Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was a quiet night on Sage’s Island. The Steering Committee trudged back to campus after a long evening of peeling potatoes to make up for the equipment damage they’d accidentally caused during their performance at Port Fest. The buses had already stopped running for the night, so the Committee had no choice but to hoof it. Grim was snoring away in Yuon's arms while Yuon and the rest of the Committee were practically sleepwalking.

The calm was shattered by the sound of running footsteps and a woman’s voice yelling, “GET BACK HERE, YOU SCUMBAG!!”

The group snapped to attention.

“MYAAAAAH!!” Grim flailed.

A man in a black ski mask tore through their midst, clutching a sack of stolen goods. Rook summoned his bow and quiver in an instant. But before he could even grasp an arrow, the huntsman suddenly got a snoot full of dirty rubber as someone’s boot bounced off his face like a springboard, knocking him flat on his back.

“Hands off my catch, blondie!” the same voice barked. 

Rook groaned, sitting up and rubbing his forehead. “Sacre bleu… What hit me?”

Everyone looked up to see a teenage girl in mid-air, wrist-brace slingshot in hand, chocolate-brown hair streaming behind her. Her periwinkle-blue eyes were locked on the thief, her predatory smirk daring him to run. She wore a dark olive-drab camo-pattern crop tank, tattered gray shorts, and heavy black combat boots. A utility belt, loaded with a hunting knife, slingshot ammo, and various pouches, rested snugly around her hips, while a coil of rope was slung across her chest like a sash. The girl fired a pebble from her slingshot, striking the thief square on the head and knocking him unconscious. In one swift motion, she pounced on him and had him hogtied within minutes.

“End of the line, pal!” she declared triumphantly.

A stunned silence followed, broken by Floyd’s laughter. “Nice moves, ahaha! You’re makin’ ME wanna throw down!”

The girl whirled around, startled. Jack stepped forward, resting a hand on Floyd’s shoulder. “Sorry about Floyd. He’s a little… unhinged. I’m Jack, by the way.” Jack extended his hand, and the girl shook it. The others stepped up to introduce themselves.

“Name’s Ruggiford Bucci, friends call me Ruggie.”

“S’up. I’m Yuon.”

“And I’m Grim the Great, legendary mage in training!”

“I’m Astrid,” the girl replied.

As introductions wrapped up, the thief stirred, attempting to hop away.

“Oh no, you don’t!” Astrid growled, yanking the rope and sending him face-first into the dirt.

She followed up with a swift kick to the groin, leaving him utterly incapacitated.

Ruggie’s ears twitched. “Hey, do you guys hear that?”

Everyone paused, listening intently.

“Hear what?” Yuon asked.

“Exactly!” Ruggie replied, his voice edged with curiosity. “Something’s missing here, but I can’t put my finger on what.”

The Committee exchanged puzzled glances before Floyd’s face lit up. “Hold up, I know what’s missing! Seagull’s been quiet as a dead fish this whole time!”

All eyes turned behind them. Rook was still kneeling, emerald-green eyes sparkling in the moonlight, his gaze fixed intently on Astrid.

“Oh, right,” Yuon muttered, scratching the back of his head, “Can’t believe I’m actually sayin’ this, but I totally forgot about Rook just now!”

Astrid approached Rook, taking his hand and helping him to his feet.

Sucking her teeth, she offered a sheepish apology. “Yeah, sorry I used your face as a launchpad. It was the fastest way to get past you guys and subdue my prey.”

She picked up Rook’s cap and gingerly placed it back on his head. The huntsman finally snapped out of his stupor.

“N-non, non! I am fine, really!” he stammered, his face flushed.

Astrid giggled at his flustered reaction and slung the rope over her shoulder. “Anyway, I gotta go cash this guy in for my reward.”

“Bounty hunter, huh?” Jack asked.

“You might say that,” Astrid replied with a shrug. “I take a job here and there when I need a quick Thaumark.”

She paused, then gave Rook a playful finger-wave. “Later, blondie.”

With that, she hauled the thief away into the night.

The Committee stood in stunned silence, processing the whirlwind of events.

“Well, that was… somethin’.” Yuon finally said.

Grim, now fully awake, wriggled out of Yuon’s arms and stretched. “Who was that lady? She was amazing!”

Jack nodded, “Yeah, she was. But we better hustle before somethin’ else happens.”

The group resumed their trek back to campus, the adrenaline from the encounter keeping them alert. Rook, however, couldn’t resist glancing back in the direction Astrid had gone. A strange mix of admiration and curiosity swirled within him.

“ROOK!! Get a move on, or we’re gonna leave your ass behind!” Yuon called.

“Oui! Oui!” The huntsman replied, snapping out of his thoughts and running to catch up.

When they finally reached campus, the Committee dispersed to their respective dorms, exhausted but unable to shake the night’s events from their minds. Rook, in particular, found sleep elusive. He replayed the moment Astrid had pulled him to his feet, her confident smirk, and the effortless way she’d handled the thief.

The next day, after PE, the gym locker room buzzed with activity as students showered and changed back into their school uniforms for lunch.

A teal-haired student, waiting impatiently for the showers, banged on a stall door. “Rook, dude, you’ve been in there foreve—OW!”

The door swung open with force, smacking him square in the face and sending him to the ground. A euphoric Rook strolled out, humming a cheerful tune. He moved to his locker, blow-dried his hair, and began getting dressed.

“Man, what is with this guy today?” an impala beastman muttered, glancing at Rook with two other students. They watched as Rook magically applied makeup in the mirror attached to his locker door, various implements floating around him like planets in orbit.

“Dammit… I think he busted my nose,” the teal-haired student groaned, holding a tissue to the blood trickling from his nostrils. Rook, oblivious, kicked his locker shut with a flourish and skipped toward the exit, his arrows rattling in his quiver. At that moment, Vil entered the locker room to change for Flight class.

“Ah, bon après-midi, my fair Roi du Poison!” Rook greeted his Housewarden with an exuberant grin. Without waiting for a reply, he hopped on his broom and floated out toward the Main Building, swaying into occasional loop-de-loops, still humming his mysterious tune.

Vil frowned, watching his Vice Housewarden’s unusually sprightly behavior. “Is it just me, or is Rook even more… Rook than usual?” he wondered aloud.

“You know what I think?” a dark-haired Pomefiore student chimed in. “I think Rook’s got himself a full-blown case of love!”

Vil arched an eyebrow. “Rook? In love?” he scoffed. “What’s next, the Headmage Overblotting?”

Rook’s newfound energy didn’t go unnoticed by his classmates. As he entered the Cafeteria, his thoughts lingered on Astrid. Her confident demeanor and impressive skills had left a lasting impression on him. During lunch, he absentmindedly poked at his food.

Yuon and Grim walked by, noticing his distraction. “Hey, Rook. You good, bro?”

Rook snapped out of his thoughts, a dreamy smile spreading across his face. “Oui," he replied, “I am simply… reminiscing about last night.”

Grim perked up, ever curious. “Ya mean that cool girl with the slingshot? She was awesome! Ya think we’ll see her again?”

Rook’s eyes sparkled at the thought. “Perhaps. She did mention taking the occasional chore for payment. Who knows when fate may bring her back to us?”

As the day’s classes dragged on, Rook found himself unable to shake the thought of Astrid. After school, he wandered through town, the cool breeze and rustling leaves accompanying his search for even a glimpse of the mysterious bounty hunter. Back at campus, his classmates teased him about his infatuation, but Rook paid no mind. With his heart set on learning more about Astrid, he vowed to wait patiently—or, perhaps, hunt fatefully—for her return.

