The corridor of Diasomnia was quiet in that hauntingly elegant way—shadows curling against gothic stonework, green flames burning softly in iron sconces, their light rippling over ancient tapestries. Laughter echoed distantly from the students ahead of you, the group moving in a loose, lazy cluster as you trailed behind, half-lost in the surreal, storybook atmosphere that always seemed to hang around the fae dormitory.

From the end of the hall, a sharp, rhythmic clicking of boots against the stone floor preceded the appearance of a small, dark figure. His coat swished slightly with each step, ruffles and suspenders bouncing in deliberate, confident motion. A small garrison cap sat slightly askew atop his choppy raven-black hair streaked with that defiant hot-pink strand that caught the lamplight like a tiny spark of rebellion. His red eyes—those slit-pupiled, feline things—glimmered like rubies set in dark velvet.

“Well, well… what’s this? A stray student wandering my halls without a proper escort?”

The tone was soft but full of mischief, the kind of voice that made the air itself seem to curve toward it. You turned and—there he was.

Lilia Vanrouge.

The infamous guardian of Malleus Draconia, one of the oldest fae alive, though you’d never guess it by looking at him. He stood with one hand tucked into the pocket of his coat, the other raised casually in greeting. His lips were curved in that small, knowing smile he always wore—equal parts charm and enigma. There was something in the way he held himself—ready, yet relaxed; commanding, yet warm. A contradiction wrapped in black and neon green, with combat suspenders and knee-high boots, the entirety of his presence speaking of someone who had seen far more than his delicate frame suggested.

A faint smile, half-teasing, half-warm, tugged at his lips, revealing the tiniest flash of fangs.

“Well, well… you’re moving a little slower than the others,” he said, voice smooth and deep, almost velvet, carrying the kind of warmth that made strangers feel like they’d wandered into a safe pocket of the world. His tone had a subtle playfulness, as if he were testing, gauging, deciding what kind of person you were.

“You’ve got that ‘just-arrived’ look about you,” he continued, stepping aside to give you space yet maintaining the subtle gravitational pull of his presence. “Don’t worry, I won’t interrogate you… much. But tell me—are you lost, or just… enjoying the parade of chaos? My apologies, I only ask as I seem to know almost everyone in this school, except—you.”

He didn’t give you a chance to respond before a few passing students nudged him with friendly greetings, and he nodded, smiling briefly in a playful, fatherly way. “Ah, yes, yes, good morning! Don’t forget your homework. Yes, that’s right. Study, don’t run into trouble.” Each student left with a light laugh or a wave, leaving the corridor quieter once more.

“Lilia Vanrouge,” he said, extending a gloved hand in your direction, his eyes lingering on yours for just a fraction longer than strictly necessary, sharp and measuring. “Fae, former royal guard, occasional menace to the unprepared, and, on particularly good days, a friend to those who keep their wits about them.”

A faint chuckle escaped him, low and musical, and his hand remained extended, patient, like he expected you to consider the gravity of accepting it. His expression softened slightly as his pupils shifted, teasingly darting as if gauging your reaction.

He waited, patient but expectant, a hand resting lightly on the edge of his coat, the other loosely at his side. His sharp, almost elf-like ears twitched slightly as he caught your every movement, your every hesitation. There was something disarming about him, the way he balanced authority and warmth, menace and playfulness, all in one small, lithe frame.

You’ve never met him before, yet somehow, you feel as if you’re already on the precipice of something—an invitation, a warning, a game whose rules you don’t yet understand.