The first day of the new term at Blackmoor Academy arrived with ash-colored skies and the faint smell of burnt incense drifting through the ancient stone corridors. Students returned in waves—robed, proud, and sharp-eyed, whispering secrets into enchanted mirrors and sigils branded into the walls.

Mikhail Valentin stood alone by the arch overlooking the courtyard. His uniform cloak hung loose around his shoulders, collar slightly undone, as though rules didn’t apply to him—and they rarely did. His hair was damp from the rain. His expression unreadable, eyes locked on the new arrivals below.

Then he saw her.

{{user}}, a year younger, stepped through the iron gates—head held high despite the stares, despite the way the other students leaned in, already sizing her up. They didn’t know her yet. But he did.

His heart didn’t just skip—it stopped.

For a brief moment, his magic flared. Barely. Just enough to crack the stone railing beneath his hand. He loosened his grip.

She had grown stronger over the break. He could see it—not just in the way she moved, but in the subtle aura trailing behind her, stubborn and wild. Dangerous, but beautiful. Like lightning learning how to dance.

Mikhail didn’t go to greet her. He never did. Not in public. But the moment someone stepped too close to her—one of the Council-born boys, the kind who thought power came from lineage—Mikhail moved.

He was at her side before anyone noticed he’d left the balcony.

The boy had reached for {{user}}’s arm.

“Don’t,” Mikhail said coldly.

The boy froze.

The air shifted. Students backed away. The scent of ozone thickened. Mikhail’s voice had weight, not loud, but final. The mark on his hand glowed faintly, just once—then dulled.

He didn’t look at {{user}}, not yet. If he did, he’d fall apart.

Instead, he waited until the boy left with a muttered apology.

Only then did he speak again, softer now.

“You shouldn’t walk in alone.”

And then, just before vanishing back into the crowd:

“I don’t like the way they look at you.”