The spiral staircase leading to Boromus Spellchecker’s office always felt a little too long—especially when one was summoned.

  But this time, Davonte Evander was not summoned. No, this was his own idea.

  Which made it so much worse.

  He adjusted his robes, ran a hand through his perpetually messy hair, and did his best to adopt an air of professionalism. He was here to propose something important. Something that could redefine the student experience at Austramore.

  And Boromus Spellchecker needed to hear it.

  The office door loomed ahead, its intricate carvings shifting subtly, as if sensing his approach.

  Davonte inhaled. He straightened his posture, lifted his chin and then knocked.

  There was a pause.

  After a moment Boromus' voice came from behind the door. “Come in, dear boy!”

  Davonte pushed the door open and stepped inside, where the Headmaster’s cluttered but cozy office awaited. Books stacked at impossible angles, enchanted trinkets hovered in the air, and in the center of it all, behind a massive, mismatched wooden desk—

  Boromus Spellchecker himself.

  The man looked exactly as he always did—like someone who had just rolled out of bed and stumbled into immense magical power entirely by accident. His silver hair was untamed, his robes were a patchwork of different fabrics (some of which seemed to be changing color even now), and his bright blue eyes twinkled with the kind of insufferable amusement that suggested he already knew this conversation was going to be entertaining.

  Davonte cleared his throat.

  “Professor Spellchecker, sir.” He did his best to sound formal, like this was a real meeting. “I’d like to propose an event for the students before the holidays.”

  Boromus steepled his fingers. “Oh? Do tell.”

  Davonte nodded, slipping into presentation mode. “Well, sir, I was recently speaking with my good friend Soya Vareen, and he introduced me to this fascinating concept from the Muggle world—cosplay.”

  Boromus blinked.

  Davonte carried on, feeling a surge of confidence. “It’s a dress-up thing! But not normal dress-up—creative dress-up. People pick characters from books and stories and dress like them. It’s, uh… a form of self-expression, you know? Art and magic and fashion all in one.”

  Boromus leaned back in his chair, rubbing his chin. “Cosplay, you say?”

  “Yes, sir,” Davonte said eagerly. “And I thought—why not bring this amazing idea to Austramore? We could host a literary costume event where students dress as characters from wizarding literature! Imagine the creativity! The fun! The historical accuracy!”

  Boromus’ eyes twinkled with immense amusement. “A fascinating notion.”

  “Right?” Davonte grinned. “People could come as famous magical figures! Merlin, Morgana, Jacko the Bold—maybe even Headmaster Spellchecker himself!”

  Boromus hummed. “A daring choice.”

  Davonte nodded sagely. “You do have a distinct aesthetic.”

  Boromus’ lips twitched. “And tell me, dear boy… do you have a character in mind for yourself?”

  Davonte hesitated. “Well, uh… I was thinking about dressing as the protagonist from The Midnight Sorcerer, but—”

  Boromus lifted a hand. “Say no more. I love it.”

  Davonte beamed.

  Boromus clasped his hands together. “There is only one problem.”

  Davonte’s smile faltered. “…Problem?”

  Boromus leaned forward slightly, amusement practically oozing from his expression.

  “My dear Davonte,” he said, voice full of unreasonable delight, “did Soya happen to explain what Muggle cosplay is actually about?”

  Davonte frowned. “Yeah! It’s about dressing up as characters from books and—”

  And then it hit him. The way Boromus was smiling. The way he was very clearly waiting for realization to dawn. The slow, creeping suspicion that something had gone terribly, terribly wrong.

  Davonte cleared his throat. “I mean… that is what it is, right?”

  Boromus just continued to smile. “Oh, absolutely. Sometimes.”

  “…Sometimes?”

  Boromus leaned back, gesturing vaguely. “Oh, well, some Muggles do indeed dress as fictional characters from books. But from what I understand, cosplay extends to all forms of media.”

  Davonte blinked. “…All?”

  “Movies. Plays. Comics. Even, ah… modern pop culture.”

  Davonte stared.

  Boromus’ grin widened. “Yes, dear boy. If we host this event exactly as you’ve described, we may very well find students arriving dressed as talking cats, alien warlords, or giant metallic men who turn into horseless carriages.”

  Silence.

  Davonte opened his mouth.

  Closed it.