Chapter Text

The sun dipped low in the sky, painting the ocean in shades of gold and amber. Rook sat on the pier, gazing out at the horizon, lost in thought.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when a voice broke the tranquil silence. “Hey, blondie. What’s up?”

Rook turned to see Astrid leaning casually against a nearby building, her slingshot in hand and a playful smirk tugging at her lips. Relief and confusion warred within him. As a half-human beastman, his heightened senses rarely failed him—yet he hadn’t heard her approach at all.

Astrid chuckled at his bewildered expression. “Surprised to see me?” she teased, twirling her slingshot effortlessly.

Rook stared at her, wide-eyed. “But I… How did you…?” he stammered, struggling to process her sudden appearance.

“It’s a skill I’ve honed over the years,” Astrid said with a grin. “Comes in especially handy when you’re stalking fairies.”

With that, she strolled over and plopped down beside him, her gaze shifting to the horizon. For a while, they sat in companionable silence, the rhythmic sound of the waves filling the air. Rook couldn’t help but steal glances at her, still marveling at her uncanny presence.

Finally, he worked up the courage to break the silence. “So… what brings you here today?”

Astrid leaned back on her hands, her expression thoughtful. “I was actually looking for you,” she admitted. “I could use some help with a job. Interested?”

Rook’s heart skipped a beat as he straightened up, striving to keep his excitement in check. “ Oui! Of course! What do you need?” he offered, attempting to mask his eagerness.

Astrid explained that she was tracking a group of smugglers who had been causing trouble in the area. She needed someone with Rook’s unique skills to help bring them to justice. Rook agreed without hesitation, his eagerness evident in the spark of determination in his eyes. As they navigated the darkening streets, Rook found himself mesmerized by Astrid’s confidence. Every step she took was purposeful, her movements fluid yet grounded. He couldn’t help but admire the grace and resolve that seemed to define her. Eventually, they arrived at an old warehouse on the outskirts of town, its silhouette looming against the fading twilight. Astrid gestured for him to stop. “Stay close and keep quiet,” she whispered, her tone calm but firm. Rook nodded, his heart pounding with a mix of anticipation and excitement.

They slipped inside, their footsteps muffled against the dusty floor. The warehouse was a maze of crates and rusting machinery, offering plenty of places to hide. From the far end of the building, muffled voices carried through the stale air. Astrid motioned for Rook to follow as she crept toward the source of the voices. Peeking around a corner, they spotted a group of men—both human and beastfolk—counting stolen goods. Astrid signaled for Rook to prepare himself, her eyes glinting with resolve. With a swift and coordinated assault, they sprang into action. Astrid’s slingshot sent pebbles flying with pinpoint accuracy, while Rook’s arrows struck with practiced precision. The smugglers barely had time to react before they were disarmed and incapacitated, their plans falling apart in mere minutes. By the end of the encounter, the men were bound and ready to be turned over to the authorities.

“Nice work, blondie,” Astrid said, giving Rook a light pat on the back.

Rook blushed, his chest swelling with pride. “ Merci , Astrid! I couldn’t have done it without you… Mademoiselle Lance-Pierre —eep!” He froze mid-sentence, his eyes widening in horror as he realized that he’d just let his new nickname for her slip. Yanking his fedora down over his face, he tried to hide his embarrassment, his cheeks flushing redder than Riddle’s hair.

Astrid tilted her head, then burst into laughter. “‘Miss Slingshot’. I like that,” she said, her tone teasing but warm.

Rook cautiously peeked one eye out from beneath his hat. “...Really? You understood that?” he stammered, still reeling from his slip-up.

“Yeah,” Astrid replied with a grin. “I’ve picked up a few words. Mostly from jobs in Fleur City.”

They walked in companionable silence after that, the rhythmic crash of waves and distant calls of seabirds filling the air.

As the moon climbed higher into the sky, Astrid stopped and stretched with a satisfied sigh. “Well, I better get going. Gotta rest up for the night. Seeya around, blondie.”

She gave him a playful salute before vanishing into the night, her silhouette disappearing as swiftly as it had appeared. Rook stood there for a moment, his heart still racing from the thrill of the night. A sense of accomplishment warmed him, but more than that, he felt an undeniable bond forming with Astrid.

Yet, beneath his growing admiration, a small grievance lingered. He mentally winced every time she called him ‘blondie’. It wasn’t the nickname itself—it was the memories it dredged up, memories he had spent years trying to bury. For now, though, Rook chose to let it go. He would face those feelings another time. For tonight, he allowed himself to savor the triumph and look forward to the adventures yet to come.

It was well past curfew by the time Rook finally made it back to Pomefiore. Slipping in quietly through the side door, he moved with practiced precision, careful not to make a sound. The dorm was silent, cloaked in the stillness of slumber. He tiptoed through the lounge, his steps as light as a feather. But just as he made it halfway across the room...

“Well, well, well.”

Rook froze mid-step, his breath catching in his throat. The lights flicked on, bathing the room in harsh brightness. Seated atop his Housewarden Throne was Vil, legs elegantly crossed and arms folded in a way that exuded authority. His sharp gaze pierced through Rook like an arrow.

“Care to explain yourself, Rook?” Vil’s voice was as cold as a winter breeze. Rook swallowed hard. Missing curfew was a serious offense in Pomefiore, and the weight of Vil’s tone left no room for misunderstanding—he was in trouble.

Taking a deep breath, Rook steadied himself. “Vil, I… I was helping a friend” he began, keeping his voice calm despite the nervous flutter in his chest.

Vil arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “A friend? At this hour? Do you truly expect me to believe that?”

Rook hesitated, then decided to be truthful. “ Oui. I was assisting Astrid, the bounty hunter we encountered yesterday. She needed help tracking down a group of smugglers causing trouble in town. We captured them and turned them over to the authorities.”

For a moment, Vil’s expression shifted ever so slightly, softening at the edges. But his eyes retained their icy edge. “And you didn’t think to inform anyone of your whereabouts?” he asked, his voice firm. “You know the rules, Rook. Pomefiore prides itself on order and punctuality. Curfew exists for a reason, and you disregarded it. I expect better from my Vice Housewarden.”

Rook nodded, guilt gnawing at him. “ Oui, oui. I understand, sir. It will not happen again.”

Vil studied him in silence for a moment, his gaze as calculating as ever, before nodding curtly. “Very well. But there will be consequences. You will be on cleaning duty for the entirety of tomorrow. Perhaps that will remind you of the importance of discipline.”

Rook bowed his head, accepting the punishment. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

As he turned to leave, Vil’s voice cut through the air once more. “And Rook?”

Rook paused, glancing back at his Housewarden.

“If this Astrid leads you into trouble again,” Vil said, his tone measured but firm, “you might want to reconsider your association with her.”

Rook nodded, though his heart tugged in protest. “Understood, sir.”

He made his way to his room, Vil’s words echoing in his mind. Yet, deep down, Rook knew he couldn’t simply walk away from Astrid. She had awakened something within him—something he couldn’t quite name. And he wasn’t ready to let it go.

Chapter Text

The Shadewings, commonly known to the general public as Sky Gypsies, lived on the fringes of society, earning their name from their nomadic lifestyle and corvid beastfolk heritage. They were the scourge of society, feared as nocturnal raiders and marauders, pillaging villages and towns both for the thrill of the hunt and out of necessity, stealing supplies and valuables alike. Women and children were captured as thralls and the men killed. All Shadewings were powerful mages, possessing magic of extraordinary potency even by beastfolk standards. Their arsenal included dire ravens, bred to serve as scouts and spies, and each Shadewing could merge with their raven to shape-shift into the form of one. They held themselves as equals to the fae and looked down on humans and other beastfolk. Legends painted the Shadewing clan as creatures of chilling beauty, their silver tongues and graceful appearance masking a violent and merciless nature. It was said that their skin was pale as snow, their sleek, black hair gleamed like a raven’s feathers, and the glow of their golden eyes in the moonlight had the power to entrance.

