Sylus Drakareth Vezmera had never followed anyone in his life.

But now, he followed a silent, invisible, constant thread straight into Arcane Academy.

He didn’t come with a title. Not as a prince. Not as a royal heir. Not even as a political envoy. He came as a professor and accepted a full rotating instructor role under the guise of “combat strategy specialization,” covering multiple advanced disciplines: Strength & Conditioning. Hand-to-Hand Combat. Strategic Negotiation. And the elite High-Tier Spell Structuring course.

It gave him proximity.

What it didn’t give him was relief.

Every class was a new kind of hell.

Because Renee was everywhere, and Damien was always within reach.

He couldn’t touch her, speak to her beyond professional bounds, or smell anything but Damien on her skin.

And it was driving him mad.

Every day was the same torment. She moved like a goddess, laughed without knowing he existed, and leaned into Damien with unconscious intimacy. A hand on his arm. A head tilt. Shared looks. Quiet inside jokes that burned holes in Sylus’s control.

The tipping point came during his Strength & Conditioning session.

The class gathered on the eastern field at dawn — a sprawling track lined with obstacle columns, mana-weighted walls, sprint lanes, and four floating platforms rigged to test coordination and speed under pressure.

Strength & Conditioning was a weekly nightmare for most students.

For Sylus, it was a chance to observe.

Or at least, it had been.

Today, it was a test.

He scanned the roster and barked a single order.

“Reed. Nosfera. Sinclare. Sforza. Front.”

The four names from the leaderboard.

The top of the school. His torment.

The others stepped back, curious and murmuring. Everyone knew these four didn’t often compete together.

Sylus pointed to the start line.

“You’ll run the full course. No magic. Pure body. Let’s see what your reputations are made of.”

Xavier Reed cracked his neck and gave a slight shrug.

Renee tied her hair back, unbothered.

Damien smirked, already eyeing her.

Chris Sforza groaned softly. “I didn’t stretch.”

“Three,” Sylus said. “Two. One.”

Go.

They launched off the platform like arrows.

Xavier moved like a shadow — all muscle and air, clearing obstacles with unnatural agility. Renee was a breath behind, graceful and relentless. Damien kept pace, raw and grounded, force driving his every step. Chris… lagged.

By the time they reached the final platform, Xavier hit first. Renee a second later. Damien landed with a grunt. Chris clambered up last, muttering the whole way.

“Gods,” Chris wheezed. “Do we not believe in ranged mages anymore?”

Renee grinned. “Want to try sprinting from the back of a griffin next time?”

Damien leaned back. “You’d still beat him.”

“Shut up,” Chris snapped. “A real mage doesn’t need to move on a battlefield. That’s our pride.”

Xavier grinned. “Is that why you enchant chairs to move for you?”

“You’re just jealous of my battlefield ergonomics.”

“Pride of the static caster,” Xavier joked.

“You joke, but the moment I need to move, my spells move for me.”

Renee laughed, breathless and flushed.

Damien stepped beside her. “I prefer my spells after cardio.”

“You like me after cardio,” she murmured, voice low.

He leaned in. “Only if you’re still warm.”

The words were soft, too soft for humans.

But Sylus wasn’t human and heard every word.

He watched Damien lift her into his arms — bridal-style — and leap off the platform with a casual, smug flourish. She curled into his chest, laughing.

His dragon’s hearing caught it effortlessly:

“If you carry me like this later, I might let you unwrap me like a present.”

“Better than a ribbon. I know what you like under pressure.”

Something snapped.

Sylus’s clipboard cracked in his hands — split clean in two, wood splintering.

The class jolted at the sound.

Even Renee turned.

His voice came sharp, lethal.

“This is a school,” Sylus growled, “not a brothel.”

Everyone stilled.

“You want to play games, do it off my field. Adjust your attitude — or I’ll adjust it for you.”

Renee stared at him, brow lifting.

Damien stepped forward, jaw tense. “You’ve got a problem, professor?”

Sylus didn’t answer. Just turned sharply and walked off.

It didn’t stop there.

Every class that week ended in tension.

A glance exchanged between Renee and Damien — Sylus would snap.

A soft laugh. A quick touch. A wink.

Snap.

He shouted over training sessions, snapped at posture, and corrected with unnecessary force. Students whispered. Renee said nothing.