  Opened it again.

  Then, very slowly, realization hit. “…So not just book characters.”

  Boromus beamed. “Not just book characters.”

  Davonte groaned, burying his face in his hands. “I really should have asked more questions.”

  Boromus patted his shoulder. “A valuable lesson in research, my boy.”

  Davonte sighed. “Well… what do you think? Could we still make it work?”

  Boromus tilted his head in consideration. Then, after a moment, he laughed. “Oh, absolutely.”

  Davonte perked up. “Really?”

  Boromus nodded. “Why not? Magic and creativity go hand in hand. If students wish to dress as their favorite characters, then so be it! A celebration of imagination and storytelling!”

  Davonte grinned. “So you’ll approve it?”

  Boromus leaned forward, eyes twinkling. “I’ll do you one better—I’ll attend.”

  Davonte’s excitement faltered slightly. “…You’re not gonna dress as a talking cat, are you?”

  Boromus tapped his chin thoughtfully. “I was considering something dramatic… perhaps a spectral owl? A wayward wizard from beyond the stars? A sentient cloak of mist?”

  Davonte groaned. “This is already getting out of hand.”

  Boromus grinned, patting his shoulder again. “Welcome to event planning, dear boy.”

  As Davonte and Boromus continued to discuss planning the event, a soft breeze blew in the window from the courtyard below, where Soya sat beneath the sprawling gum tree, his sketchbook balanced on his knees. The rhythmic scratching of his quill against the parchment filled the otherwise still morning air. He wasn’t drawing anything in particular—just letting his hand move, ink flowing effortlessly, creating shapes and lines that barely registered in his conscious mind. He had been doing this more often since the encounter with Salsiar. It was easier than thinking.

  But even lost in his own thoughts, Soya wasn’t oblivious.

  He felt the eyes on him.

  Steady, calculating, but hesitant.

  The figure shifted slightly, an outline now, silhouetted by the sun.

  Sage Blackthorn.

  For a long while, the other boy didn’t move, standing at a distance like a shadow at the edge of Soya’s world. That, in itself, was unsettling. Sage wasn’t the type to linger in silence. If he was here, it meant he wanted something.

  Soya finally lifted his head, his gaze locking onto Sage’s dark, unreadable eyes. The other boy had his hands shoved into his robes, shoulders squared, but there was something different about him—something that felt… unguarded. Vulnerable.

  That didn’t make Soya feel any better.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  “Need something?” Soya asked, keeping his voice neutral.

  Sage inhaled sharply, as if bracing himself for something difficult. Then, instead of answering, he stepped forward and, without asking, sat down across from Soya, folding his legs underneath him. The movement was stiff, awkward—like he wasn’t sure how to do this.

  Soya’s fingers tightened slightly on his quill. He didn’t trust this.

  Since the beginning of the year, Sage had been an extension of Sevrin’s cruelty, watching with that same sharp gaze, throwing words that cut just as deep as spells. But now… he was sitting here. With no sneer. No taunt. Just… silence.

  “I—” Sage exhaled sharply, running a hand through his already-messy hair. “I don’t know how to do this.”

  Soya frowned slightly. “Do what?”

  “Talk,” Sage muttered. “To you.”

  Soya blinked. That was probably the most honest thing he had ever heard come out of Sage Blackthorn’s mouth.

  A long pause stretched between them. Soya wasn’t sure if he was supposed to respond, so he simply let the silence linger. If Sage wanted to say something, he would have to do it himself.

  And eventually, he did.

  “I was wrong,” Sage said finally. The words came slow, deliberate, as if they had weight. As if it was difficult for him to say them.

  Soya stared at him, not sure how to respond to that.

  Sage let out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “That’s it? No gloating? No sarcastic remark?”

  Soya tilted his head slightly. “Do you want me to?”

  Sage’s lips twitched, something like amusement—real amusement, not his usual mocking smirk—flickering across his face before disappearing. “No,” he admitted. “I don’t think I could handle that.”

  A strange tension sat between them. Not the usual hostility. Not exactly friendship. Just… something unfamiliar.

  Soya watched as Sage’s hands clenched slightly against his knees. “I don’t expect you to believe me,” he continued. “Or forgive me. That’s not why I’m here.” His voice dipped slightly, something uncharacteristically raw slipping through. “I just—I just need to try.”