The Shadewing clan comprised numerous small tribes scattered across the globe, each tribe consisting of either a few families or one large extended family. Shadewing tribes rarely interacted with one another, except when summoned by the Shadewing High Council. During such gatherings, they traveled to a secret location known only to members of the clan: a sprawling, city-sized fortress called the Raven’s Roost, hidden among the highest peaks of the Shaftlands and virtually inaccessible except by flight. At the head of the High Council sat the Jarl, the most feared and enigmatic Shadewing of all. His appearances in the outside world were so rare that merely glimpsing him was considered a harbinger of doom.

The clan was acutely aware of the dangers of inbreeding, and thralls were often forced into arranged marriages to introduce fresh blood into the lineage. However, the Shadewings were ruthless in their selectivity regarding thrall offspring. Only children who displayed the clan’s signature traits—snow-pale skin, raven-black hair, and golden eyes—were permitted to live; those born with differing appearances were mercilessly culled.

The current Jarl’s wife, a thrall of fair complexion with golden-blonde hair, rosy cheeks, and sun freckles, had given birth to twin sons three years prior. Now, she was in labor with her third child.

As dawn broke over the rolling hills of the Sunset Savannah, the cries of the Jarl’s wife echoed through the halls of their secluded chateau deep within the jungle. A midwife, herself a Shadewing of ancient lineage, presided over the birth with an air of quiet efficiency. The chamber was dimly lit by enchanted orbs, their soft, silvery glow illuminating the Jarl, Noctharis, who stood at a distance, his expression inscrutable. His golden eyes flickered like molten fire in the shadows, betraying neither concern nor anticipation.

The labor was long and grueling, but at last, a single cry pierced the tense silence. Noctharis’ wife swaddled her newborn in a cloth as dark as midnight.

The midwife turned to the Jarl. “Another son,” she announced, her voice carefully measured. The Jarl stepped forward, his imposing figure casting a foreboding shadow across the bed. His wife, trembling and pale, gently uncovered the infant’s face. The boy’s features came into view: golden hair, rosy cheeks, and faint freckles—a mirror image of his mother’s warm complexion. But he was also thin and sickly, due to being a month premature.

“Ugly little thing, isn’t he?” one of the guards muttered under his breath, earning a sharp glare from the mother.

Noctharis’ lips curled in disdain as he turned his back on the scene. “Get it out of my sight,” he ordered coldly.

“He is your son!” The mother’s voice was hoarse but fierce, defying the exhaustion that wracked her body. She struggled to sit upright, clutching the edge of the bed for support.

The Jarl paused, his tone icy and final. “He’s no son of mine,” He gestured dismissively. “Dispose of it.” Noctharis did not look back as he strode out of the room, his cloak sweeping behind him like a shadow. The mother clutched her son tightly, her tears falling silently as her resolve hardened, her eyes blazing with desperate fury. The chamber fell into an uneasy silence, broken only by the soft whimpering of the infant. Slowly, she rolled onto her side, curling protectively around her child and tucking him beneath the blankets as he nursed. Her movements were deliberate, shielding him from prying eyes. The midwife watched, her expression unreadable, one eyebrow arched in silent inquiry.

“I will hide him,” the mother whispered, her voice low but firm. “To the Jarl, he barely survived an hour.” The midwife hesitated, her lips pressed into a thin line, but after a moment, she gave a small nod. The mother stroked the infant’s soft hair, her touch trembling but gentle.

“You will live,” she murmured, her voice a mixture of resolve and sorrow. “I will make sure of it.”

Chapter Text

The next morning, Rook was up before dawn, ready to tackle his cleaning duties. Though the punishment loomed over him, a spark of excitement flickered in his chest at the thought of seeing Astrid again. As he scrubbed the floors and polished the windows, his thoughts drifted back to their recent adventure. The thrill of working alongside her, the precision of their teamwork, and her effortless confidence replayed in his mind like a treasured memory. He couldn’t help but wonder what challenges they might face together in the future. During lunch, his classmates couldn’t help but notice his unusually cheerful demeanor, especially given his menial chores.

“You seem awful chipper for somebody stuck on cleanin’ duty,” Yuon commented, raising an eyebrow as he slid onto the bench beside Rook.

Rook simply smiled, his expression light and carefree. “Perhaps I am simply in good spirits,” he replied with a small shrug, careful not to reveal too much. Yuon exchanged a look with Grim, who was busily stuffing his face with grilled fish.

“Uh-huh,” Yuon muttered, clearly unconvinced but deciding to let it slide.

As the day wore on, Rook’s anticipation only grew. The moment he completed his final task, he set his cleaning supplies aside and hurried to switch uniforms. He barely took the time to smooth out his clothes before making his way into town, his steps light and quick.

The sun was beginning its descent, painting the streets in shades of gold and amber. Rook’s heart raced with hope as he wandered through the bustling market and quiet alleys, scanning every corner for a glimpse of her. He eventually found her sitting on the edge of the fountain in the park. Astrid sat with one leg propped up on the fountain’s edge, absently tossing a small pebble in the air and catching it with ease. Her slingshot rested across her lap, and the golden light of the setting sun cast a warm glow on her deep brown hair. She looked perfectly at ease, as if she had all the time in the world. Rook slowed his steps, savoring the sight before him. There was something undeniably magnetic about her—her effortless confidence, the way she seemed so in tune with her surroundings. He had met many fascinating people since arriving at Night Raven College, but Astrid… She was different.

As if sensing his presence, Astrid glanced up, a smirk curling at her lips. “Took you long enough, blondie.”

Rook winced slightly at the nickname but masked it with a smile. “ Mademoiselle Lance-Pierre, ” he greeted with a theatrical bow. “A pleasure to see you again.”

Astrid snorted, tossing her pebble aside as she stood. “You’re gonna keep calling me that, huh?”

“Only if you insist upon ‘blondie’.”

Astrid grinned, amused. “Fair enough.”

Rook tilted his head. “So, what grand adventure brings us together this evening? Another bounty to chase? A great injustice to right?”

Astrid shrugged, slipping her hands into her pockets. “Nah. No job tonight. Just figured I’d hang around town for a bit.” She nodded toward him. “And look who showed up.” Rook blinked, slightly taken aback. No mission? No urgent call for action? Just… spending time together? He wasn’t sure why that caught him so off guard, but something about it made his heart skip a beat.

“Well,” he said, quickly regaining his composure, “I suppose even a bounty hunter deserves a night of leisure.”

“Exactly,” Astrid said, already turning on her heel. “So, you coming or what?”

A slow smile spread across Rook’s face as he fell into step beside her. They wandered through the town, letting the streets guide their path. The evening air was cool and crisp, the lanterns lining the roads casting a warm glow over the cobblestone. Street vendors were packing up their stalls, leaving behind the lingering scents of roasted chestnuts and grilled seafood. They passed a small performance in the town square, where a group of musicians played lively folk tunes.

Astrid stopped, tapping her foot to the rhythm. “Not bad,” she mused.

“Ah, music!” Rook clasped his hands together, eyes twinkling. “A universal language of the soul. Do you dance, Astrid?”

She gave him a sideways glance. “Not with an audience.”

Rook chuckled. “A shame. I imagine you’d be quite the sight on the dance floor.”

Astrid rolled her eyes but smirked. “What about you? You seem like the type who’d sweep someone off their feet.”

Rook placed a hand dramatically over his heart. “You wound me, mon amie ! Do you doubt my prowess?”

