glanced down at his closed hand. “So you like the gift?”

Leona opened his fingers. The key lay across his palm beneath the signet ring, plain brass against gold. He looked at it once, then closed his hand around it again. “Try keeping me out,” he murmured, his nose brushing yours as he leaned close again.

You smiled against his mouth. “I wasn’t planning to.”

“Hmph. Smart.”

Previous chapter <- -> Next chapter

Jamil opened his eyes to the sight of the tent’s canvas roof, with the pale light of dawn seeping through and the smell of dust, ash, and medicinal herbs in the air. He stayed still and started listening, a habit he’d picked up from the mornings at the inns. To count footsteps outside the doors and decide whether the voices beyond them were drunk, curious, or dangerous. This morning, he could only hear carefree chatting, some muttered curse, a few jokes and a lot of laughter.

He pushed himself upright and checked his bag (again, out of habit). Knife. Coins. Spare clothes. Dried food. Water flask. Needle. Thread. Bandage. Medicine. Nothing missing. Of course. He knew that if Ruggie had wanted to rob him, he would have woken up with less than his boots.

He stepped outside. The basin was caught between night and day, shadows still pooled beneath canvas shades while the ridge above them began to catch gold. The camp looked more orderly in daylight: survey poles stacked near the rocks, sample bags sealed and labeled, communication rods fixed in their anchors, medical supplies stored beneath an awning, water barrels gathered near the cooking area.

Jamil stood at the edge of the basin and let his eyes move. And by the time Ruggie found him, Jamil had already reached the map table and marked three flaws in pencil.

Ruggie stopped beside him with dried meat in one hand. He looked at the map, then at Jamil. “Wow,” he said. “Good morning to you too.”

Jamil didn’t look up. “Your eastern evacuation route crosses loose sediment.”

Ruggie paused. “Does it?”

“Yes.” Jamil tapped the map. “It may hold for a few people. Not for a group running during a mana surge or attack.”

“That sounds bad.”

“It is.”

“Great. Love that.”

“Your communication rods are clustered too close together. One disruption at the center could cut off both the ridge team and outer patrols. And your medical supplies are stored beside equipment that could become hazardous in a fire or magical backlash.”

Ruggie stared at him.

Jamil finally looked up. “What?”

“I was wondering if you usually start conversations by telling people they’re one accident away from dying.”

“Only when they are.”

“Fun habit.” Ruggie took a bite of dried meat. “You eat yet?”

“No.” Jamil returned to the map. “The western path should be marked as the primary evacuation route. Split the medical supplies into three caches. Move two rods to higher ground. And someone needs to watch the northern slope during guard change.”

Ruggie’s chewing slowed. “You got all that from standing outside for, what, five minutes?”

“It’s basic observation.”

“Sure.” Ruggie leaned against the table. “Just because we agreed on field coordinator last night doesn’t mean you have to become a safety inspection nightmare before breakfast. Good grief, you’re reminding me of Riddle.”

Jamil ignored his jab. “These are preventable risks.”

“Uh-huh.” Ruggie studied him. “You planning to breathe at some point, or is that scheduled after you reorganize the entire camp?”

Jamil’s expression cooled. “If you would rather I stop, say so.”

“There it is.”

“What?”

“That all-or-nothing thing.” Ruggie pointed the half-eaten piece of dried meat at him. “Real annoying.”

Jamil folded the map in half. “I am correcting preventable risks. If that offends you, I can return to being useless.”

Ruggie’s ears angled back slightly, but his grin didn’t disappear. “See, nobody said useless.”

“You implied it.”

“No, I was about to say breakfast.” Ruggie tossed the remaining meat into his mouth. “But sure, fight the version of me in your head. He sounds like a jerk.”

Jamil looked away. He closed his eyes and reminded himself that no one here had asked him to earn the water, the blanket, or the temporary safety of the basin. But the feeling persisted. Usefulness told him where to stand, what to notice, what to prevent. Much easier than waiting for someone else to decide whether he belonged.

“The northern slope still needs a watcher,” he muttered.

Ruggie sighed. “You really don’t know when to stop, huh?”

“I know exactly when to stop.”

“Yeah? When?”

“When the work is done.”

Ruggie looked from the map to the camp. “Bad news, Viper. Work’s never done.”

Then, after a moment, Ruggie pushed off the table. “Fine. Show me.”

Jamil paused. “Show you what?”

“All the ways we’re apparently gonna die before lunch.” Ruggie jerked his chin toward the camp. “I have a feeling that you’re not gonna shut up about it anyway.”

Jamil let out a sigh, then opened the map again. “We should begin with the evacuation route.”

“Of course we should,” Ruggie muttered. “Seven forbid I eat sitting down.”

“You can eat while walking.”

“Wow. You and Leona really did go to the same school of ruining my day.”

“Just this time, I’ll consider it a compliment.”

—

They began with the western path.

Ruggie trailed after Jamil with the air of someone being dragged to class against his will, though his eyes missed very little. Meanwhile, Jamil walked the edge of the basin, map in one hand, his gaze moving from the slope to the tents to the marked ridge beyond.

“The western path is wider,” Jamil said. “Less direct, but safer. If the camp needs to evacuate quickly, people can move in pairs without crowding.”

“Sounds nice. Shame it looks like nobody uses it.”

“That is why it should be cleared.” Jamil crouched near the ground. The sand here was packed hard with gravel underneath, not soft enough to swallow weight, not loose enough to break under pressure. Good. Not perfect, but good enough.

He stood again. “This should be marked before the next survey team leaves.”

“Mm-hm.” Ruggie glanced toward the camp. “You planning to tell them that?”

“I assumed that was why you asked me to show you.”

“Sure.” Ruggie’s grin widened. “I just like watching people react.”

Jamil gave him a flat look. “How charming.”

By the time they returned to the center of camp, more people had gathered. The morning had sharpened into full light, turning the basin gold and harsh around the edges. Researchers moved between crates and sample bags. A healer was grinding dried herbs in a small bowl. Two guards adjusted the straps of their gear while speaking with one of the local guides, a broad woman with sun-browned arms and a scarf tied over her hair.

Ruggie clapped his hands once. “Good news. Our new field coordinator thinks we’re all gonna die.”

Several heads turned and Jamil closed his eyes briefly. “Ruggie.”

“What? Concise and still deliver the sentiment.”

The guide raised an eyebrow. “Field coordinator?”

One of the researchers, a thin man with ink smudged across his fingers, looked from Jamil to the map in his hand. “Is there a problem?”

“Several,” Jamil replied before he could stop himself.

Ruggie’s ears twitched, the amusement radiating off him.

Jamil unfolded the map on the nearest crate. “Your western path should be marked as the primary evacuation route. The eastern one is faster, but the ground beneath it is unstable. Your communication rods are clustered too close to the supply center, which creates a single point of failure. Your medical supplies should be divided into separate caches, not stored beside volatile equipment. And the northern slope is unwatched during guard change.”

Silence followed, for a full minute. Then, the guide crossed her arms. “We have used the eastern path for months.”

“I am aware.”

“Then you should also be aware that it has held for months.”

“For normal movement,” Jamil said. “Not for a panicked evacuation. Not during a mana fluctuation. Not with people carrying equipment.”

One of the guards frowned. “The western path is slower.”

“Slower is preferable to collapsing.”

The researcher with ink-stained fingers leaned over the map. “We tested the eastern path when we established camp.”

“When?”

“A few months ago.”

“Before or after the last wind shift changed the slope?”

The man’s mouth closed. Jamil pointed to the ridge line. “The surface is packed, but the sediment beneath is fractured. You can see it from the exposed edge near the lower bend.”

The guide’s gaze sharpened, just briefly, but Jamil still caught it. “We know this land, boy,” she said.

The words struck harder than they should have. Jamil was suddenly reminded of the many times he had heard them before in different forms, from different mouths. 

“You see stone. We see where the wind breaks before reaching the houses.”

“Careful, traveler.”

For a moment, the camp disappeared behind memory: dyed cloth shifting in the heat, old looms creaking, a ridge full of metal no one wanted to touch. His own voice, too sharp, too certain, laying out improvements to people who hadn’t asked for them. Their faces closing one by one as his presence had become an insult. He had told himself he wouldn’t make that mistake again. 

The guide continued, voice measured. “I appreciate the concern. But this camp has functioned without major incident. We can’t move half our layout because someone who arrived last night saw a possibility.”

Jamil straightened slowly and folded the map. “Of course, you know the terrain better than I do. I overstepped.”

He turned away from the crate before anyone could answer and moved toward the equipment awning. Ruggie caught up beside him after a few steps. “That was fast.”

“What was?”

“You backing off.”

“They rejected the recommendation.”

“Yeah, people do that when they don’t like being told their camp is a death trap before breakfast.”

“Then pressing the matter would have been counterproductive.” Jamil stopped near the shade of the awning and began checking the nearest crate, more to give his hands something to do. “If they have used the eastern path for months, they may continue using it.”

Ruggie watched him for a moment, then he gave a small shrug. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess so.”

—

For the next hour, he kept his comments to himself.

When one of the researchers carried an overloaded case toward the ridge, Jamil noticed the uneven latch and said nothing. When the healer left all the burn salves in the same kit instead of dividing them between stations, he said nothing. When the guard change at the northern slope stretched too long because one of them stopped to joke with the cook, Jamil looked away.

He reminded himself that he had only been invited into the camp for one night, one meal and his job as field coordinator was only agreed on by Ruggie. That wasn’t the same thing as belonging. So he held his tongue.

It lasted until the eastern path gave way.

First there was a dry crack, then a sliding hiss of sand. Then someone shouted.

Two workers had been carrying a crate of stone samples along the eastern bend, taking the shorter route from the lower survey point back toward the camp. The first had already crossed the narrowest section. The second hadn’t as the packed surface broke beneath his heel. Then the slope peeled away in a sheet of sand and gravel.

The crate slammed down and split open. Sample bags spilled across the path. The worker fell hard, caught himself with one hand, and slid toward the ravine edge.

“Stay still!” Magic gathered in Jamil’s hand as a thin line of force struck the ground below the man’s boots to compact the loosened sediment into a temporary brace. The slide slowed. Still, the worker froze halfway down the broken path, one leg buried to the shin, both hands clawing uselessly at the crumbling ground.

Jamil reached the edge and dropped to one knee. “Don’t move.” Then he braced one foot against a firmer rock and extended his hand. “Give me your left hand. Slowly.”

The worker extended his hand, Jamil caught his wrist and pulled. However, the ground shifted again. Jamil was about to cast another spell when Ruggie appeared at his side. “Need a hand?”

“His belt,” Jamil said. “Stay behind the dark line. Anything past it is loose.”

“Got it.”

Ruggie dropped low, hooked one hand into the back of the worker’s belt, and planted his feet exactly where Jamil had indicated.

“On three,” Jamil said. “One. Two. Now.”

They pulled together. The worker came free with a rough gasp, boots scraping over gravel as they dragged him back onto solid ground. A second later, the rest of the eastern bend collapsed, spilling sand, stone, and the broken crate into the ravine below.

For a moment, no one spoke. Then the worker let out a shaky breath and clutched his ankle. The healer rushed forward with a kit. Jamil helped move the injured worker to the tents while feeling the entire camp’s gaze on him.

Ruggie crouched down near the broken slope, checking the ground with one hand. “West route, then?”

The guide turned her gaze from Jamil to the collapsed path. Then she exhaled. “West route.”

She approached Jamil, her eyes went once to the broken slope before returning to him. “Earlier,” she said, “you mentioned the western route.”

Jamil turned to her. “Yes.”

“Show me.”

They walked together towards the western edge of the basin. The guide crouched down and scraped aside the top layer of sand with two fingers, testing the gravel beneath. “Ground’s firmer here. Turn’s bad for carts.”

“For stretchers too,” Jamil said.

She followed his gaze to the bend, then stood. “Dust rises there after noon.”

“Then markers before the turn.”

She nodded and called for stakes.

That became the pattern.

At the medical awning, the healer had already sorted everything into sealed rolls and labeled cases, each bundle tight against dust. Jamil looked from the supplies to the ridge, then toward the west exit.

The healer noticed. “Placement?”

“If the center is blocked, so are the supplies.”

She was quiet for a second, then pulled two empty cases from under the table. “Ridge and west exit.”

Near the communication rods, one researcher adjusted the crystal casing while another checked the barrier range against his notes. Jamil watched the needle twitch on the dial.

“It only spikes if the output is pushed past normal survey range,” the researcher said.

Jamil looked toward the broken eastern bend.

The researcher’s mouth tightened. “Right.”

The rod was moved upslope.

By midday, the western path had been cleared. By late afternoon, the supplies were split between three stations, the rods spaced farther apart, and the guard change no longer left both men facing inward.

However, Jamil wasn’t satisfied. Jamil noticed the marker before the bend still leaned too far into shadow. Then he noticed the cache labels were inconsistent. He fixed one thing, then noticed the next, rinse and repeat.

By the time the camp went quiet, Jamil was still at the map table. The lantern hissed beside him, turning the paper yellow. Red marked unstable ground. Blue marked water traces. Black marked stone density. Notes from older surveys crowded the margins in several different hands. His eyes burned but he still dipped the pencil again.

“Wow.” Ruggie’s voice came from the other side of the table, rough with sleep. “You trying to defeat the map?”

“I am updating the hazard zones.”

“At midnight.”

“The eastern collapse changed the risk pattern.”

“Will it collapse again tonight?”

“No.”

“Then it can wait.” Ruggie plucked the pencil out of Jamil’s grasp then looked into his eyes. “Viper, nobody’s kicking you out tonight.”

Jamil averted his gaze. “That is not what this is.”

“Honestly, I don’t care what this means to you. But at this rate, you’re very likely to collapse yourself tomorrow and that’s annoying.” Ruggie folded the map and weighed it down with a stone. “I’d prefer you last longer than a few days.”

Previous chapter <- -> Next chapter

Ruggie stayed crouched on the ridge, one arm resting over his knee, tail flicking lazily behind him. His grin was bright, but it did not reach his eyes.

“Well, well,” he said. “That really is you. Funny place for you to be wandering around alone, Viper. Especially with all the stories people have been telling.”

Jamil did not move his hand away from the knife beneath his cloak.

“Bucchi,” he said evenly. “If you came to collect a bounty, you’re wasting your time.”

“A bounty?” Ruggie pressed a hand to his chest. “Wow. A guy sees an old classmate in the middle of nowhere and suddenly he’s a bounty hunter?”

“You are a bounty hunter?”

“Nah. Too much paperwork.” Ruggie laughed under his breath, then hopped down from the ridge. He landed several paces away, just close enough to speak without raising his voice. Jamil stood firm where he was, though he lowered his stance, eyes tracking Ruggie’s every movement.

“So,” Ruggie said, dusting off his hands. “You’re alive.”

“A keen observation.”

“And alone.”

“Another one.”

“And not exactly traveling with royal guards, Asim retainers, or anyone who looks like they’re here to make your life easier.” Ruggie’s gaze swept over Jamil’s worn cloak, the dust on his boots, the bag strap cutting into his shoulder. “Which is weird, because last I heard, Kalim Al-Asim would probably buy half the Savanna if someone told him it’d help you sleep better.”

Jamil’s jaw tightened. “Kalim has nothing to do with this.”

“Sure. Rich heirs are famous for having nothing to do with things. Especially things involving their personal attendants, foreign delegations, dead princes, and quiet little political disasters.”

For a moment, neither spoke. But their eyes spoke more than words ever could. Jamil could feel Ruggie’s eyes dragging over him, trying to dig up everything he could. Injuries, supplies, fatigue, direction of travel, willingness to lie. And he was sure Ruggie could feel the same from him.

Then Ruggie said, “I’ve been asking around.”

“I assumed.”

“Merchants. Guides. People who work the roads. People who sleep under them. Folks near the capital, folks far enough away that officials forget they have ears. You know how it is. People love talking when they think what they know is worth something.”

“And what did you buy?”

“A headache.”

“How tragic.”

“Yeah, my heart’s breaking. Anyway, none of it lines up.” Ruggie began counting on his fingers. “The palace says magical disaster. Some guards say storm. One caravan swears there were monsters. A village healer heard the prince was murdered. Two traders said you were executed already, which, gotta admit, made seeing you pretty confusing.”

“I apologize for the inconvenience.”

“Don’t worry, I recovered.”

“I’m relieved.”

“And then there’s the part where nobody can explain why a servant from the Scalding Sands would murder Leona Kingscholar in the middle of a diplomatic trip, fail to produce a body, somehow survive the same disaster, get spared by the royal court, and then get dumped at the border instead of quietly disappearing into a cell.” Ruggie’s eyes locked onto him. “Messy story, right?”

“You seem to have gathered a great deal already,” Jamil’s face remained still. “Why bother asking me?”

