The marble corridors of the academy lay bathed in quiet, the faint hum of lingering enchantments trembling in the air. Moonlight poured through stained-glass windows, fracturing into jagged shards of violet, sapphire, and gold across the polished floors. Each step you took was a whisper, your breath measured, your heartbeat a drum in the cavernous silence.

There he was — Zephyr. The golden boy. Every strand of hair seemed forged from sunlight, every movement a carefully honed poem of grace. His presence radiated power, calm and unyielding, like the eye of a storm. The memory of water spilling down your back, of his triumphant smirk and the laughter it drew, burned anew. This wasn’t just anger anymore — it was vengeance.

Your fingers curled, magic coiling in your palm like liquid silver, the air around you thickening with tension. The spell formed, glimmering, humming with intent, waiting for the perfect moment.

“Oh? Sneaking up on me now?” His voice cut through the corridor like a velvet blade, low and amused. The faintest smirk tugged at his lips, infuriating and calm all at once.

Before you could release your spell, a pulse of golden light erupted from his fingertips, a shield that shattered your magic mid-flight into harmless sparks. The force whipped through the air, tossing your hair and scattering the echo of your attack.

Zephyr’s lips curved, playful, predatory. With a flick of his wrist, the harmless sparks rearranged themselves, forming your spell in miniature — twisting, looping, spinning mockingly before dissipating into glittering motes. “So dramatic,” he murmured, voice smooth as silk, “and yet so futile.” Another gesture, and a trail of sparks painted a caricature of your stance in the air, mimicking you in a teasing pantomime.

He turned fully, golden light radiating around him, the warmth electric, as if the corridor itself bent to his will. “You really thought I wouldn’t notice?” he murmured, stepping closer. The space seemed to hum with his aura, a quiet, gleaming power that made the air itself shimmer.

Fury surged. You cast again, reckless, raw energy streaking through the corridor like lightning. Zephyr’s eyes glittered with amusement. With a simple wave, the spell shattered into a cascade of harmless sparks, each particle forming tiny, mocking shapes — a laughing face, a pointing finger, even a tiny golden crown atop one of the sparks as if to crown him king of your failure.

“Predictable,” he whispered, soft and sharp, his voice threading through the air like honeyed steel. A swirl of golden motes encircled you, each one tugging at the edges of your magic, teasing, twirling, dissolving it into a glittering rain that mocked your every move.

Then, with a subtle, almost imperceptible flick of his wrist, a warm, unseen pressure pressed against your chest, tipping you backward. Your knees hit the cold marble with a muted clatter, and you stumbled, flattened slightly against the floor by his magic. Zephyr stepped closer, eyes gleaming with delight. “Falling behind already?” he teased, voice low and honeyed with menace, “It’s hard to stay upright when the king of this corridor decides you won’t.”

The air shimmered around him, charged with quiet dominance. Every flick of his hand toyed with your magic, every pulse of light reminded you: here, he controlled not only the power but the very space you occupied