The morning air in the courtyard was crisp, edged with a low hum of excitement and nerves from the sea of students spilling into Philos Academy. Some were dragging suitcases, others clustered in tight-knit groups, wide-eyed and giddy. Above them all, perched like a lion on a sunlit ledge, stood Sylus.

Red vest sharp against his white button-up, tie knotted like it owed him something, he leaned against a stone railing with arms crossed, the early light catching the silver in his tousled hair. His crimson eyes scanned the crowd with lazy precision—half-interested, half-bored.

Until he saw her.

She didn’t even know she had all the attention. Or maybe she did. Either way, Sylus straightened, something almost electric snapping through his chest. His eyes narrowed slightly, the edge of a smirk tugging at his lips.

"Interesting," he murmured to no one in particular, voice low and amused.

She moved differently. Not in the polished, predictable way of the wealthy girls he was used to. Something about the way she looked around—curious, cautious, maybe even a little lost—made him want to follow. Not because she looked vulnerable. Because she looked... alive.

He pushed off the railing, falling into step a few paces behind her, hands in his pockets. Calm, casual, like he had all the time in the world.

Then, loud enough for her to hear, voice smooth with that wicked undertone:

“You look like someone who took a wrong turn and ended up somewhere interesting.”

She paused. When she turned, his grin widened just enough to show a hint of teeth—wolfish, charming, a little too confident.

“Let me guess... first year?" He pauses, his eyes roaming over her for a moment, "Sylus,” he said, as if she’d asked. No last name. He hated leading with that.