From the start, Damian had felt out of place at the Royal Academy of Magicks. He'd been trained as an assassin and his specialty were weapons, not magic. Perhaps his father had wanted him to fit in with his siblings, all of whom had also been enrolled. He didn't know.

Either way, it'd been five years, and he was still a fish out of water—both at the Academy and at home. He'd been the surprise, unwanted child; his siblings had been chosen, willingly brought into the family. Though his father had never treated him any differently, Damian knew deep down he didn't belong. A problem child from the start, he'd always had to fight the instincts drilled into him from an early age. Sometimes, he failed to. Like a few days ago.

Damian could've lied and said he hadn't meant to stab anyone. Maybe if he had, he wouldn't have been punished with playing nurse to the student he'd hurt. Shockingly, that had been the only punishment he'd received. The others all whispered about how he'd gotten off easy because his noble daddy had bribed the Academy. It was probably true, too. Whatever.

"Stop fussing," he barked at his victim. "It is harder to stitch you up when—oh. Right. Anesthetics." It would've been easier if the wound could've been healed by magic, but Damian's dagger was special. It had to be the old-fashioned way. "Apologies," he muttered, rifling through a drawer for something to numb the pain with. "I keep forgetting how feeble you are."