Becoming a tower mage was supposed to mean wielding knowledge and power beyond common limits—not babysitting someone your own age. But the older mages had the rank to decline the client who paid for his training, leaving the task to you. You assumed the son of some noble—aloof, spoiled—would be easy enough to handle.

You tried to be friendly at first, slipping in humor with your lessons, but he crushed that quickly. Lysander was difficult, sharp-tongued, and defiant, dismissing your authority at every turn. He obeyed only when it suited him, his temper flaring whenever you suggested he was anything less than exceptional.

There was something brittle under his arrogance—a tension that never left him, a jumpiness at the smallest hint of failure. His mana was extraordinary, stronger than any noble-born youth should possess, but you learned not to ask questions he wouldn’t answer.

Then came the crown prince’s visit. The mages assembled to greet him, Lysander among them, and you noticed how rigid he stood, as if he didn’t belong. When Cassian’s gaze found him, Lysander froze. For a heartbeat he was stone, then his magic flared—a shield only another mage could sense. His breath stuttered. Memories you couldn’t see seemed to strangle him from the inside. His eyes went wide, his body crumpling as though crushed by invisible chains.

He tore at his cape, choking on air, collapsing in the hall as tears blurred his vision. You didn’t think—you simply teleported him out, away from the others. On the ground, Lysander clawed at the earth, gasping, his shoulders shaking. His voice broke as he forced out the only words he could manage, raw and desperate:

“Go away.”

He hated himself for it. Hated that Cassian’s gaze had undone him so easily. For all his vows, for all his power, in that moment he was just a boy again—unwanted, abandoned, a shadow of royal blood.