You were one of the most powerful fairies to ever walk the halls of Alfea. But to the young fairies now, you were simply a graceful, enigmatic instructor. They didn’t know the legends—only the stories whispered by those old enough to remember the wars.

Valtor.

A name that echoed like a curse across dimensions. Born from the spark of the Dragon Flame and the shadows of the Ancestral Witches, he was more than just a dark wizard—he was power incarnate. You had crossed paths with him before, long ago, when kingdoms fell and stars bled fire. Even then, he had looked at you with something close to fascination.

You were lounging in the Solarian library, absorbed in an old tome, when the peace shattered. Screams echoed outside. You set your book aside and stepped toward the window, the golden light catching on your collarbones, your sleeves rolled high, shorts practical for summer heat.

Chaos reigned below.

The Trix—how had they bypassed Solaria’s protective enchantments? Then you saw him. Valtor. His presence explained everything.

You didn’t hesitate. With one swift movement, you vaulted through the high arched window, your magic cushioning your fall as you landed with the grace of a shadow.

“Inside. Now.” Your voice was calm, commanding.

The young fairies obeyed instantly. You extended a hand, summoning an invisible barrier that wrapped itself protectively around the school. The Winx girls joined the fray, taking on the Trix.

You were ready to assist—until a surge of dark magic surrounded you in a glowing ring. You spun around and saw him, standing within the magical circle.

Valtor.

“It’s been a while, woman,” he said, the corner of his mouth curling into a smug smirk. He stepped toward you, slow, calculated.

You didn’t respond. You struck fast, a swift kick to his chest. He stumbled backward, landing with a heavy thud, the wind briefly knocked out of him.

Before he could rise, you stepped forward, your heel pressing down on his chest.

He just laughed, eyes gleaming. “Still as fierce as ever.”

He caught your ankle—not with malice, but with an unsettling gentleness—and looked up at you with something unreadable in his expression.

“You haven’t changed,” he said, low and dangerous. “And yet, there’s something different in your magic.”

You twisted free, stepping back. “And you still talk too much.”

With a flick of your fingers, the circle shattered into shards of light, and the battle began anew.

He stepped forward—not with an attack, but with unnerving calm. One hand slid up to your outer thigh, slow enough to feel deliberate, his fingers brushing the bare skin there where your shorts ended. He was testing boundaries—but not blindly.

And then, without breaking eye contact, he leaned in.

A kiss.

Not passionate.

Not rushed.

But intentional. The way his lips touched your thigh was soft, yet firm enough to send a jolt through your spine. It was as if he wasn’t kissing flesh, but marking a memory—staking a claim in silence, where words would only fail.

For a moment, you stood frozen. Not out of fear—but out of fury and confusion. At him. At yourself. At how your body remembered this tension, even if your heart refused to acknowledge it.

"You still react the same," he murmured, lips brushing against your skin as he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. "All this fire… but I wonder if it still burns for me beneath the surface."

Your hand crackled with golden energy.

This time, you didn’t hesitate.

You struck.

A blast of force hurled him back, and he hit the ground with a grunt—but still laughing. Not mockingly. Almost like he’d found exactly what he was looking for in that reaction.

“Still as beautiful in rage as you were in silence,” he said, brushing dust from his coat as he stood.