“I know gossip. I want the truth.”

“From me?”

“Unless Leona feels like crawling out of the sand to explain it himself.”

“And why should I tell you?”

“Because I know a route west that avoids the next three villages currently arguing whether you’re a murderer, a spy, or both.” Ruggie lifted one finger. “I also have food.” Another finger. “And a place with four walls, which is better than your current plan in a dry riverbed.”

Jamil looked toward the road behind him, then back at Ruggie. He didn’t trust him. That much was obvious. But Ruggie hadn’t brought guards. He had not attacked from the ridge. At least that meant his life wasn’t in immediate danger.

Jamil closed his eyes briefly. “Your salesmanship is appalling.”

“Been told that. Usually by Leona, so hey, you two finally agree on something.” Then Ruggie jerked his chin toward the ridge. “There’s an old storage hut nearby. Bad roof, decent walls. I stashed supplies there.”

Jamil waited another moment before stepping forward, keeping several paces between them. “Lead the way,” he said. “Slowly.”

—

The path curved through a dry cut in the hills before opening into a hidden basin. At first glance, it looked like a caravan stop: canvas shades, low fires, people seated on crates with cups in hand, talking and laughing over the heat.

Ruggie slipped into the group like he belonged there, greeting people by name, swiping a piece of flatbread from one woman’s plate and dodging her half-hearted smack without looking.

“Ruggie,” she scolded.

“What? I’m testing for poison. Very noble work.” Ruggie shrugged, already taking a strip of dried meat from someone else’s bowl. “And I was gonna return it after digestion.”

“Try it again and I’ll return your fingers.”

“See?” Ruggie told Jamil brightly. “Hospitality.”

Jamil’s expression stayed flat. “Remarkable.”

Looking around, Jamil could spot survey poles leaned against a stone wall, numbered flags marked sections of the ridge, a folding table with maps covered in colored lines. Nearby were helmets, harnesses, reinforced gloves, sealed sample bags, medical kits, communication rods, and compact instruments meant for stone testing.

So they were researchers, with support staff. Medical care, logistics, security, communications, local guides. Pretty organized team, he had to admit.

Ruggie turned back after greeting half the camp by name. “Everyone, this is Jamil. Friend of Prince Leona’s from school.”

Several faces turned toward Jamil at once. Some curious, some polite, some measuring. None openly hostile. That was almost more unsettling.

A broad-shouldered woman with sun-kissed skin and a bandage wrapped around one wrist raised her cup. “Any friend of His Highness is welcome. You picked a rough road to visit, though.”

“So I have noticed,” Jamil nodded.

“He always this formal?” someone muttered.

Ruggie leaned in with a shake of his head. “You should’ve seen him at school. Real cheerful type. Practically sunshine.”

Jamil glared at him. “And you were known for your honesty.”

Ruggie clutched his chest. “See? He jokes.”

That earned a few laughs. Jamil accepted the cup of water someone handed him, thanked them properly, and let the first wave of introductions pass over him. Names, roles, jokes, complaints about equipment, complaints about weather, complaints about Ruggie, which seemed to be the camp’s most reliable social glue.

The conversation around him filled in what Ruggie didn’t. Groundwater impact. Extraction limits. Heat conversion. Local consent. Restoration schedules. Ore quality. Safety margins.

Ruggie appeared beside him, rocking on his heels. “You’re making that face.”

“What face?”

“The one smart people make before they get annoying.”

“This is not a storage hut.”

“Sure it is. They store things here.”

Jamil ignored him. “This is geological research. Possibly connected to energy infrastructure. Though the markings on the ridge are too restrained for extraction. So this is preliminary research.”

“Looks that way.”

“So how is Leona’s name thrown around here?”

Jamil looked back at the camp. The old looms in the village. The exposed mineral veins no one touched. The broken water channels. The stubborn pride dressed up as balance. His own anger, carried for days like a blade because it was easier than fear.

Leona, who had been born with authority and had seemed to do nothing with it.

Leona, who had complained about this country’s wasted resources.

Leona, who had apparently been quietly funding or arranging a research operation in the exact field Jamil had spent days cursing him for neglecting.

Finally, Ruggie said, “Sustainable mining and energy research. They’ve been at it for months.”

“Months,” Jamil repeated.

“Yeah. Leona had people scouting sites before the diplomatic visit ever got announced.” Ruggie scratched behind one ear. “Quietly. Because say ‘mining’ too loudly around here and half the room starts acting like you kicked their ancestors.”

Jamil’s mouth tightened. “I have noticed.”

“Bet you made lots of friends.”

Jamil ignored him and turned his gaze toward the maps. “So the Scalding Sands delegation?”

“Well, you know what they claimed officially. Unofficially, Leona wanted to observe your mining infrastructure. Energy systems. Refinement, transport, how your people handle resources in harsh land without turning everything into a crater.” Ruggie glanced at him. “Wanted to consult the professionals traveling with the delegation too.”

Before Jamil could mull over it, Ruggie jerked his chin toward the fire. “Come on. Eat before you pass out and make me look bad.”

“I would hate to damage your reputation.”

“My reputation is carefully maintained garbage. Don’t mess with it.”

Jamil followed, still watching every hand and exit. But as he sat at the edge of the gathering, he looked once more at the marked maps and survey flags. This new information didn’t change the trial. They didn’t give Jamil back his name, his papers, his home, his life. They didn’t undo the cliff or the storm or the fact that Jamil was still the one left standing under suspicion.

But now he had one thing less to blame.

—

By night, the camp had quieted. The fires had burned lower, turning the basin into a scatter of dull orange light and long shadows. Most of the researchers had retreated into tents or bedrolls. The guards rotated at the edge of camp. Somewhere near the equipment crates, a communication rod hummed softly in standby.

Jamil sat apart from the others, back against a sun-warmed stone, a cup of tea cooling between his hands. Ruggie dropped down beside him without asking.

Jamil glanced at him. “Do people in this camp not understand personal space?”

“They do.” Ruggie stretched his legs out. “I ignore it.”

Then Ruggie tossed a pebble into the dark. “Remember Fleur City?”

Jamil’s eyes shifted toward him. “That is an abrupt subject change.”

“I was gonna ask about your exile and possible murder charge, but I figured I’d start polite.”

“How considerate.”

“I’m growing as a person.”

“Condolences.”

Ruggie laughed under his breath.

The silence eased, barely. They talked about school. About Fleur City. About how they had crossed paths more than once and still never really spoken beyond necessity. “You and I both have our bosses to kiss ass.” Ruggie shrugged.

“I’d prefer calling it our own assigned roles.”

“Yeah.” Ruggie’s voice lost some of its humor. “You had yours. I had mine. Leona had his, even if he acted like his role was sleeping in inconvenient places and making everyone else work.”

“That does sound like him.”

“Oh, he committed to it. Inspirational, really. A prince with the work ethic of a housecat and the attitude of a man who’d personally invented being right.”

Jamil almost smiled. “And yet he organized all this.”

“Yeah.” Ruggie looked toward the dark outline of the survey table. “Annoying, isn’t it?”

“Extremely.”

“He’d show up, complain that everyone was wasting time, point out problems, then solutions, then disappear before anyone could thank him.” Ruggie snorted. “Real generous guy. Made sure helping people was as unpleasant as possible.”

His voice softened. “People here believed in this, you know. Not just the researchers. The guides too. Some locals. Not all of them, obviously. Plenty still think digging one pebble out of the ground means the sky’s gonna fall. But some of them wanted to try.”

Jamil looked toward the marked ridge, barely visible beneath the stars. “Because of Leona?”

“Because of what it could bring.” Ruggie leaned back on his hands. “Better roads. Stable work. Power that doesn’t depend on waiting for some rich foreign family to feel generous. Safer water systems. Maybe enough money staying in the region that kids don’t have to grow up being used to hunger.”

Then Ruggie’s gaze turned back to Jamil. “So. The storm.”

Jamil’s fingers tightened around the cup, then he let out a heavy sigh. “As you probably already guessed, it wasn’t natural. There was some ancient unstable mana pocket buried beneath the terrain until the storm exposed it, or disturbed it.”

Ruggie’s ears angled back slightly. “And the creatures?”

“Real.”

“Great. Love when the worst version is the true one.”

“They were drawn to magic, movement, possibly blood. The smaller ones attacked from the storm cover. The larger one emerged near a cliff edge. We were both exhausted by then. Injured. Low on magic. The terrain was collapsing around us. I could not cast properly anymore.”

“And Leona?”

Jamil inhaled slowly. “He opened an escape route for me. Then turn back to meet the creature head-on. Used King’s Roar on the cliff structure beneath it. The collapse took the creature down.”

“And him,” Ruggie said.

Jamil closed his eyes briefly. “Yes.”

Ruggie’s claws left shallow marks in the dirt beside him. “Idiot,” he muttered.

Jamil looked at him.

Ruggie’s mouth twisted. “What? He was. Big dramatic bastard. Couldn’t even die without making it everyone else’s problem.”

“That is your response?”

“You want crying? Costs extra.”

Jamil deliberately changed the subject. “So now you know, the official record is incomplete.”

“That’s a polite way of saying garbage.”

“It is garbage.”

Ruggie gave him a sideways look. “Wow. Careful. Any more emotion and I’ll think we’re bonding.”

“Do not threaten me.”

“Noted.”

Jamil stared into the fire. “If the truth comes out, it may clear Leona’s actions. It may also clear my name.”

“May,” Ruggie repeated.

“I am aware it is not guaranteed.”

“Good. Saves me the trouble of saying it.”

“But I need information. Routes. Contacts. People who heard what the palace buried. People who saw where the storm formed. Anyone connected to this project who knew Leona’s movements before the expedition.”

Ruggie hummed. “That’s a lot.”

“Yes.”

“And what exactly do I get? Besides your sparkling company.”

Jamil looked toward the equipment. “A field coordinator.”

Ruggie blinked.

“Your researchers understand stone. Your guides understand land. Your guards understand perimeter risk. But no one here is coordinating magical, environmental, and infrastructure hazards together.” Jamil’s voice sharpened. “Your communication rods are too centralized. Your evacuation path crosses unstable sediment. Your barrier anchors are placed for animal attacks, not mana distortion. If something goes wrong, this camp will react in pieces instead of as one system.”

Ruggie stared at him. Then he laughed once. “Leona would’ve hated how useful you are.”

“I will take that as praise.”

“Don’t. It’ll go to your head.”

“You need someone who has survived a magical disaster zone,” Jamil said. “I need someone with contacts and loose morals.”

Ruggie held out a hand. “Conditional alliance?”

Jamil took his hand. “I feel the need to remind you that alliance means no selling the other out.”

“What if the price is really impressive?”

“I don’t think there’s any price more impressive than you not being killed in your sleep.”

Previous chapter <- -> Next chapter

Fortunately, the royal family had suppressed the official details.

They could not hide that Leona had disappeared, of course. A prince did not simply vanish without leaving questions behind. So the palace announced only that there had been a “magical disaster” during the expedition and that the matter remained under royal investigation.

No mention of the storm, nor the creatures, nor the ancient magic, nor Jamil Viper. His name was removed from the delegation records. His presence was reduced to an administrative inconvenience, then buried under diplomatic phrasing.

Jamil wondered if he was supposed to be grateful for it.

But rumors needed very little truth to survive. Along trade routes and through village markets, people whispered that a foreign servant had been with the prince when he disappeared. A servant from the Scalding Sands. A servant who should have been executed, but had been spared because wealthy hands had paid for his life.

At least they had no portrait. That was the only reason Jamil could still travel. No one knew his face for certain. But whenever people heard his accent or noticed his foreign features, their gazes sharpened. They treated him politely, but with one eye always watching his hands. And it became worse when they saw his magic.

The inn stood outside a small town several days from the capital, built low and sturdy against the heat, its walls sun-baked and cracked near the foundations. Traders stopped there to water their mounts, laborers came for cheap meals, and villagers gathered in the evenings to drink and talk.

A child was running around between the tables while her mother argued with the innkeeper about dried meat. Then her one foot caught against the other. And she fell hard, scraping both knees against the stone floor. She began crying immediately, blood running down her legs while her mother rushed toward her in a panic.

Jamil moved before he could think better of it. He crouched beside the girl, murmured for her to stay still, and let a small healing spell gather at his fingertips. It was simple magic, controlled and harmless. The scrapes closed enough to stop the bleeding, and the child’s sobs faded into hiccups.

Her mother thanked him again and again. But around them, the courtyard had gone quiet.

Magic was not unknown in the Sunset Savanna, but in small towns like this, it was not common either. Most people saw practical charms now and then, maybe weather wards, water-seeking spells, household protections if they had the money for them. 

Jamil felt the stares before he lifted his head. Merchants leaned toward each other, whispering. A few villagers looked not at the healed child, but at the fading glow around Jamil’s hand. A foreigner traveling alone, with magic.

The mother still thanked him, but even she stepped back after taking her daughter into her arms. A significant, small step, between acceptable and too much.

He returned to his room without finishing his meal. That night, he slept lightly with a knife under his pillow and his bag packed beside the bed. Fortunately, no one came for him.

At dawn, he left before breakfast. The innkeeper only accepted the coins Jamil placed on the counter, counted them twice, and said, “Road west should be clear today.” He walked until the inn was a pale shape behind him, swallowed by heat and distance. Only then did he let his expression twist.

By midday, the story had already caught up with him. He heard it from a pair of merchants resting under shade, not knowing that he was within earshot.

“The one at the inn,” one of them said. “They say he used magic on a child.”

“He healed her, didn’t he?”

“That’s what the mother says. But maybe that’s only what she thinks he did.”

“Not every foreign mage is that servant, you know.”

“I also know that we have no idea who isn’t that servant,” he sighed. “It’s uneasy these days. I still think they should’ve just hung that one. Poor Prince Leona. Never liked him much, but he doesn’t deserve to be killed by some servant.”

Jamil gritted his teeth until his jaw hurt. No one spoke the right version. No one mentioned the storm, or the monsters, or the fact that Leona had chosen his own death. They only cared that a prince was gone and a servant was alive. How dare he?

He hated it. He hated the palace for burying the truth. He hated the Asims for saving him in a way that left him owing them. He hated the merchants for repeating scraps of rumor like they were justice. He hated the villagers for looking at him and seeing danger. He was only trying to help.

And he hated Leona.

Jamil had spent his entire life standing behind someone brighter, richer, more beloved. He knew what it meant to become invisible beside a person the world had already chosen. But at least Kalim was alive and smiling. Leona was gone, and still Jamil could not escape him.

Jamil carried that hatred with him long after the town disappeared behind him. It settled between his ribs, heavy and hot, easier to hold onto than fear. Fear made him lower his head, count exits in every inn, listen for footsteps outside his door, and keep his magic pressed down until even his bones felt restrained. At least hatred was cleaner. It gave him someone to blame.

He had spent his entire life resenting the shape of Kalim’s shadow. Now he was walking through the shape of Leona’s.

The further he traveled through the Sunset Savanna, the more that hatred sharpened. Because everywhere he went, he saw waste. 

Broken roads that could have strengthened trade. Dry channels left half-buried under sand. Markets with enough goods to expand, if only there were proper storage and transport. Mineral ridges no one mined. Dye plants no one cultivated beyond household use. Villages surviving on endurance when they could have lived on planning.

The second village he reached was poorer than the capital. Water was rationed carefully, and women and children walked long distances each morning to collect it. Old stone channels ran along the village edge, but many were broken. The well still worked, but in the dry season it gave muddy water.

The problem was even more painfully clear when an elderly man collapsed from heat exhaustion. He treated him quickly, using as little magic as possible. While waiting for his breathing to steady, he noticed certain shrubs growing in a narrow line beyond the broken channels. The soil beneath a cluster of shaded rocks was cooler than the earth around it. There was likely a stronger underground water source nearby.

He suggested repairing the pump system, redirecting the channels, and digging carefully near the ridge. The villagers listened, then politely refused. The land had its own rhythm, they said. Water came and went as it always had. Taking more would disturb the balance.

Jamil said nothing after that. But the thought stayed with him. They had the resources to be less thirsty, and they chose thirst. Worse, they called it balance.

But anger could not buy him food, and contempt could not earn him shelter. 

So Jamil made himself useful. He cooked in exchange for a place to sleep. He negotiated with merchants until they stopped trying to cheat him outright. He repaired wagon wheels, patched torn straps, read maps for travelers who could not make sense of old route markings, treated burns and heat sickness, and earned passage wherever he could. He smiled when necessary. He lowered his eyes when necessary. He thanked people who watched his hands more closely than his face.

It felt like sand in his throat. For the first time, he was using his skills for himself. But every skill reminded him of servitude. His cooking came from years of preparing meals around Kalim’s whims. His medicine came from tending Kalim’s injuries and testing his food. His patience, his careful words, his ability to notice problems before they became visible - all of it had been shaped by a life spent standing behind someone else. Even his freedom felt like it was built from chains.