“I just think you’re too dramatic to be good at it.”

“Ah, then perhaps I shall prove you wrong someday,” Rook said, his grin playful. They continued their aimless stroll, stopping occasionally to peer into shop windows or watch the occasional street performer. At one point, Astrid bought a couple of skewers from a late-night food stall and wordlessly handed one to Rook. He took it with a grateful nod, savoring the unexpected moment of quiet companionship.

They halted as Rook’s ears caught a familiar voice. “Blast those delinquents and their reckless Blastcycle riding!”

A few meters away, standing beneath a tall tree, was Professor Trein.

“Ah, Professeur Trein!” Rook called out, striding over. “What brings you here at this hour?”

The aging history teacher turned, his stern expression softening slightly. “Oh, hello, Rook. And… Astrid, was it?”

Astrid gave a lazy salute. “Guilty as charged. So, what’s the problem, teach?”

Trein sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I was returning from running a few errands when a group of reckless Blastcycle riders swerved in front of me. The sudden commotion startled Lucius, and now—”

He gestured upward. Rook and Astrid followed his gaze to see the professor’s beloved cat perched high in the branches, fur still puffed up like a porcupine. Lucius let out a pitiful meow, clearly displeased with his predicament.

Astrid smirked, crossing her arms. “Yep, that’s a problem. Cats aren’t exactly known for climbing down trees, are they?”

Trein exhaled sharply. “Indeed. And Lucius refuses to budge, no matter how much I call him.”

Rook tilted his head, studying the tree. It wasn’t particularly tall, but its dense branches made climbing tricky. “Fear not, Professeur! I shall retrieve dear Lucius in but a moment!”

Before Trein could protest, Rook gracefully leaped onto the lowest branch, then another, making his way up with the agility of a seasoned hunter. Lucius, however, was less than appreciative of the rescue attempt. His tail bristled, and he let out an indignant hiss as Rook reached for him.

“Now, now, mon cher félin, do not be afraid,” Rook cooed, carefully inching closer.

Astrid watched with a hand on her hip, amused. “He’s gonna get scratched.”

Sure enough, as Rook attempted to scoop Lucius into his arms, the cat let out a yowl and swiped at him. Rook yelped, narrowly dodging a set of sharp claws.

“Be careful with him, Rook,” Trein warned. “Lucius does not appreciate being manhandled.”

“I can see that,” Rook muttered, shaking out his stung fingers.

He shifted tactics, instead offering his arm like a perch. “Come now, mon petit roi, your loyal steward is waiting.”

Lucius hesitated, eyeing him warily. Then, with great reluctance, he stretched out a paw and cautiously stepped onto Rook’s sleeve.

“There’s a good boy,” Rook praised softly. With slow, deliberate movements, he climbed back down, finally hopping to the ground with a graceful landing. Trein immediately reached for Lucius, who leapt into his arms with an indignant mrrp!

“There, there, my dear, you’re safe now,” he soothed, stroking the feline’s fur back into place. “Rook, I suppose I must thank you for your assistance.”

“A pleasure as always, Professeur, ” Rook replied with a charming smile, giving a small bow.

Astrid let out a low whistle. “Gotta admit, blondie, that was some impressive cat whispering. I was half expecting you to come down with claw marks all over your face.”

Rook chuckled. “I am merely attuned to the hearts of creatures great and small.”

Trein adjusted his glove. “Yes, well, let’s hope your attunement extends to keeping better company.” He cast a pointed look at Astrid, then sighed. “Regardless, I appreciate your help. Now, I must get Lucius home before he has another fright.”

With that, the professor strode off, cradling his beloved pet.

Astrid stretched, a lazy grin spreading across her face. “That was fun. Now, how about we find something actually exciting to do?”

Rook cast a glance at the horizon, noting that only a sliver of sun remained. “Alas, my curfew draws near,” he lamented. “Vil was most displeased by my tardiness after our late-night escapade yesterday. I dare not incur the wrath of le Roi du Poison a second time!”

Astrid sighed, shaking her head. “That Vil Schoenheit’s such a damn snob. Seriously, would it kill the guy to take a chill pill once in a while?”

Rook chuckled, though he shook his head. “Vil simply has standards —ones he expects all of Pomefiore to uphold. Discipline is key to maintaining beauty, both inside and out.”

Astrid rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah. ‘Grace, elegance, poise’—blah, blah, blah.” She stretched her arms behind her head, then smirked. “Bet he has a meltdown if his reflection isn’t perfect .”

Rook placed a hand over his heart, feigning deep offense. “ Mademoiselle Lance-Pierre, you wound me! I assure you, Vil’s dedication to perfection is—”

“Borderline obsessive?” she interrupted, grinning.

Rook opened his mouth to argue, then sighed in defeat. “Well… perhaps a touch .”

Astrid laughed, nudging him with her elbow. “See? You do have some common sense.” The sky deepened into rich shades of violet and indigo, and the street lamps flickered to life.

Rook exhaled, regretful but resolute. “As much as I enjoy our lively exchanges, I must take my leave. I’d rather not spend tomorrow scrubbing floors again .”

Astrid smirked. “Yeah, yeah, go before your scary Housewarden has a fit. Catch you later, blondie.” Rook flinched at the nickname, but before he could protest, Astrid had already turned on her heel and disappeared into the night. He lingered for a moment, watching her go, then sighed and adjusted his hat. He had a long journey back to Pomefiore—and an even longer night of thoughts about Astrid—ahead of him.

Rook burst into the lounge, panting heavily, with a mere three minutes to spare before curfew. Rook took a moment to steady his breathing, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. The lounge was dimly lit, the grand chandelier above casting long shadows across the polished floor. He had made it—barely. Just as he was about to slip toward the staircase leading to his dorm room, a voice cut through the quiet.

“You’re cutting it quite close, Rook.”

Rook froze mid-step. Slowly, he turned to see Vil standing near the window, arms crossed, his piercing violet eyes locking onto him like a hawk spotting its prey. Though his expression was neutral, there was an unmistakable edge of disapproval in his gaze.

Rook straightened his posture, offering his most charming smile. “Ah, Vil! A beautiful evening, non ?” he said, attempting to deflect.

Vil arched a perfectly sculpted brow. “Don’t try to charm your way out of this. Where have you been?”

Rook hesitated, but he knew better than to lie—Vil would see through any deception in an instant. “I was… simply enjoying the sights and sounds of town,” he admitted. “I assure you, nothing untoward occurred.”

Vil let out a quiet sigh, rubbing his temples. “You need to be more mindful, Rook. A Vice Housewarden setting an example means following the rules, not bending them to your whims.”

Rook nodded solemnly. “ Oui, oui, I understand. It shan’t happen again.”

Vil gave him one last scrutinizing look before flicking his wrist dismissively. “See that it doesn’t. Now, get to bed. You have responsibilities tomorrow, and I expect you to be at your best.”

With a graceful bow, Rook murmured, “ Bonne nuit, my Roi du Poison, ” before swiftly making his way up the stairs. As he closed his bedroom door behind him, he let out a breath of relief. He had made it.

But as he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, his thoughts drifted to Astrid. The night’s adventure had been simple—no grand chase, no daring fight—yet somehow, he had enjoyed it just as much. A small smile tugged at his lips. He wondered when he’d see her again.

Chapter Text

For as long as he could remember, the blond boy’s entire world had been confined to his mother’s bedroom. She had trained him well—whenever someone knocked at the door, he would retreat to the back of her walk-in closet and remain silent, hidden among the folds of her robes and gowns.

But everything changed the day his triplet brothers were born.