  Soya’s fingers tapped idly against his sketchbook. He didn’t know what to say to that. He wasn’t sure he even wanted to say anything.

  Sage Blackthorn had tormented him for months, and yet, here he was, trying. Soya wasn’t sure what to do with that.

  So, instead, he simply nodded once and turned back to his sketchbook.

  He didn’t tell Sage to leave.

  And Sage didn’t.

  For now, that was enough.

  The silence between Soya and Sage was thick with unspoken things. Sage, despite his best efforts, still looked uncomfortable, as if he was sitting on a hexed cushion, unsure if it would explode beneath him at any second. Soya wasn’t sure what to make of this strange attempt at conversation. He had expected hostility, smugness—anything but this hesitant awkwardness.

  The scratching of his quill against the parchment filled the void, steady and unbroken. If Sage had something else to say, he could say it. Soya wasn’t going to carry the conversation for him.

  But the next voice that broke the silence wasn’t Sage’s.

  “You’re awfully close to something you should be keeping your distance from, Blackthorn.”

  Sage stiffened.

  Soya looked up just in time to see Lykaios Verelle stepping into view, her icy blue gaze locked onto Sage like he was something foul stuck to her boot. She moved with her usual cold, calculated grace—fluid, yet unnervingly controlled.

  Soya wasn’t afraid of her, not exactly, but she was intimidating.

  Sage, however, didn’t flinch. He turned his head slightly, his expression shifting back into something more familiar—guarded, sharp, unreadable. It was almost a relief to see. At least that was normal.

  Lykaios didn’t stop walking until she was standing right beside Soya, casting a shadow over him. Her presence, though silent, was unmistakable.

  “I was talking to him,” Sage said coolly, though there was an edge to his voice.

  Lykaios tilted her head slightly. “And I’m sure whatever you were saying was incredibly fascinating, but I have other plans for him.”

  Soya blinked, glancing up at her. “Plans?”

  She turned her gaze to him. “Training.”

  Soya frowned. “Training for what?”

  Lykaios gave him a look, as if that was a stupid question. “To fight.”

  Soya’s frown deepened. “Why?”

  Lykaios exhaled through her nose, clearly irritated by the fact that she had to explain herself. “Because you were nearly kidnapped by a demon, Vareen.” Her voice was cool, unwavering. “And from what I’ve seen, that won’t be the last time something like that happens.”

  Soya swallowed.

  He knew she was right.

  Sage, who had been silent for a moment, crossed his arms. “So what? You’re his protector now?” His tone was dry, but there was something else beneath it. Something he wasn’t quite saying.

  Lykaios didn’t even glance at him. “I’m making sure he doesn’t die the next time someone comes after him.”

  Soya shifted uncomfortably. He wasn’t used to people caring about whether he could protect himself or not. And Lykaios… she was an enigma. She didn’t care about people. Not in a normal way.

  And yet, here she was.

  Training.

  Preparing him.

  Because she expected something to happen again.

  Sage’s expression darkened slightly, but he said nothing.

  Lykaios, satisfied that there was no argument, extended a hand to Soya. “Come on.”

  Soya hesitated, glancing at Sage for a fraction of a second before sighing and closing his sketchbook. He had the distinct feeling that arguing wasn’t an option.

  He took her hand, letting her pull him up to his feet.

  Sage watched silently, his expression unreadable.

  Soya didn’t know what he was feeling, but as Lykaios started walking away with him in tow, he could still feel Sage’s gaze lingering on his back.

  As Lykaios led Soya away, Sage remained where he was, watching them go with an unreadable expression. His fingers twitched slightly at his sides, but he made no move to follow. Instead, he let his voice carry after them, laced with idle curiosity.

  “I wonder,” he mused, loud enough for them to hear, “how your dear brother would react if he knew you were getting close to a Muggle-born.”

  Lykaios stopped mid-step. She didn’t turn. She didn’t even look at him.

  But the tension in the air sharpened like a blade.

  Soya felt it.

  Sage felt it.

  “Watch yourself, Blackthorn.” Her voice was calm, cold, but something lurked beneath it. Not quite anger. Not quite a warning. Something… unreadable.

  Sage simply tilted his head slightly, studying her.