During the day, survival kept him moving. Hunger, distance, shelter, suspicion, the price of passage, the direction of the next road - there was always something immediate enough to silence everything else.

But silence didn’t last as the next town made him angrier.

It was larger than the villages before it, known for weaving and dyeing cloth. Even before he entered the market, Jamil saw strips of fabric hanging from beams and balconies, shifting in the hot wind like banners. Deep reds, muted golds, earthy greens, dark browns nearly black beneath the sun. The cloth was beautiful: tightly woven, durable, and dyed with natural colors worked patiently into the fiber. It reminded him of home.

For a while, he forgot to be annoyed. Skill deserved recognition. And this town was skilled. Women worked the looms with practiced precision. Older men sorted thread by shade. Children carried baskets of fiber. Merchants from other regions filled the market, buying bolts of cloth to resell elsewhere.

It was not a place with nothing. It was not waiting for outsiders to give it value. It already had material, labor, reputation, technique, and demand. With better tools, better storage, sturdier looms, metal fittings, organized transport, and a proper trade schedule, the town could have doubled its output without cheapening the craft. It could have become the center of an entire regional textile network.

Instead, half the looms creaked with age. Tools were patched with wood and cord where metal would have lasted longer. Finished cloth was stored in rooms poorly sealed against dust and insects. Transport depended on whichever caravan happened to pass through.

And beyond the town stood a ridge streaked with exposed mineral veins.

Jamil saw it on his second day there. He had gone to the edge of town to avoid the market crowds and found locals collecting loose fragments from the foot of the ridge. Some pieces were crushed for pigment. Some were polished into ornaments. Others were shaped into small tools, rough but usable.

The ore was not hidden. It sat visible along the stone, waiting for someone with sense to recognize what it meant.

It was not even complicated. Mine modestly. Refine the metal. Improve the looms, tools, carts, locks, and storage. Increase textile output. Strengthen trade. Use the profit to fund roads, wells, and water management. Reduce dependence on foreign infrastructure aid.

He was not imagining reckless excavation. Controlled mining existed. Limits existed. Restoration existed. They could preserve the landscape and still use what it offered. They could take enough to live better without devouring everything.

So he asked about it. He should've known better.

“The ridge is part of this town,” one woman told him, her hands still stained with dye.

“I’m aware,” Jamil replied.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “You see stone. We see where the wind breaks before reaching the houses. We see where the first dyers found pigment. We see where our grandparents taught us which colors belonged to which season.”

“That does not prevent controlled extraction.”

Her expression cooled. “It is not meant to be hollowed out for tools.”

“You already collect ore from it.”

“What falls on its own is given.”

“And what remains embedded is forbidden?”

“It remains where it belongs.”

Jamil looked at the hanging cloth, the old looms, the patched tools, the merchants buying too cheaply because they knew the town had limited transport.

“You could improve your production,” he said. “Your trade. Your roads. Your water storage. You would not need to wait for foreign families to fund projects the crown should have handled years ago.”

A man nearby set down his basket of ore fragments. “Careful, traveler.”

Jamil knew that tone. Careful. Remember your place. Do not speak above yourself. Do not question what people with more standing have already accepted.

“My apologies. I overstepped.”

He left the dye yard soon after, but his frustration did not leave with him. It followed him through the market, past the merchants arguing over prices, past the children carrying thread, past the rows of cloth that should have been worth more than what outsiders paid for them.

They were proud of surviving with less than they could have had. Not because they lacked talent, nor resources. That would have been easier to forgive. But they had skill, resources, trade value, and generations of knowledge. They had everything needed to build something stronger.

And they refused for what? Tradition. Balance. Respect for the land. Only shields against responsibility in his opinion.

He could improve the water systems without draining the land. He could expand the textile trade without destroying the craft. Storage, transport, mining limits, trade protections — none of it was impossible. It only required someone with authority to care.

But apparently, what Sunset Savanna wanted was sitting on resources, refusing to use them properly, suffering preventable hardship, and then accepting help from foreign wealth when the consequences became inconvenient.

And because of that, the Asims had come. The thought struck him so sharply that he stopped walking.

If the Sunset Savanna had fixed itself, the Asims would never have needed to send a delegation.

If the Asims had never sent a delegation, Kalim wouldn’t have come.

If Kalim hadn’t come, Jamil wouldn’t have been forced to come with him.

If Jamil hadn’t come, he wouldn’t have been caught in that storm. Then none of this would’ve happened to him.

Jamil stared at the untouched ridge until the sun made his eyes ache.

He hated this country. He hated its wasted land, its wasted skill, its wasted chances. He hated its reverence for hardship, its pride in endurance, its refusal to admit that suffering was not automatically meaningful just because people had grown used to it.

And he hated Leona most of all. Leona, who had been born into the authority to change things and still left his country like this. Leona, who had spoken as if he understood the world better than everyone else. Leona, who died at the wrong time in the wrong place and leaving Jamil alive to pay for it.

Jamil resumed walking, his shadow stretching long across the road. The town behind him continued its work. Looms creaked. Dyers stirred their vats. Merchants counted coins. The ridge stood untouched in the distance, full of metal no one would use.

They could have changed. But they chose not to. And somehow, he was the one who had lost everything.

—

That thought followed Jamil for days, along broken roads and dry crossings, through villages that watched him with suspicion and markets where his accent earned him higher prices. It followed him when he passed cracked channels and half-used fields, when he saw trade goods sitting under poor cover, when he noticed tools that could have been repaired properly if anyone had bothered to think beyond the next season.

During the day, he could ignore that. There was always something immediate to handle: hunger, distance, shelter, suspicion, the price of passage, the direction of the next road. It dulled the shame, the anger, even the fear.

But at night, when he was alone under unfamiliar roofs or beside dying campfires, everything returned. The storm, the cliff, the moment Leona vanished into sand and stone, leaving Jamil alive to bear the blame.

The blame chain rose up first, sharp and merciless. Then anger. Then what now?

The answer should have been obvious. Survive. Clear his name, if such a thing was even possible. Find a way home, if it still existed for him. Avoid anyone who might recognize enough of the rumors to decide his life was worth less than their fear.

But beneath those answers was another question. What did he want? What did Jamil Viper want, when no one was standing in front of him?

He hated that question. It sounded too much like Leona. You decide what everyone around you can and can’t handle. You decide who needs saving. Then you get pissed when reality doesn’t match whatever you made up in your head.

Jamil still hated him for saying it. How dare Leona act like he understood him? How dare a prince look at him once and name something Jamil had spent his whole life justifying as responsibility?

Worse, how dare he be even slightly right?

Jamil had controlled things because control meant safety. He had stepped in because if something went wrong, he was the one who paid for it. He had learned to anticipate needs, prevent mistakes, smooth over consequences, and call all of it duty.

But now there was no Kalim to protect. No master to serve. No household to answer to. No one standing in front of him, giving his life a shape by demanding something from it. And Jamil didn’t know whether that made him free, or simply useless.

—

By the time the terrain began to change, Jamil almost welcomed it. The villages grew farther apart. Grass gave way to scrub, then to stony flats and dry riverbeds. The air turned harsher, the horizon wider, the land less forgiving. It was a more barren part of the Sunset Savanna. Jamil could respect difficulty when it didn’t dress itself as virtue.

He was following a dry riverbed toward a caravan path when he heard movement above him. His hand lowered toward the knife hidden beneath his cloak.

A laugh came from above him. “Well, well,” said a voice from the ridge. “That really is you.”

Jamil looked up. Ruggie Bucchi crouched on the rocks above him, one arm draped loosely over his knee, tail flicking behind him, his grin bright but didn’t reach his eyes.

Previous chapter <- -> Next chapter

The convoy moved tighter than before, the storm had stripped away the unnecessary cheerfulness and left only function behind. And whenever Jamil adjusted his pace or drifted even slightly, the guards followed, closing the space without ever touching him.

Kalim stayed close, talking more than usual, his voice uneven as he tried to fill the silence with reassurance. “They’re still searching… The terrain’s unstable, but once it settles, they’ll find him. They have to.” The words came quickly, one after another, even though repeating them wouldn’t make them real. Jamil didn’t respond, his gaze fixed ahead, the desert stretching endlessly behind them, already swallowing what it had taken.

By the time they crossed the castle’s inner gates, the atmosphere had changed completely. The servants waiting in the entrance hall bowed to Kalim first, then stiffened when their eyes moved to Jamil. A chamberlain approached with a grave expression and spoke quietly with the captain of the guards. Jamil caught only fragments.

His Royal Highness. Still no body. Last seen. Foreign party. Asim delegation.

Kalim stepped forward at once. “Jamil needs treatment first,” he said, unusually firm. “He was hurt protecting-”

“Lord Kalim,” one of the royal officials interrupted. “We will see that he receives medical attention. But first, there are questions that must be answered.”

Kalim’s protests died in his throat as they took Jamil away. “This is only a necessary inquiry,” they said.

A healer was allowed to clean his blood and bandage his wound before he was brought into a side chamber, a room with no windows. Only a table, two chairs, and two guards by the door. One official seated across from him with papers already prepared, ink already wet, they must already have had the answers for their questions.

Jamil sat straight-backed and folded his hands in his lap.

“State what happened after you were separated from the delegation.”

So he did. About the storm, the separation, the creatures in the sand, the ruins, the larger beast. About how Leona had destroyed the unstable terrain to bring the creature down.

When Jamil finished, silence settled over the room. Then the official looked up.

“So,” he said, “Prince Leona Kingscholar, one of the most promising mages in the kingdom, disappeared during an unnatural storm, after being separated from every witness except you.”

Jamil held his gaze. “Yes.”

“And His Royal Highness’s body cannot be recovered because the cliff collapsed.”

“Yes.”

“And the creature responsible cannot be examined because it was destroyed in the same collapse.”

Jamil’s jaw tightened. “Yes.”

“And the storm interfered with magic, preventing reliable communication, search spells, or corroborating records.

Jamil didn’t answer immediately. He knew how the words sounded, and he knew that in their place, he’d have suspected the same thing. He also knew the horror, the panic, the disorientation, the terrible weight of watching Leona vanish over the edge, but none of that mattered now.

“That is what happened,” he said.

The official watched him for a moment longer. “Were there any disagreements between you and His Royal Highness before the incident?”

“No.”

“No argument?”

Jamil remembered Leona’s voice cutting through the storm. You decide what everyone around you can and can’t handle. You decide who needs saving. 

His fingers pressed into his palm. “Nothing relevant.”

The moment the words left his mouth, Jamil knew he’d chosen wrong.

Then the question turned to another direction. About his family. The Asims. The purpose of the visit. Whether the Scalding Sands had any interest in the Savanna’s internal politics. Whether he knew of anyone who would benefit from Leona Kingscholar’s disappearance. That question was easy. Everyone knew princes had enemies, even the second-born ones.

“Did you kill Prince Leona Kingscholar?” the official asked at last.

“No.” The truth didn’t matter.

The door opened as soon as the official stood up. “Kalim,” Jamil said before he even fully saw him.

Kalim stood in the doorway, breathless, with two guards behind him and panic written across his face. “Jamil didn’t do it.”

The official’s expression tightened. “Lord Kalim-”

“He didn’t,” Kalim insisted, stepping farther into the room. “Jamil would never murder Leona. He was with me because my father sent him. He protected everyone, that’s what he always does. He wouldn’t kill someone and lie about it.”

Jamil’s chest tightened as relief rose in him, but the relieved sigh died in his throat when he spotted the look passing between the official and the guards. It was neither mercy nor doubt.

It was clear to him that Kalim’s defense sounded like testimony to them, more like pressure. Like the Asim family reaching into Sunset Savanna’s internal affairs before Leona’s blood was even cold. A diplomatic guest trying to decide how a royal investigation should proceed.

“Kalim,” Jamil tried to shush him down.

Kalim turned to him at once. “No, I’m not letting them falsely accuse you. They don’t know you.”

Did they need to? Jamil suddenly wanted to laugh. Even now, even here, even when his life was being weighed on someone else’s table, everything still bent around Kalim. His voice carried more weight than Jamil’s truth. His outrage mattered more than Jamil’s innocence. His privilege was the only shield standing between Jamil and a noose.

But he needed it. He should be grateful.

The official raised his hand to shush Kalim’s desperate defense. “Lord Kalim, no one is accusing him without cause. But your involvement may complicate matters.”

“My involvement?” Kalim repeated, stunned.

“Yes,” the man said. “This is a royal matter of Sunset Savanna. The disappearance of Prince Leona cannot appear to be influenced by the Asim family.”

There it was, spoken aloud at last. How noble of Kalim to try to save his friend, not knowing that just by standing too close, he had made Jamil look even more guilty.

—

The trial came quickly after that. Although, trial might not be the right word for it.

The original demand had been simple. Private trial. Public execution. A clean answer for the people. A foreign servant punished for the death of their prince. A tragedy given a culprit, a culprit given a rope, and all hail justice.

Kalim fought it, but Jamil never saw most of that fight. He only heard pieces through doors, from lowered voices and hurried footsteps. The Asim family’s name was invoked more than once. Every word Kalim spoke on Jamil’s behalf became another weight pressed onto the scales.

And he hated it, that even now, survival came to him not as a right, but as a favor.

In the end, Kalim managed to save his life. But an answer was still needed, and judgement still had to be passed.

It was delivered in a private chamber, with royal officials seated above him and guards standing at every exit. Jamil stood alone before them, still bruised from the storm, bloop seeping through the bandage.

“In light of the circumstances, and acknowledging the absence of conclusive evidence to enact immediate capital judgment, the sentence will be revised. The accused will be stripped of all identity and legal recognition.”

The words fell one after another, precise and irreversible.

“You will no longer be acknowledged as a member of any household, nation, or standing.”

“Effective immediately, you are exiled.”

His documents were revoked. Travel permits, identification papers, records of entry attached to the Asim delegation, family registration. His servant status under the Asim household was nullified by foreign order. His right to move under their protection was stripped away.

They took his name, his house, his country, his status, his proof of existence.

Kalim still tried to fight but even he knew that saving Jamil’s life was the further thing he could achieve in this situation. 

“There will be no appeal.”

The decision closed around them, final and immovable.

Jamil inclined his head once, the motion controlled despite the emotions simmering within. “Understood.”

—

They left him at the capital border before sunrise. One of the guards handed him a bag. Inside were basic supplies, water, dried food, a few changes of clothes, a small pouch of coins. Just enough to delay dying.

The guard stood firm. “You are not permitted to re-enter the capital.”

The capital was the least of his problems. He stood there until the guards turned back, their figures shrinking against the road until the gates swallowed them again.

He looked up at the rising sun, the first few flickering rays of light lifting the night’s weight. For a moment, his thoughts went home. The Scalding Sands. His family’s house. The familiar halls of the Asim estate. His mother’s voice. His father’s careful instructions. Najma’s sharp tongue. Kalim, probably still trying to argue with people who had already stopped listening. He couldn’t go home.

Was this what he’d always dreamt of? He had spent his life wishing to be free of the role he had been born into. Free of the Asims. Free of the Viper family’s inherited obedience. Free of the invisible chain that tied every achievement, every breath, every future possibility to Kalim’s shadow. 

Now the chain had been cut. No more bowing, no more smiling through resentment, no more standing half a step behind Kalim, arranging his life around someone else’s light.

Now there was no Kalim in front of him, no Asim household above him, no Viper name behind him. Then who was he?

Jamil adjusted the strap of the bag over his shoulder and looked toward the open road. The morning wind moved dryly across the border, carrying dust over his shoes. Beyond the capital, the land stretched wide and indifferent, waiting for him with nothing promised.

Leona let out a sigh as he reached his shaded secluded corner in the botanical garden, fully intending to waste the hour in peace. That peace lasted about 15 minutes until his ears caught the sound of grass crushed under steps. A second later, he caught your scent.

“You’re bad at sneaking, herbivore,” he said without opening his eyes.

“I wasn’t sneaking,” you replied, pushing through the leaves with a paper-wrapped lunch box in your hands. “Ruggie asked me to bring you lunch.”

“And drag me to class?”

“That too.”

Leona opened one eye, unimpressed. “How’d you even find me? This isn’t one of my usual spots.”

“I checked those first,” you said. “Then I thought about what kind of place you’d pick. Shade, quiet, away from the main path, not too close to the tropical plants area because of the strong smell. And then I’m here.”

“That’s creepy. You shouldn’t hang out too much with that hunter.”

“That’s called being smart and deductive. Also, I think your afternoon class is having a surprise test,” you added before Leona could tell you to shove your deduction up your ass and leave.

Leona gave you a flat look. “You think?”

