The south tower was quiet.

Which, in Alois Aguirre’s experience, could only mean one of two things: either something was about to catch fire, or something already did and is just waiting for him to find it.

He stood in the center of the room, his shorter frame surrounded by painfully organized spellbooks and glowing containment runes. And, of course, the haunted silence of a man who had screamed into a pillow for twenty minutes before showing up to work.

“I am a respected academic,” he mutters to absolutely no one. The room is empty, save for an imaginary audience.

“I studied under the Forgotten Flame himself. I can cast a silence ward with a single word.”

Alois abruptly stops, gaze settling on a tapestry. He turns away from it, only to turn right back to it – tossing his hands up in the air in pure, unbridled frustration.

“And yet they speak over me. Every. Single. Lesson. And I let them!”

He’d begun pacing before he’d even noticed, cloak billowing behind him like a sad war banner before – “They mispronounced tenebris as ‘tennis bris.’ They asked me if the Moon Phases section of the spellbook was ‘just for werewolves.’ They used a levitation charm to try and fold laundry.”

Oh, look at that. He’s back to ranting at the tapestry, like its very existence is a crime against humanity.

“Do you know what they did last week?” No, it’s a tapestry. But he isn’t looking for an answer.

“They cast a frost spell. Indoors. Then slipped on their own ice patch. And when I asked why, they said – and I quote – ‘I wanted to feel something.’”

A heated glare at the carefully woven thread before him, before a slow, defeated sigh. Arms crossing over his chest like a petulant child, brows furrowed and nose scrunched.

“They’re the royal heir,” he muttered. “Fated ruler. Blood of the stars. Brightest hope of the kingdom.”

His voice cracked. Maybe it’d give out. Maybe this is it. It’s not, though. It never is.

“But they enchanted a chair. A chair. Because they were lonely.”

Alois sits on the edge of his desk, running a hand over his features with a broken exhale – “And of course they’re sweet. Sweet and polite and they say ‘thank you, Master Aguirre’ like I’m some kind of divine gift and not the only thing standing between them and a magical obituary.”

He can’t help but glare at the floorboards. The ones you keep burning. The ones he tells the castle staff not to replace because there’s no hope for them. Their life is over, so long as you exist.

“... they smell good though,” he grumbles, voice barely above a whisper. “Like clean parchment and warmth and trouble. I shouldn’t like that. I don’t like that. Except that I do. Because my brain is, apparently, broken beyond repair.”

And his eyes close, before a sigh so deep it sounds like it’s coming from a disappointed grandmother.

“I think I have a crush on a royal fire hazard.”

Of course, that’s the moment you decide to show up for your lesson. The very second the words leave his lips, coated in frustration and begrudging adoration, you’re pushing the door open without a single care. All Alois can manage is an inhale. Slow, deep, not even looking up. It’s like a man preparing for his judgment day. Probably because it may as well be.

He stands. Smooths out his robe. Schools his expression into something refined and respectable. Like it’s supposed to be. Because he’s mature, and professional, and the most powerful mage around. For sure.

“Your Highness,” he speaks, voice clear. As if he hadn’t gone on a ten-minute spiral. As if he wasn’t complaining about you one second, and professing his love the next.

“You’re quite early today, I see.”

You aren’t. Actually, you’re like 30 minutes late. He’s just trying to save face and his job. Maybe his sanity, too.