The three-year-old boy had spent hours huddled in the dark, listening to his mother’s anguished screams, the midwife’s sharp commands, and the hushed flurry of movement in the room. Then, at last, the screams faded, replaced by the piercing cries of the three newborns: Corveth, Kaelis, and Veydris. A short silence followed, then the creak of the bedroom door swinging open and the measured tread of heavy boots entering.

“Three more flawless sons,” the midwife announced. Then she sighed. “Such a shame about the previous birth.”

“Shame?!” scoffed a man’s voice, one the boy did not recognize. His tone was razor-sharp, filled with icy contempt. “Had word of that sickly, deformed whelp spread, I would have been humiliated before the entire clan!”

The sheer venom in the man’s words made the boy flinch. In his panic, he shifted—just slightly—but the motion sent a pair of shoes tumbling off the shelf, hitting the floor with a dull thud. The room fell deathly silent.

“Hm?”

The man’s footsteps moved toward the closet. The boy’s breath caught in his throat. Trembling, he pressed himself into the farthest corner, willing himself to disappear. He had spent so long in the darkness that when the closet doors were suddenly thrown open, the light seared his vision.

“Aha!”

A rough hand clamped around his arm, yanking him forward. His little heart pounded as he was dragged into the open, his legs stumbling to keep up. Blinking through tears, he found himself staring up at the man who held him in an iron grip.

Noctharis.

The Jarl.

His father.

The boy had never met him before. And now, as he gazed into those burning golden eyes, he wished he never had. Noctharis’ grip was unrelenting, his long fingers digging into the boy’s frail arm as he lifted him off the ground as easily as one might pick up a rag doll. The child kicked instinctively, his small hands scrabbling against the Jarl’s wrist, but Noctharis barely seemed to notice.

He held the boy up to the light, scrutinizing him with a look of undisguised revulsion. “This thing is still alive?! ” he spat, his voice laced with fury. His golden eyes flicked toward the midwife. “You assured me it was dealt with!”

The midwife lowered her head, her expression carefully neutral. “My liege, I—”

“It was my doing.” The mother’s voice, weak but firm, cut through the room.

Noctharis turned his head slowly, his expression darkening as he locked eyes with her. She sat upright in the bed, her body trembling from exhaustion, but there was no mistaking the fire behind her gaze. She had defied him.

The Jarl’s jaw tightened. “You dare deceive me?!”

The mother lifted her chin, defiant even in her weakened state. “He is your son.”

“He is a disgrace!” Noctharis snarled. With a flick of his wrist, he threw the boy to the floor. The impact knocked the breath from the child’s lungs, and he curled up, gasping, his small frame trembling from the shock.

Noctharis sneered down at him. “Unfortunately,” he continued, his voice dripping with contempt, “he’s grown too big to be disposed of the traditional way.”

He cast a cold glance at the mother. “You may keep him… for now. But you will keep him hidden from the clan. Am I understood?”

“Yes, sire,” she murmured, bowing her head as the boy scrambled onto the bed and into her arms. Noctharis said nothing more. With a sharp turn, he stormed out, slamming the door behind him with such force that the very walls seemed to tremble. For a long moment, the mother simply held her son, her fingers tangling in his golden hair. Then she exhaled, a heavy, shuddering sigh of relief. The boy buried his face against her chest, clutching her tightly, as if he already understood that she was the only refuge he had in the world.

Chapter Text

A few days later, word spread through Night Raven College about the mysterious disappearances of several teenage boys from Sage’s Island and the surrounding islets. The rumors spread like wildfire, filling the halls with hushed whispers and uneasy glances. Some speculated that a rogue monster was prowling the area, while others believed it was the work of a shadowy criminal organization.

Rook, ever the hunter, listened intently as students swapped theories in the lounge. He tapped a finger against his chin, deep in thought. Vanishing without a trace—how utterly fascinating! And yet, there was something deeply unsettling about it.

At lunch, he found himself seated across from Yuon and a few Pomefiore students. “Have they found any leads?” Rook asked, breaking his usual poetic cadence in favor of something more direct.

Yuon shook his head, his expression grim. “Not much. The townsfolk are in a panic, and the local authorities have been scramblin’ for clues, but so far, nothin’ solid.”

“Do they have anything in common, these missing boys?” Rook pressed.

“Nothin’ yet,” Yuon crossed his arms. “Except that they were all around our age, late teens. Some were students, others were workers from the docks or the markets. But here’s the weird part—no signs of a struggle, no bodies, nothin’. It’s like they just… vanished.”

Rook leaned back, his mind already racing through possibilities. He had a nose for intrigue, and this mystery had just ensnared his curiosity.

As soon as class ended for the day, Rook hurried down the hill in search of Astrid, only to spot her already waiting at the bottom of the path—leaning against a lamp post, arms crossed, and an amused smirk playing on her lips.

Rook slowed his pace, catching his breath as he approached. “Ah, Mademoiselle Lance-Pierre, you never cease to surprise me,” he said with a grin.

Astrid chuckled. “Figured you’d come running the second class let out. You’re predictable, blondie.” Rook’s smile faltered for a split second at the nickname, but he quickly recovered, choosing to focus on the reason he’d sought her out in the first place.

“Have you heard the rumors?” he asked, his tone shifting to something more serious. “Teenage boys have been vanishing from Sage’s Island and the nearby islets.”

Astrid’s smirk faded, replaced by a more thoughtful expression. “Nope, first I’ve heard of it.”

Rook blinked, momentarily thrown off. “Truly? I would have thought a bounty hunter such as yourself would have caught wind of such a troubling mystery.”

Astrid shrugged, pushing off the lamp post. “Guess I’ve been too busy with other jobs. But if it’s bad enough that you’re bringing it up, then it’s worth looking into.” She shoved her hands into her pockets and started walking. “Tell me what you know.”

Rook quickly fell into step beside her. “The disappearances have been happening over the past few weeks. Teenage boys, vanishing without a trace—no signs of struggle, no warnings. They simply go out and never return.”

Astrid frowned, her brows knitting together. “That’s weird. No ransom notes, no bodies washing up somewhere?”

“None,” Rook confirmed. “It is as though they have been plucked from existence itself.”

Astrid sighed, kicking a loose pebble down the road. “Alright, I’m interested. Who was the last person to go missing?”

Rook thought for a moment. “A fisherman’s son. He was last seen heading toward the docks just before dusk.”

Astrid’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Then that’s where we start. Let’s go see if anybody there knows something.” The two quickened their pace, heading toward the docks as the salty sea breeze carried the distant cries of gulls. The air was thick with the scent of fish and brine, and the late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the wooden planks.

As they arrived, Astrid scanned the area. “Alright, blondie, let’s split up. You take that side, I’ll take this one. Ask around, see if anybody saw anything.”

Rook nodded and headed toward a group of fishermen mending their nets. As he approached, an older man looked up, eyeing him warily. “Somethin’ ya need, boy?” the man asked, his Irish accent thick and gruff.

Rook offered a polite smile. “Pardon my intrusion, but I am inquiring about the recent disappearances. The young man who vanished most recently—do you recall seeing him that day?”

The fisherman exhaled heavily, setting down his net. “Aye. Saw ‘im that evenin’, right before sundown. He was headin’ toward Pier Four, meetin’ up with his new sweetheart. Fine lass, she was. But soon as he up and vanished, no one’s been able to get ahold of her.”

Rook’s brow furrowed at the fisherman’s words. “No one has been able to contact her?” he repeated.

The older man shook his head. “Not a soul. It’s like she vanished into thin air along with the lad.” He scratched his beard, his gaze distant. “Strangest part? Nobody round here had ever seen her before. Thought maybe she was from another island, but…” He trailed off, his expression darkening. “Well, now I ain’t so sure.”