“Trein did it yesterday, Crewel did it two days ago, and the pattern looks like teachers are giving students with bad attendance a chance to recover points before the next report. It’s probably the easiest way to protect your threshold if you show up to take the test.”

Leona tried to hide his surprise at your clever and efficient deduction (hah), clicking his tongue and taking the lunch from you. “You spend too much time thinking about me.”

“How grateful you are,” you laughed, sitting down next to him, close enough to talk but not close enough to crowd him, and Leona hated how easily you had learned that distance. He hated how you knew where to find him, and how to make classes less troublesome for him. He hated, most of all, that he liked having you there.

For a while, the two of you ate in the shade, the leaves shifting softly overhead while the noise of the school stayed far away. Then you leaned back on your hands and looked up through the canopy.

“I wish the teachers back home were this lenient,” you said. “If we missed something, most of them just marked it down and moved on. No convenient surprise test to recover points. There was this one teacher who never accepted late work unless someone was basically dying, and even then I think they’d ask for proof.” You shivered at the last sentence.

Back home.

The words should have meant nothing. You said things like that often enough, little scraps of another life slipping out in casual conversation. But this time it landed wrong. Leona felt something choking up his throat when he was reminded, yet again, that this was temporary.

You had a home somewhere else, a school somewhere else. People, streets, routines, and a whole life waiting beyond his reach. One day Crowley might actually do his job, and then you would leave, taking your lunches and your deductions and your irritating little habits with you.

His chest tightened. He told himself it was only because you were useful. Losing useful things was inconvenient. That was all.

You noticed his silence and glanced over. “Leona?”

He looked away. “Don’t get attached to things you can’t keep, herbivore. That’s common sense.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden edge in his words. But he was warning you because he had seen homesickness in your face, and was trying to spare you pain. You shrugged. “Yeah. I guess it is.” 

How accepting you were of a warning that wasn’t meant for you.

—

After that day, Leona began avoiding you.

It looked like his usual behavior at first, he had never been easy to find. But then the pattern became too obvious to ignore. His usual nap spots were empty when you checked them, Ruggie asking you to deliver things less and less, and whenever you managed to catch Leona, he acted like he was so ready to be anywhere but there.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” you catched him at his dorm’s Spelldrive stadium.

Leona barely opened his eyes from where he was sprawled across the chairs. “I didn’t.”

“Did I do something?”

“No, and I’d prefer it that way.”

You stood there, uncertain what to do with the sudden distance between you. “I’m just trying to help.”

“Did I ask you to?”

You went quiet, and for a moment, Leona hated how he’d phrased it, but he crushed the feeling down. “Go bother someone who needs babysitting.”

You left after that, and Leona listened to your footsteps fade down the hall with his jaw clenched hard enough to ache. Good, he told himself. That was better. If you were going to leave one day, then he might as well make sure you learned to stop reaching for him first. And then maybe, he could get used to your absence.

A person could not lose what they had already thrown away.

The problem was that you were very bad at staying thrown away.

You still asked if he had eaten, still reminded him about tests he couldn’t bother to remember, still left thoughtful notes with the lunch Ruggie brought to him (a donut here and there worked wonders at earning a deliverer). And every time you did, Leona felt that same ugly twist in his chest, relieved yet panicked, because you were still there, and because you wouldn’t always be.

So he got worse.

When you asked if he had eaten, he told you to bother Ruggie. When you reminded him about class, he reminded you that you were not even in the same grade as him. When you tried to sit with him, he got up and left, pretending not to notice how your smile grew smaller each time. And whenever you tried to ask about his behavior towards you, he yawned in the middle of your sentence and said that if you wanted emotional speeches, you should go find one of the Heartslabyul kids.

You saw that? He didn’t care.

He didn’t care as he kept track of your schedule.

He didn’t care as he waited near the corridor when you stayed too late in the library before walking you back to Ramshackle through the dark. He was just passing by.

He didn’t care when he sent you a worn book full of notes when you struggled with an upcoming test. It just had been taking up space.

He didn’t care when he snarled at the students whispering too close behind you. They were just too noisy and annoying.

He didn’t care and he almost believed it. You, however, didn’t know what to believe.

—

And then Crowley found a way home.

The news spread through Ramshackle first, then through the first-years, then through the rest of the school. By the time it reached Leona, it had already been softened into celebration. The prefect could go home.

What good news. So good it landed like a blade in his ribs. Of course you were leaving. You had always wanted to leave. He had known so from the beginning. From every complaint about how you had to get used to so many things around here, every strange recipe that didn’t match any culture here, every little story about your school and teachers and the life waiting for you somewhere else.

So there was no reason for his throat to feel tight.

“Good for them,” he said.

Ruggie’s ears twitched, but he did not push. “Yeah. Good for them.”

After that, Leona stopped pretending there was any point in being decent.

Whatever fragile, confusing arrangement had existed between you had already been dying by his own hand, but now he buried it properly, because the goodbye was inevitable, and the only thing left to control was how much of him it took when it came.

He stopped answering when you called his name. He left rooms before you could enter them. When you tried to thank him for the book, he told you not to make a sentimental mess out of borrowed junk. When you asked if he was angry about something, the look he gave you made you feel foolish for asking.

“You’re leaving soon,” he said. “Shouldn’t you be busy packing?”

The confrontation came two days before you were meant to leave, in the botanical garden of all places, worse, in the hidden corner you once found him. “Can we talk?” you asked.

“No.”

You stood your ground anyway, hands curled at your sides. “Too bad. I’m tired of this.”

Leona’s tail flicked once behind him. “Tired of what?”

“You. Acting like you hate me one second and then helping me the next. Avoiding me, insulting me, showing up when I need you, then claiming it meant nothing. I don’t understand what you want from me.”

Nothing, he almost said.

Everything, something inside him answered.

“That’s your problem. I never asked you to understand me.”

You swallowed. “Did I do something wrong?” That question, again and again and again. He hated it.

“You really need everything spelled out for you, huh?” he said. “I helped you because it was convenient. You were useful, and sometimes keeping you out of trouble meant less noise for me. And since you are leaving, you’re no longer useful to me. So why should I bother?”

For a second, the garden seemed too quiet. The leaves still rustled softly above them, sun still shone and birds still chirped, but none of those registered in this tense bubble covering them.

And with one step back, you broke it. And Leona knew, with sickening clarity, that it was over for them. “I see,” you said. The calmness in your voice screeched in his ears.

His ears flattened and he looked away. “Good. Saves us both time.”

“I guess it does.” He wished you’d just yell at him.

On the day you returned home, half the school gathered near the Mirror Chamber to say goodbye. But you couldn’t spot any lion tail flickering in annoyance at the crowd.

He told Ruggie he had better things to do, then spent the hour lying in his room, listening to the distant noise of students moving through Savanaclaw and pretending not to count the minutes. He imagined the crowd, imagined Grim crying too loudly, imagined your Heartslabyul sweethearts patting your back and wishing you well, imagined Crowley giving some dramatic speech about his generosity, and hated every version of it. None of them ended with you staying.

By the time the school went quiet again, you were gone.

—

A week passed.

Leona told himself nothing changed.

Ramshackle had always been rundown. The hallways had always been too drafty, the windows too old, the air too stale and moist from water dripping through the ceiling cracks. There was no reason for the building to feel different just because you were no longer in it. There was also no reason for him to end up there this afternoon.

Maybe you had taken the book with you by mistake, and he wanted it back. Maybe he was checking whether any Savanaclaw had been using the building to skip classes and smoke. Maybe he needed a new place to nap. Maybe he was only passing through. Since when had the Ramshackle dorm appeared on his route?

All perfectly logical. All complete nonsense.

The dorm was quiet when he entered, and the silence pressed against his ears as he moved through the dusty hall and into the living room.

Then he saw his book sitting on the coffee table, carefully placed where he could not miss it, its worn cover clean of dust and a note stuck out of its pages.

Part 1 | Part 2

As the sun slipped slowly towards the horizon, the botanical garden had grown drowsy.

The sunlight softened, turning from bright gold to a lazy amber that spilled through the glass ceiling and caught on the broad leaves overhead. The warmth of the day lingered in the soil, in the grass, in the steady weight of Leona’s body curled around you. Somewhere nearby, water trickled over stone into the small pond at the edge of the clearing.

You woke up a while ago but decided to join the silence. Leona was still asleep with his head pillowed on one arm, expression faintly annoyed even in rest. The rest of him had remained arranged around you though. His arm blocked one side of the clearing. His chest and shoulder formed another warm wall. His tail lay across your lap in a loose, heavy curve, keeping you from wandering off.

You accepted this with dignity for approximately fifteen minutes. A new record. After that, boredom won.

At first, you only ran your hands through the dark tuft of his tail, fascinated by how softer it was than you had expected. Then you braided a tiny section of it. Then you unbraided it because the braid looked terrible. Then you tried to count the individual strands, gave up at twenty-six.

Leona slept through all of it.

“You’re a very strict jailer,” you whispered to the tail.

The tail twitched.

You froze.

Leona did not wake.

Slowly, you relaxed again, patting the tuft. “Sorry.”

Then you turned to watch his face. It was strange, seeing him from this size. You could scrutinize every detail. The slope of his nose, the sharp line of his lashes, the scar cutting over his left eye, the faint part of his lips where one fang barely showed. Usually, when you stared at him for too long, he would crack open one eye and call you nosy. Now, with him asleep and you too small to be immediately noticed, you had the rare privilege of looking as much as you wanted.

He looked calmer like this.

You smiled to yourself and leaned back against the side of his hand. His fingers were relaxed in the grass, warm and broad, one of them near enough that you could rest your shoulder against it.

The garden hummed around you. Leaves rustled. The pond murmured.

At first, it was only a shift in the ground beneath you - a low, sleepy rumble that came from Leona’s chest as he stirred. Then the tail over your lap slid away, dragging gently over your legs. You pushed yourself upright just as Leona exhaled a rough, waking breath.

Then his shoulder rolled. His arm stretched. His tail swept across the grass as he stretched out the stiffness from his nap.

Unfortunately, you were still very small.

“Leona-!”

The tuft of his tail caught you squarely in the side. And it had enough force to scoop you off your feet and send you tumbling across the grass like a dropped spool of thread. The world spun green, gold, green, sky, grass, Leona’s startled eyes, grass again. You bounced once over a root, rolled through a patch of clover, and let out a tiny, undignified yelp as the slope of the clearing betrayed you.

Leona’s ears snapped up. His eyes went sharp. “Herbivore!”

You rolled faster.

“I’m okay!” you called automatically.

“You’re rolling into the pond!”

That, admittedly, sounded less okay.

You tried to grab a blade of grass. It bent. You tried another. It snapped. You flailed, caught a fallen leaf, rode it for half a second, and then lost it when the ground dropped away near the pond’s edge.

Leona lunged at you. But he wasn’t fast enough. You slipped over the mossy bank with a small splash.

Cold water closed over you.

At your normal size, the pond was shallow enough to stand in. At your current size, it might as well have been a lake. You surfaced with a gasp, hair plastered to your face, arms paddling wildly as ripples spread out around you. A lily pad floated nearby, enormous and green, and you grabbed onto it with both hands before the water could pull you farther from the bank.

Above you, Leona skidded to a stop at the pond’s edge, one hand already reaching down. “Don’t move,” he ordered.

You coughed, blinking water from your eyes. “I don’t think I can move very fast anyway.”

“This ain’t the time to joke.”

“I wasn’t joking. My shoes are heavy.”

He lowered his hand closer, palm open, fingers spread towards you. “Grab on.”

You reached for him at once.

And then the potion wore off.

There was no warning. No sparkle, no pleasant little puff of magic, no polite sensation of being restored to your original size. One second, you were clinging to the edge of a lily pad with Leona’s hand looming above you. The next, the world snapped violently back into proportion.

The lily pad vanished beneath your weight. The pond surged up around your waist.

Leona’s hand, which had been reaching for a miniature version of you, was suddenly much too close to your face. Your own hand, already stretched toward him, caught his arm instead of his finger. Both of you froze for a fraction of a second, equally startled by the sudden correction of distance.

Then your wet shoes slipped against the muddy pond floor. You yelped and grabbed him harder. Leona’s eyes widened. “Don’t-”

You pulled. 

Leona had been crouched too far forward, weight already shifted over the bank. Your sudden full-sized grip on his arm, combined with the slippery moss under his shoes, was enough to pull him down. His ears flattened, his tail lashed, and then he toppled into the pond.

Water exploded upward, drenching everything. You shrieked as the wave hit your face. Leona surfaced a second later, soaked from head to toe, dark hair plastered against his cheeks, uniform clinging heavily to his shoulders. His bangs hung over one eye. His ears were flattened against his head. His tail floated behind him in the water.

Silence fell. You stared at him. He stared at you. A drop of water slid from the end of his nose. You pressed both hands over your mouth.

Leona’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t.”

Your shoulders shook.

“Herbivore.”

“I’m not-” Your voice cracked. “I’m not laughing.”

“You are.”

“I’m trying not to.”

“Try harder.”

You tried. You failed.

The laugh burst out of you bright and helpless, echoing through the warm air. You doubled over, one hand clutching your stomach, the other splashing weakly against the pond as you laughed so hard you almost slipped again. Leona’s expression darkened with every second, but that only made it worse. He looked so deeply offended that you couldn’t stop.

“You should see your face,” you gasped.

“I can see yours just fine.”

“You look like an angry wet cat.”

His ears twitched. You immediately knew you had made a mistake.

“Say that again.”

You smiled, still breathless. “Angry wet lion?”

“That’s not better.”

“It’s the fact, though.”

“Your fault for pulling me in.”

“You startled me.”

“You were the one who fell in first.”

“You hit me with your tail.”

“I was asleep.”

“You woke up violently.”

“I stretched.”

“You weaponized stretching.”

His eyes narrowed, and you were sure he thought your brain didn’t grow back to its original size along with your body. You reached up and brushed a wet strand of hair from his cheek. It stuck stubbornly to your fingers before falling back into place. “It’s okay now.”

Leona’s gaze moved over your face, your shoulders, your hands. Only after he seemed satisfied did some of the tension bleed out of him. His grip loosened, though he didn’t let go.

“You’ve said that all day,” he muttered.

“And I’ve been right all day.”

“You were tiny, nearly sat on, almost drowned in orange juice, rolled down a hill, and fell into a pond.”

“But I survived.”

“You’re stupid.”

“You’ve said that all day too.”

“You keep earning it.”

You laughed again, and the sound seemed to do something to him. His scowl remained, but his eyes eased. The sunset caught on the pond behind him, turning the water gold around his shoulders. He looked irritated, soaked, tired, but unfairly beautiful.

The pond water lapped quietly around you. Overhead, the glass ceiling glowed orange with the last light of day. You were both dripping wet, your uniforms ruined, your hair plastered to your faces, and the entire afternoon had gone so far off course that it was almost impressive.

You smiled first. “I’ve said this too, but thanks for coming to get me today.”

Leona scoffed, but it lacked heat. “Didn’t have much choice. You stopped answering your messages.”

“I was busy being mini.”

“Bad excuse.”

“I’ll text next time I get shrunk.”

“There better not be a next time.”

“No promises.”

His eyes sharpened. “Herbivore.”

“I mean, I’ll try very hard not to get shrunk again.”

“Try harder than you tried not to climb the juice carton.”

“That was different.”

“It was not.”

“It had architectural appeal.”

Leona exhaled, long and suffering, but this time the sound ended almost like a laugh. His hands slid away from you as he turned toward the bank, wringing water from the end of his tail with a look of pure disgust.

You watched him, then glanced down at yourself. Your uniform clung to you. Your socks were soaked. There was probably pondweed on your sleeve. You reached up and pulled a small green leaf from your hair.

“Well,” you said brightly, “at least I’m normal-sized now.”

Leona looked back at you. A slow, sharp grin spread across his face. You blinked. “What?”

“Means I don’t have to hold back anymore.”

Your eyes widened. “Leona-”

He splashed you. A full, deliberate sweep of water that hit you square in the chest and face. You gasped, scandalized, as he smirked with satisfaction.

“That was revenge.”

You wiped water from your eyes. “You are so petty.”

“You earned it.”

“You fell in because you have bad balance.”

“You fell in because you’re a menace.”

“You hit me with your tail!”

“You called me an angry wet cat.”

“I corrected it to lion!”

“How does that make anything better?”

You stared at him for one second. Then you splashed him back. The water struck his shoulder and part of his face. It was not nearly as impressive as his splash, but it was enough to make his ears flick and his eyes narrow with renewed danger.

You pointed at him. “Don’t.”

He smiled. You turned and tried to scramble toward the bank, slipping in the mud almost immediately. Leona caught you by the back of your uniform before you could faceplant into the pond a second time.

“Still clumsy at full size,” he said.

