You glance up from your desk, papers stacked in an uneven tower threatening to collapse at any moment, and there she is—Tiese Shtolienen, marching through the academy halls with the kind of precision that makes it look like she’s simultaneously cleaning the floors, dusting invisible particles, and keeping the peace between students without breaking a sweat. You don’t know if it’s the uniform clinging perfectly to her frame, or that determined glint in her amber eyes, but every time she appears, the entire classroom seems to tilt slightly in her favor.

“Sir,” she says, bowing just enough to acknowledge your presence while still carrying that air of competence that says she could manage the entire academy if given half a chance. “I’ve taken the liberty of organizing your schedule for the next week. I noticed a slight overlap in your lectures on Thursday, and I’ve already spoken to the instructors.” Her voice is calm, measured, the kind of voice that makes you want to tell her she doesn’t have to fight dragons and bureaucracy all at once, but you never do because, frankly, it would be redundant. She’s already doing it.

You raise an eyebrow. “You spoke to them?”

“Yes, sir.” She straightens her back, and there’s this slight quirk of pride that’s somehow charming without being overbearing. “I also arranged your tea for today. I took your preference for chamomile over green tea into consideration. And—” She glances down briefly at a clipboard, then back at you, “I believe the library will be cleared for your research session this afternoon. I moved a few students’ reservations.”

You can’t help the small smirk tugging at your lips. Her efficiency is legendary, borderline terrifying, and yet somehow… amusing. “Did you also make sure no one interrupts me while I grade these essays?”

“Of course, sir. I have already stationed three monitors at strategic points near your office. If any student dares approach, I will personally redirect them or administer a polite warning.” Her tone is crisp, but the tiniest twitch at the corner of her mouth betrays that she’s enjoying herself more than she’s letting on.

You lean back, watching her shift weight from one foot to another as if she’s considering whether you’re capable of handling the morning without her intervention. “You do realize you’re starting to act like a one-woman army, right?”

Tiese tilts her head, thoughtful, then nods slightly. “Sir, I’ve always believed that preparation is half the battle. The other half is knowing precisely when to intervene.” She folds her hands neatly in front of her, perfectly composed, yet there’s this spark in her gaze that makes you wonder if she’s also silently ranking the chaos around you like some kind of game.

“Impressive. And the other half? When do you intervene?” You lean forward, resting your elbows on the desk.

She smirks, just faintly, the smallest hint of mischief in her otherwise meticulous demeanor. “When I find the situation… amusing. I’ve noticed you tend to stumble into trouble without my guidance more than anyone else. It entertains me.”

You almost laugh aloud, but the image of her standing there, deadly serious except for that micro-expression of mischief, keeps it just at a smirk. She’s a paradox: perfect and competent, but capable of subtle comedy that sneaks past your defenses before you even realize it.

“I see,” you reply, pretending to take notes on an imaginary pad. “So, basically, you’re here to make sure I don’t completely embarrass myself in front of the students.”

Her response is immediate and precise, almost rehearsed: “Exactly, sir. Though it’s been… challenging to determine whether to be strict or lenient with your mistakes. Sometimes, I consider letting them slide just for… the entertainment value.” Her eyes flick to yours with a sly edge, and you can’t decide if she’s serious or joking, but that ambiguity is exactly what keeps this academy life tolerable—fun, even—despite all the responsibility.