But her squad?

They had already drawn their conclusion.

Chris called him “Lord Temper Tantrum” behind his back.

Xavier smirked but said little.

Renee didn’t speak to him.

And Damien?

Damien watched him like a predator sizing up something old, bitter, and in the way.

It started as routine.

High-Tier Spell Structuring, third bell. Sylus took attendance by habit, gave the day's sequence, and ignored the knot in his chest when Renee stepped behind him to assist.

Officially, she wasn’t on the staff.

Unofficially?

She'd earned enough respect—and delivered results sharp enough—that no one argued when she stepped in to stabilize a student’s casting or correct flawed incantation vectors.

She didn’t interrupt often. She didn’t need to.

But today, it was Lance.

Sylus didn’t usually pay special attention to Lance.

The boy was raw magic — unruly, unrefined, temperamental. Powerful, yes, but poorly anchored. There were dozens like him across the realms. What caught Sylus’s eye wasn’t Lance himself.

It was Renee.

She had started assisting more and more in the High-Tier Spelling Structuring course, offering corrections mid-sequence and stabilizers before students even asked. She was poised and methodical—more instructor than a peer.

Sylus let it go. She was qualified.

But what bothered him was her increasing focus on Lance.

At first, it was logistical. Lance had trouble regulating his mana — particularly when drawing from what he called his “dragon force.” The flare levels were inconsistent. Too hot. Too fast. Too instinct-driven.

It made sense that someone would try to help him.

But why her and not him?

Why didn’t Lance come to me? Sylus thought one afternoon, arms crossed as he watched Renee kneel beside Lance’s spell ring, murmuring instructions.

He’s the dragon here. I’m a shifter. A born descendant. And they’re treating me like I’m the substitute teacher.

His eyes narrowed.

Lance sat on the floor, breathing hard from a failed casting surge, sweat at his temples. Renee was calm — not even winded — and speaking in that sharp, low tone she used when her mind was ten steps ahead.

“Don’t push through the block,” she said. “It’s not resistance. It’s recall. The flare wants permission, not command.”

Lance frowned. “What does that even mean?”

“Dragon force doesn’t behave like structured mana. It remembers heat. If you fight it, it surges. You want to invite it. Let it nest.”

Sylus blinked.

No one outside the clans should know that.

“Visualize your flame in your chest — not as a weapon. As a hoard,” Renee continued. “You guard it. You don’t throw it.”

Sylus straightened slightly.

That wasn’t a metaphor. That was coded lore. Old clan teaching — passed only through dragonshifter bloodlines. Not even their allies knew it. It wasn’t written. It was lived.

His jaw tensed.

Lance tried again, stabilizing the formation. Sylus almost missed it because of how well Renee framed it.

“Let your lungs expand around the flame,” she said. “Dragon hearts don’t sit still — they pulse with want. Let it rise, and let it stay.”

Sylus stared at her.

How do you know that?

How could she possibly—

Then it happened, and Lance lost control.

The spell snapped under internal pressure. Lance’s aura burst upward, wild and golden, mana threads sparking uncontrollably. His breath caught — his voice cracked — and the glyph circle cracked under his feet.

Sylus moved, instinct already triggered.

But Renee was faster.

She stepped forward. Raised her hand.

“Lance,” she said, calm but sharp. “Breathe.”

He didn’t. His eyes flashed. His skin glowed. His breath turned to steam. His aura lashed.

“Lance.”

He turned on her, too far gone.

Then she growled.

It was low.

Soft.

Not human.

A sound built of bone and legacy — old as the first hoarded flame.

Lance collapsed.

Like a beast told to kneel.

Dropped to the ground, panting, aura extinguished like a snuffed torch.

The entire room froze.

Students were stunned. A few backed away. One girl stared openly, jaw slack.

But Sylus — Sylus wasn’t just stunned.

He was deranged.

He heard that growl with every fiber of his soul.

A submission growl.

Not copied. Not borrowed.

Born.

She had spoken it like memory.

Like instinct.

Sylus didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Not as Renee helped Lance up, murmured soft instructions, and smoothed the edges of the class back into order like nothing unusual had happened.

But his eyes didn’t leave her.

His thoughts wouldn’t stop racing.

That wasn’t magic.

That wasn’t performance.

That was something she was.

And that terrified him more than he would ever admit.