You twisted around, laughing despite yourself. “That was the mud’s fault.”

“Everything’s got an excuse with you.”

“You still caught me.”

“Yeah,” he said, quieter. “I did.”

The playfulness softened into something warmer. You stood there with his hand still gripping the back of your uniform, both of you soaked and ridiculous. You reached behind you and touched his wrist gently.

“I knew you would.”

Leona clicked his tongue and tugged you toward the bank. “Come on. Before you find another way to drown in knee-deep water.”

You let him guide you out, though your shoes slipped twice and he had to steady you both times. By the time you reached the grass, the sun had disappeared completely down the horizon, painting the garden in shadow. Leona climbed out after you with considerably more grace, though the wet slap of his tail against the grass ruined some of the dignity.

You shivered and sneezed. Leona clicked his tongue and stepped closer, lifting one hand. “Honestly,” he muttered. “Can’t even fall into a pond properly.”

You blinked up at him. “There’s a proper way to fall into a pond?”

“Yeah. Don’t.”

“That sounds more like not falling into a pond.”

“Look at you. Finally learning.”

A faint shimmer of magic gathered around his fingers. You felt a gentle heat rolling over your skin, like standing in a patch of sun after rain. The water clinging to your uniform lifted in tiny silver wisps, evaporating from your sleeves, your skirt, your hair. Even the pondweed stuck to your cuff dried and curled until you could pluck it off with two fingers.

You stared down at yourself. “You could’ve done that the whole time?”

Leona gave you a flat look. “You think I was planning to walk back soaked because it builds character?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you wanted to look dramatic.”

“I don’t need pond water for that.”

The spell shifted, circling back toward him. His hair dried first, dark strands loosening from his face and falling back into their usual shape. His uniform followed, the wet fabric smoothing out as the moisture vanished. Last was his tail, which puffed slightly as the magic passed over it.

He sighed as he noticed you staring. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were saying enough with how your eyes burn through my tail.”

“It got fluffier.”

His tail snapped behind him, immediately trying to smooth itself down. You covered your mouth with both hands and his eyes narrowed. “Laugh and I’m throwing you back in.”

A tiny sound escaped you.

“Herbivore.”

“I’m sorry,” you said, though your shoulders were shaking. “It’s just- your tail-”

“Finish that sentence carefully.”

“It’s very majestic.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“It’s majestically fluffy.”

Leona stared at you for one long second before reaching out and flicking your forehead. You yelped and jumped back, grabbing at the spot. “Ow! You’re so petty.”

“And you’re alive because I’m petty enough to keep dragging you out of trouble.”

The teasing smile softened on your face before you could stop it. You reached up and touched his wrist.

“Thank you then. And how I hope you keep doing that.”

Leona looked down at your hand, then at your face. For a moment, the garden went quiet around you, warm with sunset and the lingering trace of his magic in the air. Then he clicked his tongue and looked away. “Don’t say stuff like that.”

“Why?”

“Because.” His tail flicked once, still a little puffier than usual. “You make it sound like I’m responsible for you.”

You smiled. “Aren’t you?”

“No.”

“You came to get me.”

“You were causing problems.”

“You carried me.”

“You were tiny.”

“You guarded me.”

“You kept trying to climb things.”

“You dried me off.”

“You sneezed.”

“You worried.”

Leona’s eyes cut back to you. You smiled brighter.

He leaned down, close enough that his shadow fell over you again, and gave you a slow, sharp grin. “Keep pushing it, and next time I’ll let you stay pocket-sized.”

“So you liked me pocket-sized.”

“I liked that you were easier to keep in one place.”

“That means you liked me pocket-sized.”

“It means you’re a pain at any size.”

You laughed, and this time Leona didn’t bother pretending he hated the sound. He only straightened, rolling one shoulder as the last of the spell-light faded from his fingers. And when he turned back toward the path, his tail fell into its usual place, curling behind you. 

You leaned closer, bumping your shoulder lightly against his arm. “Well, you’re stuck with this pain.”

Leona didn’t answer. But he didn’t move away either.

Behind you, the pond settled back into stillness, the grass slowly straightened where you had rolled through it, erasing the trace of any earlier mishaps. And every time the path turned uneven beneath your feet, his tail was there, hovering close behind you, ready to catch you before you fell.

Part 1 | Part 2

The first thing Leona Kingscholar noticed was the silence.

Not actual silence - the usual noise of Night Raven College was still there. Voices echoing down the halls, footsteps, the distant clang of trays from the cafeteria. But there was a different kind of quiet, the kind that settled in the back of his mind when something was… off.

His phone screen dimmed in his hand. No message notifications.

Leona clicked his tongue, thumb tapping the screen once, twice, as if that might somehow force a notification to appear. It didn’t. It had been hours. Morning classes had come and gone, and still nothing from you.

You were not the type to go radio silent. If anything, you were predictable - checking your phone after every class, sending him something trivial just to fill the space. Complaints. Observations. Checking up. Sometimes just a silly emoji before chasing after your furball.

A habit that he had gotten used to.

“Tch.”

He leaned back against the shaded wall, ears twitching once in irritation. Maybe you were busy. Maybe your phone died. Maybe this, maybe that.

Leona exhaled sharply through his nose, pushing himself upright. Lunch break. If you were not answering, then he would just go find you himself and be done with it. No point wasting time speculating.

—

The main building was louder than usual, students flooding the halls as they headed toward the cafeteria. Leona moved through them without slowing, his displeasure making him intimidating enough to part the crowd in his path. Tail flicking in irritation, growling at any unfortunate souls that didn’t scurry away fast enough.

He wasn’t even sure why he bothered coming.

You were probably inside, laughing with your stupid friends, phone forgotten in your bag. He could already imagine the excuse you would give him. Something flimsy.

Still, he arrived at the cafeteria and scanned the place. There they were. A cluster of idiots gathered around one table.

Ace was leaning over the tabletop with a shit-eating grin, Deuce stood stiffly at his side with worry written all over his face, Jack’s ears were pinned back, Epel was half-standing on the bench to see over everyone’s shoulders, Sebek was booming loud enough to make half the cafeteria glance over, and Grim was trying to swat everyone away.

Normally, Leona would have walked past without sparing them a glance. First-years gathered in a panic was hardly a rare sight at Night Raven College. If anything, it was usually a sign that they’d done something stupid and were about to make it someone else’s problem.

But his eyes caught on the absence. Your usual spot in the group was empty. No familiar head bobbing between the others, no careless wave when you noticed him, no bright voice calling him over. And that couldn’t be more suspicious.

Even more suspicious when he heard your voice. A tiny, indignant sound rising from the center of the table. “I’m telling you, I’m fine! Stop looking at me like I’m a funeral arrangement!”

Leona turned on his heels and approached the group, already dreading what would happen next.

“…Oi.”

The single word cut clean through their murmuring. The group jolted, heads snapping up all at once. And found Leona looming over them with all the patience of a caged lion.

“What,” he said, voice low and flat, “are you lot crowding here doing?”

Sharing glances. Hesitation. Leona’s gaze dragged over each of them. “Funny. You all suddenly forget how to talk? Usually can’t get you to shut up.”

“It’s not what it looks like,” Ace said quickly.

Leona looked at him. “I haven’t even seen what it looks like yet.”

Ace shut his mouth.

From somewhere behind Grim, your tiny voice piped up, bright and completely unconcerned. “Leona?”

His eyes snapped down. There you were. 

Standing on the cafeteria table between a folded napkin, a potion vial, and what looked like a small wall made from stacked textbooks, you were barely taller than a phone. Your uniform hung oddly on your miniature frame, resized by the potion but not neatly enough to stop one sleeve from slipping over your hand. You had both arms raised like you were trying to wave over a crowd, your face lit with relief and excitement, as though this was a perfectly normal way for him to find you.

Leona could feel a headache coming. He closed his eyes, hoping that when he opened them again, this was all a tasteless joke and he would kick their ass and take you away. It wasn’t.

“You better start talking,” he muttered, gaze flicking back to the first-years. “Now.”

The freshmans all started talking at once.

“It was an accident-”

“Professor Crewel said it’d wear off-”

“THE HUMAN HAS BEEN REDUCED TO A SHAMEFULLY DEFENSELESS STATE-”

“Don’t say it like that!”

“I said I could watch them!”

“You almost sat on them, Grim!”

“I did not! I just didn’t see them!”

Leona’s eye twitched. He slowly raised a hand to his face and pinched the bridge of his nose. He could already feel a nasty headache coming. This was not how he imagined his day would be.

He lowered his hand. “Quiet.”

The whole table went silent. Even Sebek closed his mouth, though his expression suggested this required tremendous personal sacrifice.

Leona turned to Ace, and pointed at him. “You. Explain. Slowly. And if the story gets dumber halfway through, I’m making it your problem.”

Ace swallowed, then pointed at Deuce. “It was more his cauldron than mine.”

Deuce rounded on him. “You bumped into me!”

“You were standing too close!”

“I was measuring powdered mandrake!”

“You measured it wrong!”

“I did not!”

“You absolutely did! It went poof!”

“That was because Grim sneezed fire into the fumes!”

Grim’s ears flattened. He was busy snickering at the duo, not expecting to be included in the argument. “It was dusty!”

Sebek slammed one hand on the table, making you bounce slightly where you stood. “THIS IS WHY PROPER DISCIPLINE IS ESSENTIAL! HAD ANY OF YOU POSSESSED EVEN A FRACTION OF WAKA-SAMA’S-”

“Lower your voice,” Leona snapped.

Sebek stopped so abruptly his teeth clicked together. Leona’s hand hovered behind you to steady you from the tremor Sebek had caused. Jack stepped in before Leona could start looking for someone to maul. “Professor Crewel already examined them. He said the potion should wear off by sunset. Until then, they just need to avoid getting hurt.”

Then his ears drooped. “Which has been… difficult.”

“I have been very careful,” you insisted.

Ace coughed. “You tried to ride Grim like a horse.”

“He’s fluffy.”

“I am not a horse!” Grim yelled.

“You also tried to climb a juice carton,” Epel added, trying to hold in his grin.

“I needed to get on a higher standing. Besides, it had a straw. It was basically a ladder.”

Leona closed his eyes, breathing through the sheer force of irritation pressing behind his temples. When he opened his eyes again, they were sharp enough to cut.

“So you all decided the best place for them was the cafeteria.”

Deuce flinched. “We were trying to keep them where we could all see them.”

“You mean where half the school could step on them, sneeze on them, or mistake them for a toy?”

Ace glanced away. Leona’s eyes narrowed. “Trappola.”

Ace raised both hands immediately. “I only said they looked like one of those little capsule figures! I didn’t do anything!”

“You tried to put me in your blazer pocket,” you said.

“For safety!”

“You said, ‘This is hilarious, I have to show Cater.’”

“That was also for safety. But okay, in hindsight, bad wording.”

Leona’s hand closed around you, intending to pick you up. But Grim stomped his feet onto the table, turning Leona’s attention his way. “Nuh-uh! Hench-human is under my protection!”

“Your protection?”

Grim faltered. “Y-yeah! That’s right! As their great and powerful boss, I gotta-”

“You almost sat on them.”

Grim’s ears went flat. “That was one time!”

“One time too many.”

Leona’s gaze turned back to you. You looked at his fingers, then up at his face. “Are you taking me?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.” You considered that for half a second. “Can I bring a snack?”

“No.”

“I’m very small. I don’t need a big one.”

“No.”

“A crumb?”

“Herbivore.”

He pinched the back of your uniform between two fingers and lifted you. Your feet left the table, and you swung gently in the air, hands grabbing at your collar as your friends collectively made noises of alarm.

“Leona!” you complained, legs kicking. “This is undignified!”

“You lost dignity when you almost got flattened by your furball.”

“I mean, now that you mention it, I’m kinda curious about how that would feel like.”

Leona lifted you closer to his face. “You’re making it real hard to feel sorry for you.”

“You felt sorry for me?”

“No.”

“You did.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You came looking for me.”

His eyes narrowed. You smiled, delighted with your own conclusion. “So you were worried.”

The first-years went silent. Leona’s expression did not change much, but the air around him certainly did. Ace looked like he would rather swallow a fork than witness this conversation. Deuce stared very intently at the table. Jack’s ears flicked, but he said nothing. Epel pressed his lips together, fighting for his life. Grim, being Grim, ruined everything.

“Hah! I’ll tell everyone that!”

Leona turned his head slowly. Grim froze. “I mean - uh - obviously! Anyone would be worried about my hench-human! They are very useful!”

Leona gave him a long, withering look before turning away. “I’m taking them.”

You perked up. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere without these morons.”

Sebek straightened, apparently recovering enough dignity to object. “Kingscholar! You cannot simply remove them without confirming that your intended location is suitable for someone in such a fragile condition!”

Leona’s smile returned, thin and dangerous. “You volunteering to stop me?”

Sebek opened his mouth. Jack placed a firm hand on his shoulder. Sebek closed his mouth.

“Smart choice,” Leona said.

You twisted in his grip and waved both arms at the group. “I’ll be okay! Probably!”

“Don’t say probably!” Deuce cried.

“Text us if anything happens!” Ace called.

You looked down at your tiny hands. “I don’t think I can use my phone.”

“Then make Leona text!”

One look at Leona and Ace immediately regretted having a voice.

Jack sighed. “At least let us know if the potion wears off early.”

Leona was already turning away. “If they turn back, you’ll notice when they come back normal-sized.”

You bounced lightly as Leona stepped away from the group, still held by the back of your uniform. After a few steps, you looked up at him. 

“Leona?”

“What now?”

“My collar is kind of choking me.”

He clicked his tongue but then transferred you into his other palm. You sat down in the center of his hand, then beamed up at him.

“Much better.”

“Tch.” He brought you closer to his chest. “High-maintenance little thing. You’re lucky I’m carrying you at all.”

“I am,” you said cheerfully, settling in his palm. “Your hand is warm.”

He didn’t respond but you also didn’t miss the faint twitch of his ear.

The moment Leona got out of the cafeteria, the noise behind you dulled significantly. The shouting first-years, Grim’s offended protests, the clatter of lunch trays and chair legs scraping against the floor - all of it faded away into the background.

As your hand curled around his thumb for balance, you watched the hallway stretch ahead, now looking like a grand corridor for giants. Every passing student’s shoes looked large enough to crush you flat, every hem of a robe brushed by like a curtain, and every voice echoed overhead with a strange, booming weight.

Naturally, you found this fascinating.

“Everything looks so different,” you said, leaning dangerously close to the edge of Leona’s hand to peer at the floor tiles passing beneath you. “The cracks between the tiles are huge. I could probably fit in one.”

Leona’s fingers curled upward at once, blocking your view and nudging you back toward the center of his palm. “You’re not testing that.”

“I didn’t say I was going to.”

“You were thinking it.”

You huffed, but did not argue. Not like you could. You shifted your position, bracing both hands against the base of his fingers, and looked up at him. From this angle, Leona looked even more imposing than usual. His jaw was set, his eyes narrowed ahead, his ears twitching at the slightest sound around him.

“You’re walking slowly,” you observed.

“I’m not.”

“You are. Usually you walk like everyone else is wasting your time.”

“They are.”

“But now you’re walking like you’re carrying soup.”

Leona glanced down at you. “You calling yourself soup?”

“No. I’m just saying you’re being careful.”

His eyes returned forward. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

You laughed, bright and unbothered, and as annoyed as he looked, he still held you carefully, shielding you from the traffic in the hallway with his body. When a pair of students came around the corner too quickly, Leona’s tail snapped out in front of them before they could get close. Both boys stumbled to a stop, one nearly dropping his books.

“Watch it,” Leona said.

The students froze. “S-sorry, Housewarden Kingscholar!”

They hurried away without even looking at what he was holding. You blinked after them. “That was fast.”

“They’ve got survival instincts.”

“I have survival instincts.”

Leona looked down at you. You looked back. Then you cleared your throat. “Some.”

His mouth twitched. “You’re lucky you’re tiny.”

“Why?”

“Because if you were normal-sized, I’d flick your forehead.”

You gasped and pressed both hands over your forehead. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

“You like my forehead.”

“I tolerate your forehead.”

“You kiss it sometimes.”

Leona stopped, looking like he was considering dropping your ass. Then he resumed walking. Faster this time. You had to grab his thumb again to keep from wobbling. “Hey! Soup-speed, remember?”

—

The botanical garden stood ahead, glass walls glinting in the sun, its shape softened by vines and greenery pressing against the panes from within. He opened the door with his free hand and stepped inside. Warm, damp air wrapped around you immediately, thick with the scent of soil, leaves, and flowers. The light was broken into fragments by enormous leaves overhead, and the distant trickle of water replaced the clamor of campus.

You stared at a flower the size of a parasol from your perspective. Its petals drooped in pinkish layers near the path, each one broad enough that you imagined you could use it as a blanket. You pointed at it with both hands.

