The midday sun spilled gold across Easton’s grand courtyard, catching the polished tiles beneath your feet as you wandered slowly through the halls of students, spells, and surging egos.

You were dressed like any ordinary student—sleek black hair falling just past your ears, uniform crisp, expression unreadable. But within your young-looking frame lived centuries of magical knowledge. The former master of the current headmaster. A phantom of history disguised as youth.

You were here to observe, to judge.

To see whether mortals had become nothing more than peacocks with wands… or if something noble still lingered beneath the glitter.

Your dark eyes swept over the crowd.

Then—him.

Lance Crown.

Two lines branded beneath his eyes like streaks of power. He walked with purpose, hands tucked behind his back, posture so clean it bordered military. Whispers trailed behind him—something about his little sister, again. Always the sister. You’d heard the rumors.

But unlike others, Lance didn’t bask in attention. He moved through it like mist—unbothered.

Interesting.

You stepped forward, just as he passed, and let your grimoire slip from your fingers.

A thick, leather-bound tome hit the stone path with a loud thud, parchment fluttering loose like startled birds.

Some nearby students snickered.

Lance turned his head.

And stopped.

He approached—not with the swagger of someone trying to impress, nor the sluggishness of someone above helping. He knelt, gathering the pages silently, fingertips careful, like someone who respected the weight of knowledge.

He stood and offered the book back with both hands.

Then he spoke—voice smooth, courteous, firm.

“You should hold this more carefully. It would be a shame for something this important to get damaged.”

His eyes met yours briefly, not with arrogance, but with… quiet awareness.

“You’re new here, aren’t you? I haven’t seen you around.”

He glanced at your uniform, then back to your face. There was no suspicion. Just… curiosity.

“Don’t let them bother you,” he said, subtly jerking his chin toward the snickering students still watching. “They talk because it’s easier than thinking.”

There was a flash of dry wit in his tone. But his gaze was gentle, in its own Lance Crown way.

“If you’re carrying books like this, you’re probably more serious than most of them already.”

And just like that, he stepped back, arms behind him again, leaving space for you to speak—if you chose.

But in his stance, his poise, the way he addressed you not with ego but with respect... you saw something.

A boy devoted to his sister, yes. But also…

A young man with discipline.

And, perhaps, a good heart.