Rook absorbed the information carefully, nodding in thanks. “ Merci, monsieur. If anything else comes to mind, please do let me know.”

Leaving the fishermen behind, he scanned the docks for Astrid. She was across the way, speaking with a dock worker. The man gestured animatedly toward the water as he spoke, and Astrid listened with a focused expression. Once he finished, she gave him a quick nod and strode toward Rook.

“Well?” she asked the moment she reached him. Rook relayed what he had learned, and Astrid’s frown deepened.

“That lines up with what I heard,” she said, crossing her arms. “The guy I talked to said the missing kid was last seen walking along the pier with some mystery girl. But get this—when people asked for details, nobody could describe her properly. It’s like their memories of her were all fogged up.”

Rook’s lips pressed into a thin line. “That is most peculiar…”

Astrid tapped her fingers against her arm, thinking. “Something’s not right here. People don’t just forget faces unless magic is involved.” She locked eyes with Rook, her smirk replaced by a sharp, determined look. “I think it’s time we checked out Pier Four for ourselves.”

Rook grinned, feeling the familiar thrill of the hunt settle in his bones. “Lead the way, Mademoiselle Lance-Pierre. ”

Together, they turned toward the pier, the evening tide lapping against the wooden planks, the sun dipping lower behind the horizon. Whatever mystery lay ahead, they were ready to uncover it.

Chapter Text

Meanwhile, Malleus had stepped out of Diasomnia to escape Sebek’s relentless overprotectiveness. In the past, Ramshackle had been his preferred retreat—secluded, conveniently on campus, and largely ignored by the student body. However, with Grim and Yuon now calling it home and the resident ghosts more active than they had been in half a century, the dorm was no longer the quiet refuge it once was. Fortunately, Sage’s Island had no shortage of abandoned places, and Malleus often rotated through his favorites. Tonight, he opted for the deserted oil rig a few miles off the coast.

When he teleported in, however, he found himself ensnared in something both impossibly stretchy and unbearably sticky. Spider silk? No, these threads were far too thick, too strong—nothing any known species could weave. More alarmingly, they had definitely not been here the last time he visited. As he struggled to free himself, twisting in the clinging mass, he turned his head—only to find himself inches away from…

…a desiccated corpse.

Malleus yelped, recoiling so violently that his horns speared through the metal panels of the ceiling, lodging firmly in place. A sharp jolt of pain shot through his skull, and he bit out a curse, his thrashing growing more frantic.

Then, things got worse.

The dim, rust-streaked interior offered little light—so little that even his nocturnal, reptilian eyes could barely see beyond the corpse dangling beside him. But his ears, keen as ever, picked up the unmistakable sound of movement. A dry, skittering noise. The tapping of legs—too many legs—against the metal floor. Malleus’ heart leapt into his throat as something massive scuttled past him, its presence a hulking shadow against the darkness. Malleus stilled, his breath caught in his throat. The thing—whatever it was—moved with an eerie precision, its legs clicking rhythmically against the metal like a morbid clockwork mechanism. The air smelled stale, laced with the sickly-sweet stench of decay. His instincts screamed at him to act, but the webbing constricted with every movement, anchoring him in place. The corpse beside him swayed gently, as though mocking his predicament.

A chittering sound filled the air—high-pitched, clicking, intelligent. Malleus’ stomach twisted. That was no ordinary animal noise. Another shift in the darkness, this time closer. The massive silhouette loomed just beyond his vision, its many legs spreading outward like jagged spires. The tapping intensified, growing erratic. A rush of air against his face—a movement too swift to track—then silence.

A test.

Whatever lurked in the shadows was toying with him.

Malleus narrowed his eyes, his mind sharpening past the initial shock. He was not prey. He was the Prince of Briar Valley, heir to a dragon’s legacy. And he refused to be ensnared like some helpless insect. Taking a slow breath, he gathered his magic, his pupils thinning into dangerous slits. A soft green glow illuminated the darkness around him, casting eerie shadows along the rusted walls.

The creature hissed.

Then, it lunged.

Back in Diasomnia, dinner was nearly ready. Lilia had been relegated to setting the table, a strategic maneuver to prevent him from inflicting any alimentary atrocities upon the dorm.

“Boys,” he called over his shoulder to Silver and Sebek. “One of you, go fetch Malleus. No doubt he’s wandered off again.”

“I’ll do it, Father,” Silver offered, already rising from his seat.

But retrieving Malleus proved unnecessary.

Without warning, a streak of chartreuse light tore across the sky, plummeting toward the thorn-covered outskirts of the dormitory. The impact sent tremors through the ground, the unmistakable sound of splintering brambles and crackling embers filling the air.

Lilia, Silver, and Sebek exchanged brief but urgent glances before sprinting toward the crash site, several other students quickly following suit.

At the end of the scorched path, nestled within a smoldering crater, lay Malleus. His once-pristine uniform was in tatters, strands of grotesquely thick spider silk still clinging to his limbs. An angry acid burn marred his left thigh, the fabric around it eaten away.

But what unsettled them most wasn’t his injuries—it was his expression.

Malleus Draconia, one of the most powerful mages alive, was trembling. His pupils were blown wide, his chest rising and falling in rapid, uneven breaths. He lay there, babbling incoherently, his gaze unfocused and lost in terror.

Sebek was the first to react, launching himself toward his master with a frantic cry. “MY LIEGE!! What happened?! Who dares—?!”

Lilia caught him by the arm, holding him back with a firm grip. “Wait.”

His crimson eyes were locked onto Malleus, assessing him with the practiced gaze of a seasoned warrior. This wasn't a matter of simple injuries—this was something deeper, something that had shaken Malleus to his very core.

Silver knelt beside him, reaching out cautiously. “Malleus?” His voice was gentle, as if speaking too loudly might cause him to shatter.

Malleus’ lips moved, but the words that spilled out were disjointed, tangled. “Legs... so many legs... the eyes... the teeth ...” His breathing hitched, and his fingers clawed at the silk still clinging to his sleeves.

Lilia's expression darkened. He’d seen Malleus in battle, faced creatures of nightmare alongside him, and never—not once—had he looked like this.

“Sebek, Silver,” Lilia ordered, his tone sharpening. “Get him inside. Now.”

Sebek, still visibly distressed, wasted no time obeying. He and Silver carefully lifted Malleus, though he barely seemed aware of their touch. His breathing remained erratic, and every so often, his body gave a violent twitch, as if he expected something to strike him from the shadows.

As they carried him back toward the dorm, Lilia bent down, plucking a sticky strand of webbing from the ground. It was unlike anything he’d ever encountered—thick, almost metallic in its sheen, and pulsing faintly with residual magic. He turned his gaze to the sky, through the exit mirror toward the distant sea. His instincts, honed over centuries, screamed at him. Something old had stirred.

And whatever it was, it had managed to terrify the Malleus Draconia.

Chapter Text

When the blond boy was six, Noctharis took the twins, Malrik and Morvain, on their first hunt. To both the boy’s and his mother’s surprise, he was invited to come along as well.

But deep in the jungle, he became distracted by a large butterfly, its iridescent wings shimmering in the dappled sunlight. He chased it through the underbrush, laughing softly—until it fluttered out of reach, and he suddenly realized he was alone.

By the time he understood his mistake, it was too late. The hunting party was gone.

For the next month, the boy was forced to survive on his own. Fortunately, his mother had begun teaching him how to craft and use a bow, so he was able to find food. But he hated killing animals, so whenever possible, he shot fruit from the trees instead. He endured torrential rains, freezing nights, and the ever-present danger of predators. A tiger stalked him relentlessly, forcing him to flee through the dense foliage, leaving him covered in scratches. In the end, it wasn’t hunger or exhaustion that nearly killed him—it was the venom of a poisonous insect.