“Leona.”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to ask.”

“You want to sit on the flower.”

You lowered your hands. “...Maybe.”

“No.”

“Just for a second?”

“No.”

“It looks soft.”

“It could also be poisonous. It is poisonous, actually.”

You stared at the flower. Then, very slowly, you leaned back into his palm. “Oh.”

Leona snorted. “Yeah. Oh.”

“I forgot plants could do that.”

“You’re in a magical botanical garden.”

“That makes it worse, doesn’t it?”

“Look at you. Finally using your head.”

You gave him a wounded look. “I use my head.”

“To test gravity.”

“It has been very consistent so far.”

Leona muttered something under his breath, probably a curse, but his hand remained steady beneath you. He carried you deeper into the garden. Every now and then, his fingers shifted slightly around you when you leaned too far.

You looked around in awe as he finally reached the secluded patch of grass the two of you always used. It looked different now. The cozy and hidden clearing had become a vast green field. Each blade of grass stood nearly as tall as your waist.

Leona crouched down. The movement made your stomach swoop. You grabbed his thumb with both arms, squeaking again despite yourself, and he paused halfway to the ground.

“Still alive?”

“Yes,” you said quickly. “But I could use a warning, just so you know.”

“Fine. I’m putting you down.”

“That was a terrible warning.”

“Still a warning.”

He lowered his palm to the grass and tilted it slightly. You slid down with the grace of a dropped button, landing on your feet for half a second before immediately stumbling into a clump of grass. Leona watched you disappear behind the blades.

A beat passed. Your hand shot up. “I’m fine.”

Leona lowered himself onto the grass with a long, lazy exhale, stretching out on his side. His body settled around the clearing like a wall, his arm folding near you, his shoulder blocking the path, his tail curling in a loose arc behind your back.

Leona reached out and brushed one finger over your head, dislodging a piece of grass. You stood very still under the touch. His finger was careful, moving with a gentleness that didn’t match the ever present scowl on his face.

When the grass was gone, he didn’t pull away immediately. Instead, he touched your shoulder lightly, then your arm, then turned your chin with the side of one finger so he could inspect you.

You blinked. “Are you checking for injuries?”

“No. I’m admiring the damage.”

“There is no damage.”

“That’s what I’m checking.”

You smiled softly. “You really were worried.”

His eyes narrowed. “You really don’t know when to quit.”

“Not usually.”

“I noticed.”

After deeming you were unharmed enough, he settled back and enjoyed the silence. Which lasted a minute. It ended when Leona noticed your thoughtful expression while looking at his tail.

“Don’t,” he warned.

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

“I was admiring.”

“You were planning.”

“I can do both.”

Leona’s tail moved farther away.

You gasped. “You moved it.”

“Yeah. Tragic.”

“I wasn’t going to pull it.”

“Yes, you were.”

“I was going to hug it.”

Leona picked you up, bringing you level with his face. His grin showed his fangs now, making your laughter fade into a small smile.

“You’re real confident for prey that fits in one hand.”

“I’m not prey.”

“You sure?” His eyes glinted. “Because from here, you look bite-sized.”

You blinked. Then, instead of showing fear, you tilted your head and asked, “Would I taste good?”

Leona stared at you. The garden seemed to go very quiet. Then he sighed so deeply it stirred your hair. “You’ve got something wrong with you.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only answer you’re getting.”

You smiled, pleased with yourself, and Leona lowered you back onto the grass in the protected circle of his arm and tail. He shifted closer afterward, his warmth surrounded you on all sides. Above, leaves rustled softly beneath the glass ceiling. Sunlight moved in slow patches across the grass, touching your tiny shoes, his sleeve, the curve of his tail.

You sat beside his hand, absently tracing the lines in his palm with one finger. “Thank you, Leona. I’m glad you found me.”

His eyes held yours for a long moment, green and sharp and unreadable beneath the curtain of his hair. Then he huffed, closed his eyes, and rested his head fully on his arm. “I’ll always find you.”

You smiled, curling up against the side of his hand. The warmth of the garden, the slow rhythm of Leona’s breathing, and the safety of the space he had made around you began to work on you. You leaned more heavily against his hand, eyes growing half-lidded.

Leona’s tail shifted, the tuft coming to rest lightly over you like a soft, warm weight. You looked down at it, then up at him.

“This is cozy.”

“It’s supposed to keep you in place.”

“Still cozy.”

“Tch. Sleep, herbivore.”

The room felt warmer than it should. It wasn’t just heat. It was something heavier, that clung to your skin and settled deep in your lungs with every breath. You couldn’t see it, couldn’t place it, but you felt it everywhere. The blindfold over your eyes only made it worse, sharpening everything else - the faint shift of air, the quiet sound of movement behind you, the way your own heartbeat seemed too loud in your ears.

You sat there, sightless, your fingers curling uncertainly at your sides. Every second stretched, unbearably slow, because you knew he was there. You could feel him without touching him - the heat of his body, the unshaken presence that seemed to fill the space around you.

The worst part was that he was just there. He was close enough that the warmth of him reached you, that your pulse began to climb on its own, anticipation coiling tighter with every passing second.

“Already tense,” he murmured behind you, voice low, edged with quiet amusement. “And I haven’t even done anything yet.”

Your breath hitched despite yourself.

His hand brushed against your arm, the touch barely there. The contact sent a shudder straight through your spine, your entire body reacting instantly. His fingers dragged upward, unhurried, His callous fingertips grazed your skin, making your breath catch.

A quiet chuckle left him. “That easy?”

“I’m not-”

Your denial faltered as his hand slid higher, and before you could pull away, his other hand came up, catching your chin and tilting your face upward. The motion was firm, no room to resist it. You froze under his grip, your breath uneven, your senses sharpened by the lack of sight.

“Don’t move,” he said softly.

You felt his fingers brush the edge of the blindfold. Then he pulled it away.

Light flooded in too suddenly, making you blink hard, your vision struggling to adjust. Shapes blurred, sharpened, and then settled.

And you saw a mirror. A full length mirror set near the end of the bed, directly in front of you, reflecting everything - the way you sat there, disoriented, your posture already giving away more than you wanted. Your confusion flickered across your face, your gaze darting between your reflection and his.

“W-what…?” The word slipped out quietly.

Leona’s hand remained at your chin, steadying you, keeping your face forward. A smirk pulled at his lips. “That,” he said, voice dipping lower, “is for us.”

His thumb pressed in, guiding your focus back to your own reflection when it tried to drift.

“So we can watch,” he added. “Every reaction.”

He nipped at the tip of your ear. “Eyes forward,” he commanded. “I want you to watch.”

Your gaze locked onto the mirror whether you liked it or not, and there was no escape from what you saw. Leona behind you, tall, broad, composed. His eyes were sharp, tracking every flicker of reaction you tried and failed to hide. Your own reflection was worse - already giving you away, lips parted slightly, tension written across every line of your body.

“Mm.” His thumb pressed lightly under your jaw, tilting your head just a fraction more. “There you are. No covering your eyes, or looking away. Remember that.”

His hand trails down from your chin, slow and deliberate, dragging across your throat, your collarbone, pausing just long enough to make your breath catch before continuing lower. He was pressing in, closing the already nonexistent space between you. Your back arched instinctively, trying to wrap yourself in his warmth. 

“See that?” he murmured, his voice brushing right against your ear. “You’re already leaning into it.”

One of your hands came up without thinking, grasping at his wrist, but he didn't stop. If anything, the contact seemed to amuse him more.

“Don’t start pretending now,” he added. “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want this.”

His fingers mapped your inner thigh, dragging in lazy arcs, testing your sensitivity. Then his touch slipped higher, grazing your labia, spreading the wetness around. He presses open-mouthed kisses on your neck and shoulder as his fingers spread your lower lips apart and pressed against your slit. You stared at the mirror, caught between wanting to shove down on Leona’s finger, and squirm away. 

“I’ve barely touched you,” Leona said in a low voice, almost devious. “What a needy girl.”

Before you could clear the fog settled in your head to speak, he slid one finger inside your sex. The first finger slipped in with ease, slowly moving in and out as his tongue licked down your spine. He used just the one finger until he was satisfied with the sounds of your impatience and the way your hole fluttered in want.

The second finger joined the first, but it only filled you with more yearning to feel full of him. You clenched tight around him, trying to pull his fingers deeper. He clicked his tongue and pinched your clit with his other hand, making you gasp. Your arms lost their strength and your upper body collapsed against the pillows.

“Relax”, he pulled you up again by your hair, making you stare at the mirror again.

The edges of his teeth scraped across the soft skin of your neck, occasionally stopping to suck up a hickey. His hand didn’t relent, and as your hips twitched with the telltale sign of an impending orgasm. Your thoughts scattered, your body tightening as the tension climbed higher until you couldn’t hold onto it anymore.

Your breath breaked, your body tensing up as the sensation hit all at once. A squeal slipped from you as the feeling crashed through you.

His touch slowed just enough to draw it out, making you feel every second of it. His other hand steadied you as you rid out your orgasm. And when he pulled his fingers out, he raised his hand to you, stained with the aftermath of your orgasm.

“Ah, what a mess,” he sighed. “One should clean their own messes, don’t you think?”

He brought his hand to your mouth and you obediently opened to lick his fingers clean. You curled the tip of your tongue over each digit with mindless precision. When he pulled his fingers out, you pressed a featherlight soft kiss to his fingertips and regarded him with a helpless look in your eyes.

“Mm, how can I deny you when you look at me like that?” Leona hummed, stroking your cheek with the back of his hand.

He settled between your thighs, both hands anchoring at your hips. His grip tightened, sending a heavy sense of anticipation curling through your stomach. You felt the heat of him before anything else.

Then his hands slided slowly up and down your sides, humming as he dragged his cock against your folds. Your body answered before your mind could catch up, your breath stuttering, back arching as you tried to grind yourself against him. You whimpered and whined in lust, frustrated that he couldn’t just give you what you desperately wanted.

Then your eyes flicked upwards and catched yourself in the mirror. You tensed up for a moment as you realized how needy you looked now. The way your hands gripped the bed sheets, a few strands of hair stuck to your face, your skin flushing red and littered with bite marks and hickeys, the slight tremor in your limbs as they struggled to keep you up.

And his smirk. His fucking smirk.

He was looming over you, still looking self-assured while reducing you to a pleading mess under him. One hand left your hip and dragged slowly up your spine, sending shivers through you, then gripped your hair and pulled your head back slightly.

“Do you like what you see, herbivore?”

You opened your mouth to answer, but only a surprised moan escaped them as he bottomed out inside you in one thrust. Despite how he had prepared you earlier, you can still feel his cock stretching you. You could see the way you sucked in a breath, the way you tried to relax around him even as your walls were throbbing uncontrollably.

It made it worse. Or better. You didn’t know anymore.

Because now you were trapped in it. Your own reactions reflected back at you, laid bare, magnified, undeniable.

He exhaled a heaving sigh, throwing his head back and groaned at the feeling of you contracting around him. When his gaze dropped back to you, it was heavier, focused.

His thrusts were slow at first, letting you adjust to the pressure before picking up a rhythm, rocking his hips into you as his hand joined the other in gripping your hips. You could tell that you were gonna carry his fingerprints on your hips for a few days after this, but you couldn’t care less right now.

You watched yourself in the mirror - the way your posture shifted, your legs spread slightly to make room for him, your mouth parted in breathy moans, your hips tried to move with him, the way control slips from you piece by piece.

“Sensitive,” His lips brushed your ear, close enough to make your breath stutter again. “I barely have to try.”

“Leona-” Your voice breaked slightly, and he hummed low in response, the sound vibrating against your skin.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Moan my name.”

His hands tightened at your hips, guiding the rhythm, and the next movements were stronger, making your support falter as a sharper sound slipped past your lips. Your head tipped back instinctively, your body arching into him, your body held up less by your own arms and more by his grip on you. His hand returned to your jaw, steadying you, pulling your focus back to the mirror.

“Keep your eyes ahead.”

He changed his pace, slow, then faster, then easing back again. You couldn’t follow it. You tried to match his rhythm, but he didn’t let you settle in it long enough before changing it again, leaving you grasping at something that was already gone. A helpless mewl slipped from your throat. It was disorienting, frustrating, making your chest tighten, your thoughts blur.

“Fuck me properly… Please…”

“With pleasure.” He chuckled, then wrapping his arm around your throat and shifting you into straddling him as he knelt down behind you. Your eyes rolled back as he fucked upwards into you, his tip pressing against your cervix and poking out in your belly obscenely. To make it worse, his hand pressed flat against that bulge, making all words leave your mind. You let out mindless moans and clawed your nails into his arm.

“Look at yourself,” he murmurs, voice dipping lower, almost coaxing now. “Or are you too out of it now?”

Your reflection proved him right. Your lips were parted, drool leaked out through the corners of your mouth, tears of pleasure and overwhelm clouded your vision. Your body moved instinctively now as you tried to meet his thrusts. Every small reaction felt amplified under his gaze, under the way he watched you, taking note of every detail.

“You are forgetting your manners,” he added suddenly.

Your thoughts are scattered, slipping through your moans. “I- what-”

He nipped the tip of your ear. “Who knows? Let’s see how many thrusts it takes until you remember.”

The next motions were brutal. He pulled all the way out until only the tip remained inside, then pushed it to the hilt in one thrust, over and over again. The force of it stole the breath from your lungs, your body jolting as sensation crashed over you in waves. You didn’t know whether he wanted to make you remember or to fuck all thought out of you now. 

His hand, that had been on your hip this entire time, moved to  grab one of your bouncing breasts, then pulled on your hard nipple. A shocking sensation ran straight from your nipple to your brain, and definitely didn’t help the mess in your mind right now.

“Oh… Sevens… Leona… Leona…” His name left your lips between moans, not out of conscious thought, more like a mindless mantra now.

“There it is. Good girl. My name should be the only thing on your mind now.” He rewarded you with a hard spank on your ass cheek, making your walls clench tight around him and pulling a hiss out of him.

His thumb came down to rub your clit and a broken sound escaped you. Then he slapped your clit and pistoned into you. Every nerve lit, every sensation heightened, every movement pulling you further into that overwhelming haze. Your nails dug deeper into his skin, drawing out droplets of blood as the orgasm spread to even the tip of your limbs. A sharp squirt of fluid shot from your pussy, soaking the bed sheets beneath you.

However, he didn’t ease his thrusts after you came. You cried and begged, saying that your pussy was too overstimulated. But even while you were pleading, every time he slid out, your lips would cling onto him, wishing he’d stay inside. You were so wet the squelching sound was almost as loud as his groans.

He leaned his weight over you. His hand found its place between your shoulder blades, and pressed your upper body down, flush against the bed sheets before grabbing your wrists and holding them captive behind your back. Your tears and drool wetted the sheets as your moans got louder and higher, bouncing between the walls of his room.

“Come on, be a good prey and give me one more…” He could feel his balls tightening as his release started to bubble up to the surface. The steady rhythm broke apart, turning uneven, almost frantic. Each motion came faster than the last, heavier, driven by instinct rather than precision. His grip tightening, his breath growing harsher as everything narrowed down to that single point.

Your breath hitched sharply, breaking into a gasp as the sudden change overwhelmed you further. Your eyes fluttered, then rolled back to the back of your head as it finally crashed over you, your body giving in completely, tightening then spilling around him. He loomed over you, his hand left your wrist and reached out, wanting to brace himself-

-but ending up pushing the mirror toppled over.

You could feel his warm cum stuffing you full at the same time as you heard the sudden, violent shatter of the mirror. The sound cut through the moment, splintering through the room as glass broke apart and fell in a glittering cascade.

For a second, your mind couldn’t catch up. The contrast was disorienting.

Pleasure hadn’t faded yet. It lingered, heavy and slow, still curling through your body, making your limbs feel weak, your thoughts hazy, yet the sharp echo of shattering glass was impossible to ignore.

For a moment, neither of you move.

Your breathing was loud in your ears, fast and uneven, dragging you back piece by piece. Your chest rose and fell as each breath easing you back to reality. Back to the sight of Leona’s body covering you, as if he was shielding you from the crash. 

“…Tch.” A low, irritated sound under his breath.

He forced himself back into control, pulling that raw edge back beneath the surface. Slowly, he rose up, his grip on you easing as the tension drained from his posture. He reluctantly pulled out of you, then his arms wrapped around your waist and pulled you plush against him.

“Hey,” he murmured, the edge from the climax still remained even as he tried to soften his tone. “You alright?”

You nodded, still catching your breath, and he exhaled. His hand brushed your sweat-slick hair out of your face, then his thumb rubbed lightly against your cheek.

“You should’ve covered your face,” he muttered.

“…You told me not to.”

A quiet huff escaped him. “Yeah. I did.”

