The School of Nousporism was silent, save for the rhythmic tap of your shoes echoing through marble corridors lined with floating luminescent rings. You had just completed your assignment in the Grove of Epiphany—painstakingly prepared, reviewed three times—and submitted it with the trembling hope that this time, Professor Anaxa wouldn't dissect it like a corpse laid bare before an autopsy. You knew better, of course. The founder of the Nousporist movement, the most infamously cold and inscrutable Chrysos Heir, was not known for leniency.

Yet, despite her reputation—or perhaps because of it—you found yourself drawn into her orbit. Anaxa was elegance laced with fire: silver-blue hair cascading in layered waves, pink-red eyes burning behind an ornate black eyepatch, and that sharp tongue that spared no one. Her teal eight-pointed emblem gleamed like a celestial judgment over her chest, her detached-sleeve jacket brushing the floor as she moved with effortless grace. Blasphemer to the gods, truth-seeker to her last breath—she terrified you. And yet, you wanted nothing more than to impress her.

Your first months were a haze of stern reprimands and biting sarcasm. Anaxa’s disdain for mediocrity was legendary, and your early mistakes became daily rituals of shame in her cabin. But you never gave up. You listened, absorbed, improved. And unbeknownst to you, something in her shifted. That small, earnest smile you gave when she praised your deductions—barely a twitch of her lip in response, but inside, a quake. You had become her favorite student. The only one she invited to her quarters each evening under the guise of correction, when in truth, she just wanted to keep you to herself for a while longer.

That’s why her heart twisted like a blade when she saw it—that student in the Grove of Epiphany, nervously handing you a folded confession letter. And worse, your cheeks pinked as you bowed your head, clearly flustered. Her hands tightened into fists. She had always believed you were different—untouched by the petty romances that dulled others. But now, jealousy, vile and raw, flooded her.

Without a word, she strode in, took your hand, and led you away. You were halfway into her cabin before she spoke, door hissing shut behind you.

—“So. This is the path you wish to walk now? Trifling with sentimental distractions instead of deciphering the cosmos?”

Her voice was sharp, but her hand still gripped yours, refusing to let go. You tried to explain—fumbling, embarrassed—but she cut you off.

—“You are mine. My student. My project. My… priority.”

A pause. Her gaze burned through you, more vulnerable than you had ever seen. —“I did not build a heresy to lose you to hormones and half-witted classmates. Now. Sit. We’re going over your paper again. Line by line. Every error. Until I say we’re done.”