When he finally staggered home, delirious from the toxins and barely standing, his mother wept as she embraced him. But over her shoulder, the boy caught sight of Noctharis watching from a window on the upper floor. Their eyes met. The Jarl’s expression was unreadable, but then, without a word, he narrowed his gaze and abruptly closed the curtains.

It was only later that the boy learned the truth. He had not been lost. He had been abandoned.

Shortly after the jungle ordeal, the boy awoke one morning expecting to find his mother waiting for him. But the house was silent.

Confused, he peeked into her room—only to find it empty. The furniture, her belongings, every trace of her existence… all gone, as if she had never lived there at all.

Noctharis offered no explanation. Whenever the boy asked, he was met with silence, scorn, or the back of his father’s hand.

He never saw his mother again.

Chapter Text

Rook and Astrid had hit a dead end in their investigation and decided to call it a night. Rook managed to return to Pomefiore on time tonight, but that did little to spare him from Vil’s displeasure.

“Where were you?!” Vil snapped the moment Rook stepped through the door.

“...Sir?” Rook blinked in confusion.

Vil leveled a perfectly manicured, mauve-polished nail at him. “You and the Science Club were supposed to assist with the special effects for the Film Club’s shoot this week! But according to Trey, you never even showed up! ” His sharp violet eyes bore into Rook, his disapproval palpable.

Rook’s eyes widened in realization. “That was today? Oh, Vil, I am so sorry! It completely slipped my mind!”

Vil let out an exasperated sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Unbelievable. You of all people, forgetting an obligation? Do you have any idea how much of a mess this has caused? The entire shoot was delayed because the special effects weren’t ready!”

Rook clasped his hands together in an apologetic gesture. “I assure you, it was not my intention to shirk my duties, Vil! I became… engrossed in an urgent matter.”

Vil’s glare didn’t waver. “ Engrossed? ” He crossed his arms. “And what, pray tell, was so urgent that it warranted skipping out on your responsibilities?”

Rook hesitated. He wasn’t about to tell Vil that he had spent the evening sleuthing around town with Astrid, questioning fishermen about mysterious disappearances. He knew Vil well enough to predict the scathing response that would follow—something along the lines of ‘You’re not some back-alley detective, Rook! Stick to pursuits that actually matter!’

Instead, he offered a diplomatic, if vague, response. “I was pursuing an intriguing mystery.”

Vil’s expression darkened. “ Rook… ” His voice was laced with warning.

Rook held up his hands in surrender. “I swear upon my bow, Vil, I did not intend to neglect my duties! I will personally see to it that the effects are ready by tomorrow—I shall work through the night if I must!”

Vil let out a long breath, rubbing his temples. “Hoho, you’d better. Because if you ever make me look incompetent in front of the Film Club again, you’ll be on cleanup duty for every single mirror in Pomefiore for the rest of the semester!”

Rook cringed. That was a lot of mirrors.

“Understood, monsieur, ” he said solemnly.

Vil huffed. “Good. Now get to work.”

With that, he turned on his heel and strode away, his displeasure still evident in the sharpness of his movements.

Rook sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. Well, merde . It seemed he wouldn’t be getting much sleep tonight.

The next day, Rook struggled to keep his eyes open and ultimately dozed off during third-period History of Magic. Seizing the rare opportunity, the Heartslabyul delinquent seated beside him ambushed him with a wet willy—an impossible feat had Rook been awake and alert. The sudden cold, wet sensation in Rook’s ear jolted him so violently that he toppled backwards off the bench. Fortunately, being in the back row spared him from cracking his head against someone’s desk and landing himself in a coma. The rest of the class erupted into laughter, much to Professor Trein’s exasperation.

Trein pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply. “Enough!” he barked, his voice cutting through the laughter like a whip. “Mr. Hunt, if you cannot remain seated and conscious during my lecture, perhaps you would prefer to stand for the remainder of the class.”

Rook, still sprawled on the floor, gave an apologetic chuckle as he pushed himself up. “A thousand pardons, Professeur Trein. It seems exhaustion has bested me.”

Trein merely huffed, gesturing for him to take his seat.

The delinquent, still snickering, leaned over. “Never thought I’d see the great Rook Hunt let his guard down,” he mused. “Guess even the mighty fall, huh?”

Rook simply offered a tired smile, rubbing his temple. He had been running on little sleep that day, and it was finally catching up to him.

“HUNT!! WAKE UP AND GET THE LEAD OUTTA YOUR ASS!!” Coach Vargas bellowed as Rook started nodding off mid-drill during fifth-period Flight Class.

Rook jumped at the sudden shout, only to execute an involuntary loop-de-loop that ended with his broom speared halfway into the ground—and himself face-down in the dirt. Somewhere above him, the rest of the class roared with laughter. Groaning, Rook pushed himself up onto his elbows, spitting out a mouthful of grass and dirt. He could already hear Epel wheezing somewhere above him, while Floyd’s cackling echoed across the field. Even Jack, who usually had the decency to keep his amusement to himself, let out a low chuckle.

“Well, Hunt? You plannin’ to take a nap down there, or are you gonna finish the drill?!” Vargas barked, arms crossed as he loomed over him.

Rook wiped the dirt from his face and gave a sheepish grin. “Ah, Coach, you needn’t worry! I merely… wished to test the stability of the earth beneath us. I can confirm—it is quite solid.”

Vargas rolled his eyes. “Save the poetry for after class. Now get back up there before I make ya run five laps AROUND the field instead!”

With a dramatic sigh, Rook yanked his broom from the ground and kicked off again, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten under the watchful—and very loud—eye of their ever-enthusiastic coach.

After class, Rook headed straight for Pomefiore, intending to sneak in a quick nap before meeting Astrid. However, as he crossed the lounge, something unusual caught his eye—an envelope protruding from the wastebasket, its cream-colored wax seal bearing the emblem of a sword and shield.

The insignia of Royal Sword Academy, located on the opposite side of Sage’s Island from Night Raven College.

Curious, Rook retrieved the already-opened envelope and examined its contents. Inside were two tickets to a semi-formal dance celebrating the dedication of RSA’s newly rebuilt library—an event hosted in the wake of the devastating fire that had reduced the previous structure to ashes. The sender was none other than Vil’s ever-optimistic rival, Neige LeBlanche. Clearly, Vil had dismissed the invitation outright.

Rook’s mind, however, drifted elsewhere—to the idea of a moonlit evening, music, and elegance. And, most importantly, to Astrid. A slow grin spread across his face. Feeling suddenly reinvigorated, he tucked the tickets safely into his coat and bolted off to find her.

Chapter Text

With his mother gone, the blond boy found himself at the cruel mercy of his father and brothers. His old room, along with his mother’s, were repurposed into guest quarters, and he was cast off to the attic—a cramped, drafty space filled with forgotten junk. Every night, he curled up on a hard, crusty mattress on the floor, shivering beneath a dingy white wolf pelt he had found in an old chest, the only remnant of his mother’s belongings.

Noctharis and his sons did not see him as family. To them, he was less a brother than a servant. And so, the blond boy became the household drudge, tasked with endless chores that kept him too exhausted to dwell on his grief. At least, that was what Noctharis claimed. And he and his sons were more than willing to provide the boy with constant ‘distractions’. Their generosity extended only so far—they shared their meals with him, but only in the form of scraps from their table. And to top it all off, they insulted him with the nickname ‘blondie’ at every opportunity.