He didn’t say anything else for a moment, just stayed there, letting you both catch your breath. You can feel your mind coming back to you as you nestled into his warmth. Then his arms released your waist. One hand slid behind your back, the other beneath your legs and he lifted you up into his arms.

“Stay still”, he carried you off the bed, watching his steps as he took you to the en suite bathroom.

You wrapped your arms around his neck. “Guess it felt too good to you too. Didn’t expect you to ruin that mirror.”

-> Next chapter

The invitation from the Sunset Savanna had arrived gilded, formal, and unmistakably political.

The stated purpose was infrastructure: the Savanna’s outer regions had long struggled with water access, and the Asim family, with their wealth and reach, had both the means and the interest to assist. And Kalim had been allowed to join the delegation.

“Father said it’d be a good learning experience!” he’d said, bright as ever, already halfway out the door before the details had fully settled. And where Kalim went, Jamil followed.

After the welcoming party at the capital, the delegation set out toward the project site, which lay far from the capital, in one of the Savanna’s drier regions. To reach it, they would need to cross a stretch of desert that cut between two zones. It was an old route, long-established, well-traveled by trade caravans and royal transports alike. With experienced guides, enough supplies, and royal guards accompanying them, the atmosphere remained light as they set out across the sand.

The desert stretched out ahead of them in broad, sunlit waves - pale gold and bleached stone, the horizon trembling faintly in the heat. Nothing about it suggested anything beyond the long, steady crossing they had been told to expect.

Which was why, when the wind shifted, no one thought much of it.

At first, it was only an inconvenience. Cloaks snapped harder against shoulders. People raised their voices to be heard over the gusts.

But the wind did not ease.

Sand came in sheets now, hissing across stone, needling against exposed skin, erasing the horizon. Protective barriers flickered to life across the delegation in practiced succession. For a brief moment, the storm seemed held at bay.

Then the magic started to fail.

A barrier on the far end of the convoy warped strangely, the light bending out of shape before collapsing the gusts. Another spell sputtered the instant it formed. A mage swore. Someone shouted for the guards to regroup.

And then, a spiral rose from the sand wall ahead. The sound it made was too low and layered to be only air, more like a hundred voices ground down beneath the howl.

“Move!”

The tornado struck the convoy like a hand tearing through cloth.

Jamil threw up a barrier and reached for Kalim. Magic flared hot through his hands, coiling bright and controlled for a second before the storm hit it head-on. The barrier shuddered then crumpled like glass.

His footing vanished. For one moment there was nothing but noise, the bite of sand across his face, and the sickening feeling of being lifted and hurled away.

When he hit the ground, it drove the breath from him.

Jamil rolled hard against stone, coughed sand, and forced himself upright. The storm still screamed around him, thinner now but no less hostile.

“Kalim!”

No answer. He casted searching spells again and again but the magic frayed as soon as it left his hand. It wasn’t blocked, but distorted. It felt like the desert itself had begun swallowing whatever it was fed.

Jamil clenched his jaw and turned. Then he found Leona several paces away, half-braced against the wind, one arm thrown over his face. Of all people.

Jamil straightened at once. “Where is the others?”

Leona lowered his arm and glanced once into the storm. “If I knew, I wouldn’t still be standing here.”

Jamil ignored the bite in his tone and immediately took a step forward. “Then I’m going back.”

Leona’s hand closed around his wrist. “Use your head”, he growled.

Jamil jerked against him. “Kalim is out there.”

“No kidding.” Leona’s eyes narrowed. “This isn’t a normal storm. I know you can sense it.”

Jamil wished he hadn’t. Beneath the grit and dry heat was something stale and ancient, like long-sealed stone cracked open under the sun. His stomach tightened.

Leona released his wrist at last. “Whatever got dragged up in this mess is interfering with spells. If you go charging blind through it, you’ll die before you get ten steps.”

A tremor ran through the sand beneath them. Both of them froze.

It was subtle at first, a low shift underfoot. Then the surface ahead of them gave a soft, wet sigh and collapsed inward.

“Move!” Leona snapped.

They sprang back just as the ground where they had been standing caved in entirely, the sand dropping away into a pit so deep they couldn’t see its bottom. More cracks spread outward from it, spidering across the surface.

Something below them was waking, rearranging the ground from underneath like a creature turning in its sleep. Another section slumped away ten meters to their right. Then another.

“The storm exposed some kind of mana pocket,” Leona said, his voice clipped. “Ancient one. I distinctly remember reading this in the royal library years ago.”

Jamil’s phone buzzed in his pocket. One fractured pulse of signal, then nothing. He yanked it out anyway. Dead silence. No Kalim. No team.

“Run,” Leona said. There’s no point arguing with that.

The desert gave way under them in irregular bursts, forcing them to leap, veer, or throw up momentary footholds of magic.

Then came the sound. A high, vibrating note drifted through the storm, thin at first, almost delicate.

Jamil looked up sharply.

Something was moving overhead.

It came fast, plunging out of the wall of sand. For an instant the shape made no sense: long body, clawed forelimbs, a head too angular to be bird or beast, and wings like transparent blades vibrating so quickly they sang as they cut the air. Sand spiraled in their wake, cloaking the creature.

Another shrieked somewhere to the left. Then another.

Leona’s expression hardened. “Desert Spirit.”

Jamil almost laughed at the absurdity of that name right before the first one dove for them.

He shoved Leona back.

A curved barrier intercepted the creature’s claws before they could slide across their throats. The impact rang through Jamil’s arms. The thing recoiled midair, its wings singing violently as it vanished into the storm again.

“What are you doing?” Leona snarled.

“Protecting you. What else?”

Another creature came at them from behind. Jamil turned first, catching the strike with magic, then another with his own body twisted between Leona and the attack. A claw tore across his sleeve and into skin. Pain burned hot down his arm.

They ran again, but the rhythm between them felt wrong.

A beast lunged low through the storm and Jamil caught it with a spell to the jaw. Leona moved at the same instant, probably to strike from the flank, and the two of them collided shoulder to shoulder, nearly knocking each other off balance.

“Stop getting in my way,” Leona snapped.

Jamil stared at him. “I just kept that thing off you.”

“Did I ask you to?”

They found a dark, half-buried ruin surrounded by the sandstorm. Stone pillars broke off at the midpoint. Interior rooms swallowed by drifting sand but still solid enough to break the force of the wind. They made it inside between one shrieking pass of the creatures and the next.

The difference was immediate. Outside, the storm raged like a living thing. Inside, the air fell into a tense, dust-filled hush. The singing of wings overhead was only distant now.

Jamil leaned one hand against the wall and finally let himself breathe.

Blood had soaked through his sleeve. Sand clung to the cut in a dark paste. There were bruises forming under his ribs. Across from him, Leona had a split lip and blood on his knuckles, but otherwise looked relatively intact.

Jamil reached automatically for healing supplies.

Leona watched him for all of three seconds before saying, “You done?”

Jamil glanced up from his bandage. “Excuse me?”

“With getting in my fucking way.” Leona pushed off the wall and closed the distance between them. “You keep throwing yourself in front of me.”

Jamil’s fingers stilled for half a second before he resumed wrapping the cloth tighter than necessary. “The Asim family will chew my head off if I ever let an important figure like you bleed unnecessarily. Not to mention your royal family too.”

Leona let out a short, humorless breath. “You’ve got one hell of a haughty attitude for somebody bleeding all over the floor.”

“Haughty,” Jamil repeated, flat.

“Yeah. Haughty.” Leona’s gaze didn’t waver. “You decide what everyone around you can and can’t handle. You decide who needs saving.” His lip curled slightly. “Then you get pissed when reality doesn’t match whatever you made up in your head.”

“That’s not what this is.” The response came too quickly.

“No? Then what is it?”

Jamil opened his mouth, and nothing came out.

But he knew the answer. He had lived by it, shaped himself around it, repeated it until it started sounding like the truth.

That’s what I’m supposed to do. Protecting people. And making sure things don’t fall apart.

Leona’s eyes narrowed slightly, watching him struggle.

Jamil forced his jaw to set. “I’m keeping things under control,” he said at last. “Someone has to. If I don’t step in, people get hurt.”

“People got hurt anyway,” Leona cut in. “Or did you miss that part?”

Leona stepped closer, close enough that Jamil had to tilt his head slightly to keep his gaze. “This is unnecessary. You know I could handle it.”

The words landed like a slap because they were true. Not because Jamil was weak. He wasn’t. But Leona Kingscholar was something else entirely. Massive reserves, brutal efficiency, instinctive control that made power look effortless.

And still, he had acted as though Leona required managing. Like if he didn’t intervene, then everything would fall apart.

Jamil set the bandage down. “If you think I’m such a burden, then leave me here.”

Leona stared at him for a second, then looked honestly disgusted. “Why you gotta swing from one extreme to the next?” he said. “Were you repressed growin’ up or something? Do better than that.”

Jamil looked away first. Silence pressed in around them, thick and unmoving, broken only by the distant howl of the storm outside. He exhaled slowly, forcing his breathing to steady.

For as long as he could remember, Jamil had known exactly where he stood. 

Behind. Beneath. Out of sight.

Kalim walked ahead - laughing, careless, bright - and Jamil followed. Adjusting, correcting, smoothing over every misstep before it could become a problem. That was how things stayed stable. That was how things stayed safe. That was how he stayed safe.

Don’t stand out.

Don’t overstep.

Don’t let anything go wrong.

For someone that had spent their entire life making themselves smaller, being called haughty was like an insult. He had learned exactly how much space he was allowed to take and never once crossed it.

But the memory was already there. The way he’d stepped in without thinking. Again and again. The way he’d moved in front, not alongside. The way he’d assumed - without question - that if he didn’t act, something would go wrong.

Was Leona right? Had resentment twisted into arrogance so badly that Jamil could no longer tell the difference?

Jamil inhaled slowly, then pressed the heel of his hand against the cut in his arm. He still did not like hearing any of it from Leona.

When they stepped back out into the storm, the tension was still there, thick enough they could cut through it with a knife. 

Jamil still refused to hand off his role, until karma came biting him in the ass.

One of the winged monsters burst from the sand cloud above them. Jamil turned to pin it with magic at the same instant Leona lunged forward to draw the attack into his range. Jamil’s spell forced the creature sideways directly into Leona’s blind spot, and Leona had to wrench his body around mid-strike to avoid taking the claws to the throat.

He succeeded. Its talons tore across his arm instead.

Leona landed hard, teeth gritted as blood ran dark over sun-kissed skin. The creature died a heartbeat later under Leona’s magic, its body shredding into sand before it flew away in the wind, but the damage was done.

For one terrible moment Jamil expected Leona to turn on him.

Instead Leona wrapped one hand over the wound, glanced once at Jamil, and said through his teeth, “You done yet?”

Jamil stared at the blood, then at the storm beyond them, then forced himself to swallow the urge to take control.

“…Fine,” he said.

Leona didn’t respond. He chose a path and took it, cutting across the unstable ground. Jamil followed. For a step. Two. Then his instincts kicked in. The slope ahead was uneven. The sand shifted too easily. The angle-

Jamil’s hand twitched, magic already gathering at his fingertips. To put on reinforce the ground. To attack an incoming monster. Put up a barrier on their left-

But he forced it down. The interruption sat right there, coiled and ready, but he didn’t act on it. Instead, he watched Leona shift his weight cleanly, using the unstable ground instead of fighting it, and making a clear way through the sand.

He watched a flying monster charge towards them, watched Leona drawing the attack’s direction away from them and dissolving it with a counter spell. Jamil didn’t try to interrupt Leona’s attack, just cleared the debris kicked up behind Leona’s movement to settle the field and keep their vision.

Leona chose the route. Jamil reinforced the stable points just before they gave way, subtle enough not to disrupt the momentum. When another creature lunged from the side, Jamil didn’t intercept the strike - he cut off its escape path instead, pinning it long enough for Leona to finish it cleanly.

They were almost efficient. Jamil still hated it. Because it meant all those moments he’d stepped in before hadn’t been necessary. But he swallowed it down. The main priority was getting out of here after all.

But the storm still wanted them dead. A larger creature found them.

The first sign was silence. The winged monsters vanished. Their singing cut off all at once.

Then the cliff edge emerged through the storm. The ground ahead broke sharply, its lower reaches lost in the blowing sand and exposed stone. And standing between them and the only stable path around it was something enormous.

It hauled itself from beneath the earth.

Its hide was layered in thick, stone-like plates furred over with sand, its limbs too heavy for speed but horrifyingly strong, its head crowned in jagged ridges that looked more geological than biological. Ancient magic pulsed through the cracks in its body like something dragged up from the foundation of the land.

Drawn by blood. By magic. By the storm itself.

Jamil felt his remaining reserves and knew how little he had left. Leona must have known too.

But they had no other choices.

Their spells struck hide and either glanced off or sank only shallowly before the creature surged through them. Each casting burned through their nearly empty reserves.

The cliffside gave way in chunks around them.

Jamil took a hit to the ribs that sent him skidding over gravel and nearly over the edge. Leona yanked him back one-handed, then turned and drove a blast into the creature’s shoulder hard enough to stagger it three steps. The recoil opened his wounded arm again. Blood ran freely now.

The beast lowered its head and charged.

Jamil tried to cast and felt the spell break in his hands. He was too spent.

There was a brief, terrible pause in which the outcome became obvious.

Only one of them was making it out of this alive if the thing was going to be stopped here. And that could count as lucky.

“No-” Jamil started.

Leona moved.

He slammed a line of force into the ground between Jamil and the creature, blasting open a narrow escape angle toward the more stable edge of the cliff path. Jamil stumbled through it on reflex, and in that same instant Leona turned and met the charge head-on.

“Leona!”

The beast struck.

For one impossible second, Leona held. Then he dug in, sand roaring up around him as his magic finally broke loose in full. It tore through the fractured stone under the creature’s feet, into the cliff face, into the unstable terrain beneath them. King’s Roar dislocated rock, reducing the structure to ruin.

The cliff collapsed.

The creature bellowed. The edge gave way in a thunder of rock and sand. And Leona went down with it.

Jamil reached the edge in time to see him vanish into the storm below. Then the desert swallowed everything.

The sound took longer to stop than the fall did. Rock, wind, shifting sand. Then, slowly, the storm began to die. The violent pull in the air loosened. The wall of sand thinned. The charged, hostile pressure earlier ebbed like blood leaving a wound.

Leona had taken the monster down. Along with the center of the magic zone. Now there was nothing left.

Jamil stood at the cliff edge, shaking, staring into a depth that was unbelievably still now. For a moment, his body leaned forward, to calculate distance, angle, possibility. As if there was still something he could do.

But there wasn’t. The realization settled in, quiet and absolute.

Jamil exhaled slowly and stepped back from the edge. Voices carried faintly through the thinning air. Magic - steady, controlled, familiar - no longer warping as it spread outward in search patterns. The broken rhythm of the storm gave way to something structured. Organized. Alive.

“Kalim.”

He retraced the path through sand that had already begun to settle, following the pull of those searching magic until shapes emerged through the haze. Figures, cloaked and armed, regrouped at the edge of the broken terrain.

“Kalim!”

Kalim broke from the cluster, running straight toward Jamil, sand kicking up at his heels. “Jamil!”

Jamil barely had time to brace before Kalim collided into him, arms locking tight around his shoulders. “You’re okay- thank the Seven, you’re okay-” Kalim’s voice rushed out, uneven, relief spilling over itself. “We lost contact, everything went crazy, the storm just- people got scattered and I couldn’t find you and I thought-”

“I’m fine,” Jamil said, steady, automatic. His hands came up a second later, resting against Kalim’s back, not pushing him away, not quite returning the embrace either.

Kalim stilled for a second, then nodded quickly. His gaze turned back to the group. “We’re still accounting for everyone. Some got separated, but the guards are bringing them in. It’s just-” He hesitated. “It’s a mess.”

Jamil nodded once, following Kalim’s line of sight. Behind him, the guards had gone quiet. Jamil felt it before he fully registered it. The way their eyes lingered on him.

One of the guards stepped forward, greeting Jamil, asking about his injuries, and then, “Was there anyone else with you?” he asked.

Jamil met his gaze without hesitation. “We were separated during the storm.”

“That’s unfortunate.” The guard’s tone didn’t change. But his eyes did. “We’ll continue the search,” he added after a beat, then stepped back into formation.

Kalim glanced between them, unease creeping into his expression. “They’ll find everyone,” he said quickly, like he needed it to be true. “They have to. Leona’s strong, he wouldn’t just-”

Jamil didn’t respond. The wind shifted again, lighter now, carrying the last of the storm away across the dunes. Far beyond their sight on the horizon, the cliff stood broken and silent. Buried.

Jamil turned his back to it. “Let’s go,” he said.