  Then, without another word, Lykaios continued walking, pulling Soya along without so much as a backward glance.

  Soya didn’t say anything as they left the courtyard behind, winding through the quieter corridors of the school. He wasn’t sure what had just happened back there, but one thing was clear: Lykaios did not want to discuss it.

  Eventually, they stepped onto one of the school's training grounds—an open courtyard used for spell practice and dueling. The night air was crisp, the moon casting pale light over the stone floor.

  Lykaios let go of his wrist and turned to face him fully. "You know how to fight?” she asked bluntly.

  Soya hesitated. “I—”

  “No, you don’t,” she interrupted. “I saw you against Salsiar. You froze.”

  Soya clenched his jaw. “I didn’t freeze.”

  Lykaios raised a sharp brow. “You hesitated.”

  Soya exhaled, frustrated. “He was a demon, Lykaios.”

  “And the next thing that comes after you might be worse,” she said flatly. “You think your excuses will mean anything then?”

  Soya fell silent.

  Lykaios studied him for a moment before nodding, satisfied that he wasn’t going to argue. “Good. At least you’re smart enough to listen.”

  Soya huffed. “You’re not exactly great at making people want to listen.”

  Lykaios ignored that. “We’ll start simple.” She took a few steps back, drawing her wand. “Attack me.”

  Soya blinked. “What?”

  “Attack me.”

  Soya frowned. “That’s not how training works. Shouldn’t you be teaching me first?”

  Lykaios sighed, as if this was a massive inconvenience. “I need to see what I’m working with. Attack me.”

  Soya hesitated.

  She rolled her eyes. “You hesitate again, and I’ll attack you first.”

  Soya immediately lifted his wand. “Alright, fine.”

  Lykaios smirked.

  Soya took a breath, then flicked his wand. “Expelliarmus!”

  A simple spell. A safe spell. But Lykaios was faster.

  Protego.

  The shield snapped into place effortlessly, deflecting his spell like it was nothing.

  Soya barely had time to react before Lykaios moved.

  She didn’t attack him directly—she didn’t even use magic. Instead, she closed the distance fast, sweeping out a foot to knock him off balance.

  Soya stumbled, barely catching himself.

  “What was that?” Lykaios demanded.

  Soya shot her an incredulous look. “That was me attacking you!”

  “No,” she corrected. “That was you testing me. Like you weren’t sure if I was really going to block it.” She stepped closer, staring him down. “When someone attacks you, you don’t test them. You fight them.”

  Soya scowled. “I don’t like fighting.”

  Lykaios narrowed her eyes. “Then learn how to win fast.”

  Soya inhaled sharply through his nose.

  Lykaios stepped back, giving him space. “Again.”

  Soya adjusted his stance. He wasn’t used to dueling like this. In class, things were controlled, structured. But this?

  This was something else.

  Still, he wasn’t about to let Lykaios walk all over him.

  His fingers tightened around his wand. He exhaled slowly.

  “Depulso!”

  Lykaios sidestepped it. The spell barely grazed past her robes, striking the stone wall behind her.

  Soya’s eyes widened. She was fast.

  Before he could react, Lykaios flicked her own wand. “Flipendo.”

  The force struck his shoulder, sending him stumbling backward onto the stone floor.

  Soya groaned. “You didn’t even warn me!”

  Lykaios smirked. “Neither will the next thing that tries to kill you.”

  Soya glared up at her. “You enjoy this, don’t you?”

  She tilted her head. “Not particularly.”

  She extended a hand toward him. He hesitated, but took it, letting her pull him to his feet.

  She studied him for a moment, then said, “You’re not bad.”

  Soya frowned. “I just lost.”

  Lykaios raised a brow. “Did you think you were going to win?”

  Soya scowled. “You could’ve let me think I had a chance.”

  Lykaios exhaled through her nose, something almost like amusement flickering in her gaze. “Don’t worry, Vareen.”

  Then, without thinking, she added—

  “You’ll get better.”

  Soya blinked.

  She realized what she had said.

  Her expression didn’t change, but something inwardly shifted, like the realization was catching up to her too late.

  She meant it. She wanted him to get better., and she didn’t know why.

  Lykaios turned sharply, shoving her wand back into her robes. “Again. And this time—try harder.”

  Soya sighed but lifted his wand again.