Kalim hesitated for half a second, then nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

The locker room buzzed with overlapping noises - laughter, shouted calls, the sharp snap of lockers closing. The air was thick with sweat and anticipation, the kind that clung to your skin before a real match. My hands were shaking and clammy as I tried to recount the tactic one last time before the game. This was the first time I got the chance to be in the starting lineup and I couldn’t mess this up. 

Beyond the walls, the roar of the crowd swelled, bleeding into the room in waves. The bell rang, cutting through everything at once.

We moved.

The team filed out together, boots scraping, magic flickering faintly in the air. The noise only grew louder as we stepped onto the field, the stands already alive.

Up ahead, our housewarden walked at the front. His head held high and his steps steady while I felt like the pressure was eating me alive.

The referee’s whistle split the air.

The game began.

It had only been a few minutes, but the game was already suffocating. Magic cracked through the air, players streaking past in blurs of color and wind, the pressure pressing in from every direction at once. 

The disc burned hot against my palm when it came to me, barely steady for a second before I hurled it toward Leona Kingscholar. He caught it effortlessly but something immediately felt off. 

His head was tilted slightly, gaze cast over his shoulder, not at the field, not at any of us, but toward the audience stands. A chill crept down my spine. Why there? I spared a glance past him in that split second, scanning for anything out of place. An opponent slipping through? A hidden play forming? But there was nothing, just rows of spectators, indistinct and noisy, exactly as they should be.

Then Leona moved, and the disc shot straight up into the sky, cutting clean through the air in a near-perfect vertical line until it vanished into the clouds. 

For a heartbeat, I forgot how to breathe. That wasn’t part of the plan. My mind scrambled, flipping through every tactic we had reviewed, every signal, every formation. Nothing matched. Had I missed something? Or had he seen something none of us did and adjusted on the spot? That would be just like him, but then why wasn’t he moving? I waited for the follow-up, for him to shift position, to command us into something new, but he didn’t. Leona remained exactly where he was, hovering in place, gaze still fixed on the stands as if the match unfolding around him had nothing to do with him at all.

The rest of us didn’t have that luxury. Players surged upward, both teams scrambling toward where the disc would fall. Magic flared and bodies collided mid-flight in a desperate attempt to predict its descent. The formation broke, reformed, broke again in the chaos, but Leona didn’t even look up. 

Frustration coiled tight in my chest, sharp and disorienting. What was he doing? The question barely had time to settle before a streak tore through the clouds. Ruggie. He snatched the disc cleanly out of the air and dove straight for the goal, slipping past the disoriented defenders before they could even react. 

Score. 

The tension snapped all at once, my breath rushing out of me in a shaky exhale. Right. Of course. This had been intentional. Leona had seen it from the start, set it up before any of us realized. This was his tactic, and I’d simply been too slow to understand.

Even as the thought settled, something about it refused to sit right. I glanced back at him, and for a fleeting moment, his expression shifted. The tension in his shoulders eased, something unspoken loosening in the set of his posture. He looked… relieved. And there, just for an instant, the faintest hint of a smile touched his lips. It vanished as quickly as it appeared. 

His brow furrowed, his gaze sharpened, and in the next heartbeat he moved, cutting cleanly back into position at the center of the formation, directing the flow of the game with absolute control. As if he had never looked away at all.

The rest of the game dissolved into a blur of motion and noise. The wind roared past my ears as I chased the disc again and again. I had never felt anything like this. My chest tight, my limbs buzzing with a constant tremor that refused to settle.

When the referee’s whistle split the air, my heart was slamming hard against my ribs to the point I felt like my heart was about to burst straight out of my chest. Hands clapped against my back, voices shouted over one another, and before I could process it, I was already being swept along with the team back into the locker room.

The space was thick with noise and heat - laughter, shouting, the sharp smell of sweat and magic hanging heavy in the air. Arms slung over my shoulders, someone yelling right next to my ear, everything blending into a dizzying rush that made it hard to think.

And yet, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Leona slip out of the room. The contrast was jarring enough to cut through the haze. I pulled myself free from the celebration, muttered a quick excuse, and followed after him.

He turned the corner, and I quickened my steps. But I stopped short when I saw someone waiting at the far end of the hallway.

They stood still, a white cane folded loosely in one hand, dark glasses resting over their eyes. Their head tilted slightly at the sound of approaching footsteps.

Leona walked straight toward them. And for a second, I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. Leona closed the distance in a few long strides, his hand settling at the small of their back, drawing them closer. He leaned down and pressed a brief kiss to their forehead. They smiled immediately, leaning into him as if they had been waiting for that exact touch.

Were they… his lover?

I slipped back behind the corner, peering out just enough to watch.

“You played so well,” they said, voice warm and certain. “The commentator couldn’t stop talking about you.”

Leona huffed, flicking their forehead. “Of course, who do you think I am? But you shouldn’t sit so close to the goal. There’s a barrier but anything might’ve happened. A disk could’ve hit your head and made you stupider than you already are.”

They chuckled, rubbing their forehead before tapping his stomach with the cane in retaliation. “And how would you know where I sat? I didn’t tell you.”

Leona clicked his tongue, swatting the cane aside, but there was no real force behind it. “I have my ways.”

They hummed, unconvinced but amused, their hand briefly catching the edge of his sleeve. The scene started feeling too private for me, so I slipped away, retreating back toward the locker room as quietly as I could.

While contemplating about why I hadn’t heard that Leona had a blind lover before, a fist slammed down onto my head.

“The fuck?!” I snapped, jerking upright, only to freeze when meeting Leona’s glare.

“Cut your stalking habit,” he growled at me, then slipped back into the noise of the others. Okay, maybe keeping my mouth shut was the better idea.

Two weeks later, I pulled up the match recording, hoping to pick up something from the seniors.

The game played out just as I remembered - fast, overwhelming, impossible to keep up with. Then it reached Leona’s strange move. 

The disc shot straight into the sky, vanishing into the clouds. The camera swept across the stands to catch the crowd’s reaction.

Row after row of faces tilted upward. Everyone looked up, following the disk. Except one. Right behind the goal. They were still facing forward.

…Ah.

The night breeze brushed cool fingers against your cheeks, tugging at your hair as you hurried toward the entrance of Savanaclaw. The dorm was mostly quiet at this hour, the heavy silence of late night settling over the halls. Only a few seniors lingered in the lounge, sprawled lazily around a low table as they tossed cards down and muttered half-hearted arguments over the game. One of them glanced up when you passed. You gave a casual nod in greeting before slipping toward the staircase.

Your footsteps softened as you climbed, the winding walkway dimly lit by the faint glow of the dorm’s lamps. Shadows stretched across the walls like long claws, and the whole place carried the slow, sleepy stillness of a pride resting for the night.

At the end of the corridor waited the door to the largest bedroom in the dorm.

Locked.

Of course it was. You had expected as much.

Still, it wasn’t enough to discourage you. Not when you knew a far more convenient entrance existed.

A quick climb later, you landed lightly on the balcony, steadying yourself against the railing before peering inside through the very wide and very unlocked window. There, you found the all too familiar lion beastman, laying stretched across the bed, his mane spilling across the pillow, chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths. To anyone else, he would have looked perfectly asleep. 

Keyword: looked. 

Because the traitorous tail hanging off the edge of the bed kept flicking lazily through the air, swishing back and forth as if it were busy fighting an invisible enemy.

“You know pretending doesn’t work when your tail keeps moving,” you whispered.

His ear twitched. “Get out before I throw you out the window, herbivore.”

“I’ve heard that threat like a thousand times now.”

“You’ve gotten way too comfortable around here. One day I might bite one of those scrawny limbs off.”

You shrugged and sat on the edge of his bed. “Come on, don’t be such a grump. You know I’m not letting you sleep anyway.”

He turned the other way.

“Leona.”

No response.

“Leona”.

His tail flicked harder.

“Leona.”

“…If you say my name one more time,” he muttered into the pillow, “I’m burying you in the sand.”

“Leona.”

He groaned loudly and sat up. “Fine, what are you here for? Don’t tell me you’re into a deal with that cephalopunk again. Because I won’t save your ass this time.”

“No, I would never!... Well maybe. But that’s not why I’m here.” You pulled out 2 controllers. “Let’s play Mario Kart! Whoever wins gets their lunch covered tomorrow!”

He looked at you like you had grown an additional head. “It’s 2AM.” “Exactly!” Leona narrowed his eyes at you. “You broke into my room at 2AM to lose at Mario Kart?”

“You never know. What if I win free lunch for the whole week?”

Leona rolled his eyes but still took a controller from your hands. You plugged the game in and sat down next to him with a confident smirk on your face. Sure, he was good at chess and everything else he touched, but Mario Kart? That was your territory.

With that mindset, you started the game and even graciously let him pick the first course. You leaned back with a smug grin as the race countdown began.

Free lunch coming up!

Or so you thought.

The moment the race started, Leona’s kart shot forward like a predator spotting prey. Within seconds he was ramming into you, spinning your kart sideways, and hurling every possible item straight at your face. Shells. Bananas. Something explosive you didn’t even recognize.

Your character flipped, skidded, and tumbled down the track while his zoomed past like nothing happened.

Your cheeks burned hotter with every lap, creeping dangerously close to the color of Riddle’s hair.

How dare he?

You hadn’t wanted to stoop this low. But desperate times called for desperate measures.

While he was busy launching another attack, you casually leaned over and unplugged his controller.

His kart immediately swerved off the road and crashed into a wall.

Victory.

…Or so you thought again.

Before you could react, he snatched your controller straight out of your hands and drove your kart as far away from the finish line as possible—straight into a field, into a wall, into several other very humiliating obstacles.

He then tossed your controller back with an infuriating smirk, plugged his in again and crossed the finish line.

Okay. Cheating plan A had failed. But cheating plan B was still very much available.

You waited for the moment where he was completely focused on the scene, grabbed the nearest pillow and swung it directly into his face. The impact was solid, muffled, and extremely satisfying. In the same motion, you grabbed his controller and flung it aside. Perfect plan, perfect execution, you were speeding towards the goal.

Not so perfect when the same pillow landed right on your head and sent you toppled over though. But since when were you the one stepping down from a challenge? So now it was less Mario Kart and more Savanaclaw Kart where two determined pillow-armed soldiers launched themselves at each other.

Unfortunately, it turned out fighting a six-foot-one athletic lion beastman was not the wisest tactical decision. You learned that lesson firsthand when he knocked you off the bed, sending you sprawling onto his floor. You counted yourself lucky that the only weapon involved was only a pillow.

For a second there was silence.

You stayed where you had fallen, staring up at the ceiling while the pillow lay abandoned beside you. The room was still, save for the faint hum of the game menu looping in the background and the quiet rustle of Leona shifting above.

Then your shoulders started shaking.

A snort escaped first, small and helpless, before a full guffaw burst out of you. The laughter spilled out before you could stop it, loud and unrestrained.

Leona stared down at you for a moment like you had completely lost your mind. Then a low chuckle slipped out of him too. The tension in the room dissolved instantly, leaving behind nothing but the lingering warmth of the ridiculous fight.

Still laughing under your breath, you pushed yourself up and climbed back onto the bed, settling beside him. The abandoned game continued flashing colors across the screen, but neither of you paid it any attention anymore.

Instead, you both turned toward the open window.

Cool night air drifted through the room, carrying the distant sounds of the sleeping dorm. Outside, the sky stretched wide and clear, scattered with bright stars that shimmered against the darkness.

They looked especially bright tonight.

You pointed at a random group of stars. “That one’s the lion constellation.”

Leona scoffed. “…That’s a frying pan.”

“It looks like a lion.”

“You need glasses.”

“And you need a cane, grampa. Maybe you’re too old for this school if you lack imagination.”

You winced when an elbow jabbed into your side. “Watch it,” Leona muttered, though he didn’t bother moving away.

Then you two talked about ancient magic, then penguins, then infrastructure, then finding out which vegetables are the most disgusting (which, according to the lion-sized toddler beside you, was everything)...

Your voices rose and fell in the quiet room, half serious, half teasing, the kind of pointless conversation that only happened when sleep felt miles away.

The sun barraged you with its blazing heat, and being surrounded by sweaty school boys didn’t help. After the morning classes, you decided that a cafeteria sandwich and a trip to the botanical garden were much needed. The moment you arrived, though, you realized you were not alone - a familiar lion tail flicked around behind a tree.

Glancing behind the tree, you found Leona lying on his side with his head propped up. A chessboard lay in front of him, pieces arranged in careful formation. His emerald eyes were half-lidded in that familiar aloof expression, you couldn’t tell whether he was bored or thinking three moves ahead.

You shifted your attention to the chessboard. On the board, black had made aggressive strides - knights already deep in enemy territory, a bishop slicing across the board blade-like - while white pieces shrank to their side, taking up only a quarter of the board.

Leona reached forward and moved a white pawn.

Then he immediately picked up a black rook and slid it across the board with quiet precision.

Minutes passed by and the white seemed to be in a worse position, pitiful pieces barely clinging on. You expected the lion beastman to wrap up the game quickly to move on to another one of his endless solo plays.

But he stopped and glared at the board, as if the thing had personally offended him.

“Hm.”

His voice was low, unimpressed.

“Didn’t think it would come to this.”

The housewarden picked up the black knight, turning it between his fingers. Only then did you notice the piece was older than the rest - its edges slightly worn, the polished wood dulled from use. A knight was carved mid-rear, mane flowing back in exaggerated curls, looking very similar to a lion’s mane.

He set the piece down.

The game unfolded differently after that. White began to move with quiet patience, its pieces closing ranks around a single pawn and shepherding it steadily across the board until queening. Alongside its new queen, the white swiftly dismantled the remaining black pieces until the game reached that familiar stage where the outcome was obvious long before the final move.

“Impressive moves. I didn’t think it could turn out like that,” you finished off the black king.

“It’s because you’re an idiot.”

“Hey-”

He ignored your protest and reached for the black knight again. He turned it slowly between his fingers again, thumb brushing over the worn carving of its mane. For a moment, his gaze drifted somewhere far away - past the garden, past the college, somewhere sun-scorched and endless.

Then he scoffed to himself.

“Should’ve known better.”

You must’ve looked comically confused and he must’ve been in a strange mood because he then had the courtesy to explain to you.

“I used to play a game exactly like this with this exact piece when I was hip-height. With Kifaji, if you bother to remember him. He was the white, and I was the black. Foolishly thinking I finally had my first win against that old bird, humbled right after.”

“He then started his year-long lecture of how strategy can overcome disadvantages. How there are many ways to play with the pieces you’re dealt. Blah blah blah.”

“Used to believe that,” he flicked the knight away. It fell carelessly on the grass. “Turns out the pieces don’t matter if the game’s rigged.”

You picked up the knight he had thrown away and rearranged the board with the black on your side.

“What are you doing?”

“Since when did I go easy on anyone?”

“Playing.”

He scoffed. “You barely know how the pieces move.”

“Then go easy on me.”

His tail flicked annoyedly, but he played anyway.

A few games passed much as you had expected. The arrogant lion dismantled your side piece by piece, rarely even looking up from the board.

In one match, he captured everything until only your king remained wandering the board alone. He let it drift for a few turns before leisurely closing the trap and checkmating you. The bastard.

Eventually another game settled into a familiar pattern. Your pieces were scattered, his still comfortably placed. Only a matter of time before the board collapsed again. You moved the black knight. It landed in the territory of his queen.

He chuckled in mockery. “You didn’t see that?”

“I did.”

You shrugged. “Because it felt right.”

“Then why play it?”

Leona studied the board, then the knight, then you. And he didn’t immediately destroy the move. 

Several turns later, black checkmated white.

He stared at the board for a long time, then picked up the black knight again, turning it slowly between his fingers. The same gesture as before, but felt different now.

He set the piece down right in the middle of the chessboard. “I could’ve finished you off 10 minutes ago.”

“I figured. I had many stupid moves, even I could tell. Does the honorable Leona have the heart to spare me once today?”

He glared at you, then closed his eyes and lay down on his back. “I wanted to see where you were going with it. You had a strategy. Looked like you were hoping I’d fall for it, even while acting nonchalant.”

You lay down on the grass next to him, your hand against your eyes to filter out the sunlight. “Too bad you noticed it. I thought I was slick. But it worked out in the end, right? Guess the mind game still worked, though not how I envisioned things to do.”

“That stupid move did change the flow of the game.”

“And made it my game, evidently.” you chuckled, which earned you a tail swat across your face. “Rude!”

You sat up, picked up the black knight and placed it on top of his chest. You continued, “wasn’t it just like what Kifaji said? You take the pieces you’re dealt, read the board carefully, then strike where no one expects it, and turn it into your game. Take a lot of hope, but it can work.”

“But we can still hope, can’t we? Even if the game is rigged from the start.”

“Hope is stupid.”