He was given one strict rule: never refer to Noctharis or the boys as his relatives in the presence of visitors. The one time he slipped and called Noctharis ‘father’ before a visiting chieftain, he paid for it in blood. He never made that mistake again.

His only solace came in the form of a small white rabbit he had secretly rescued from the basement. She had been huddled in the corner among a pile of her dead siblings, abandoned and alone. Naming her Astre, meaning “star,” he nursed her back to health and kept her hidden from the clan. The only time she saw the outside world was when he smuggled her along on errands, cradling her close as he went about his tasks.

But one fateful day, as he returned home with Astre nestled in his arms, he rounded a corner and nearly collided with Noctharis. The boy froze under his father’s piercing gaze, his blood turning to ice. Slowly, he stepped back—only to stumble over a loose stone. The sudden jolt sent Astre into a blind panic. She leapt from his grasp and bolted into the street.

The boy barely had time to scream before she was crushed beneath a passing car.

His world shattered.

Before he could reach her, Noctharis seized him by the arm and dragged him inside, ignoring his cries.

That night, lost in grief, the boy rummaged through his mother’s old chest. His fingers brushed against something soft, and when he pulled it free, he found a white rabbit plushie buried at the bottom. It was old and worn, but to him, it was perfect.

Over time, the boy clung to the plushie as fiercely as he had to the real Astre. It became his one comfort, his one secret treasure. And this time, he swore, no one would take her from him.

For now he knew that his father and brothers would only destroy anything beautiful.

Chapter Text

This year’s SDC was shaping up to be a complete disaster. Night Raven College had suffered defeat at the hands of Royal Sword Academy for 99 consecutive years, and the long-standing animosity between the two arcane academies only intensified with each competition. Despite sharing the same island, NRC and RSA students regarded each other with nothing short of disdain. Even Headmage Crowley could barely conceal his distaste whenever forced to engage with RSA’s ever-composed headmage, Ambrose LXIII.

Vil, meanwhile, was growing increasingly erratic, pushing his chosen dancers to their absolute limits. His mind was consumed by a singular goal—at long last, surpassing Neige LeBlanche.

On the day of the competition, desperation got the better of him. Panicked and unwilling to accept another loss, Vil resorted to sabotage, attempting to slip Neige a laced apple juice. When his plan failed, his frustration boiled over into an Overblot that left the entire stadium in ruins.

Fortunately, Malleus was present. With a wave of his immense magical power, he restored the arena to its original state as if the devastation had never occurred. The show carried on, more or less on schedule.

By the end of the night, however, the NRC students were left seething. They had lost to RSA by a single vote.

Rook’s vote.

To make matters worse, he had chosen that exact moment to unapologetically reveal himself as a devoted Neige LeBlanche superfan. His enthusiastic confession only fanned the flames of outrage, leaving his fellow NRC students absolutely livid. As the announcement of RSA’s victory rang through the stadium, a stunned silence fell over the Night Raven College students. Then, all at once, the outrage erupted.

“ARE YOU KIDDIN’ ME?!!” Epel’s voice cut through the clamor, his rural accent thick with fury.

“HOW COULD YOU DO THIS, ROOK?!!” Ace hollered, looking personally betrayed.

“Dude, seriously? ” Yuon said, his voice deceptively calm. “That prize money was supposed to fix our leaky-ass roof.” Though his face remained composed, the empty soda can in his trembling grip crumpled with a sharp crunch, betraying the storm raging beneath the surface.

Even Jade, who was usually more composed, raised a curious brow from his seat in the front row. “How fascinating. I never would have taken you for a traitor, Hunt.”

Rook, standing tall despite the glares boring into him, merely chuckled. “Ah, mes amis, it is not a matter of loyalty but of pure artistic appreciation! Neige’s radiance simply could not be denied!”

His poetic justification did little to ease the mob forming around him. Vil, who had been silent up until now, turned to face him, his violet eyes burning with something far worse than anger—cold, quiet disappointment.

“You’re telling me,” Vil’s voice was eerily steady, “that after everything we worked for… after all my training… you voted for him ?”

Rook hesitated. For the first time, his ever-present smile wavered. “ Mon roi, ” he started, but Vil turned away sharply, his uniform flaring behind him as he strode off without another word.

That, more than anything else, sent an uncomfortable chill down Rook’s spine.

“Ohhh, you are so dead once the crowd leaves,” Deuce muttered, shaking his head.

Rook sighed, glancing toward the stage, where Neige was celebrating with his troupe, completely oblivious to the chaos he had inadvertently caused on the other side of the stadium.

“Ah, c’est la vie, ” Rook murmured to himself. “Perhaps it is time I sleep with one eye open.”

The following evening marked the RSA dance. Rook repeatedly checked his reflection in the mirror, giddy with anticipation for the romantic night ahead with Astrid. Rather than fuss over his attire, he opted to wear his Pomefiore dorm uniform—its sleek black-and-purple design was more than suitable for formal wear. Satisfied with his appearance, Rook grabbed the tickets and was about to leave, when Vil stopped him.

“Rook, we need to talk about Astrid.”

Rook paused and turned back to Vil, who was again seated atop his throne. Below him, groups of students were scattered about the lounge, some grooming each other, others doing their homework.

“That girl is a terrible influence,” Vil continued, his sharp violet eyes narrowing as he examined Rook. “You’re out at all hours chasing who-knows-what, missing obligations, and neglecting your training. And now, you’re going to waltz into Royal Sword Academy—our sworn rivals—on her arm? Do you even realize how that looks?”

Rook blinked, taken aback. “Vil, Astrid is hardly the reason for my recent… distractions. I assure you, my loyalty to Pomefiore remains unwavering.”

Vil scoffed. “Your actions say otherwise. Therefore,” He leaned forward, his expression darkening as he rested his elbows on his throne’s arms. “I forbid you from seeing Astrid.”

The words struck like a slap. Rook’s easygoing smile faltered, and for the first time in a long while, true surprise flickered across his face. “ Pardonne-moi? ”

“You heard me.” Vil rose from his throne, descending the steps with an air of finality. “She’s been nothing but a distraction. You’ve lost focus, abandoned your responsibilities, and made a complete fool of yourself in front of the entire school. It stops now.”

Rook stiffened. “ Mon Roi du Poison, surely you don’t mean—”

“I do.” His tone was cold as steel. “You will not see her again.”

Silence stretched between them. Around the lounge, other students pretended not to listen, their eyes averted but their ears trained on the confrontation.

Rook’s hands clenched at his sides. “You would command me to sever a bond so dear to me?”

Vil’s gaze was unwavering. “I am commanding you to remember who you are, Rook. A Pomefiore student. My vice. If you continue down this path, you’re no longer fit for that role.”

Rook’s breath hitched. He had always followed Vil without question, admired him, respected him. But this? This was a line he could not cross.

A sharp laugh escaped him—humorless, bitter. “Is that an ultimatum, mon roi? ”

Vil didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

Rook’s hands trembled, his usually bright emerald eyes darkening with something unreadable. Then, with a deep breath, he straightened, plastering on an easy, infuriating smile. “Then it seems I must disappoint you tonight.”

Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode toward the door, broom in hand.

“ Rook. ” Vil’s voice was sharp. A warning.

Rook didn’t stop. Didn’t look back.

For the first time in their friendship, he walked away from Vil Schoenheit.

And he didn’t regret it.

Astrid stood at the bottom of the path once more, her shimmering silvery dress resembling woven spider silk, while a spider-shaped claw clip elegantly secured her hair. Rook’s heart clenched at the sight of her. Even after the heated argument with Vil—perhaps the first real fight they had ever had—seeing Astrid waiting for him, radiant under the moonlight, made all of it feel worth it.

He descended the path quickly, his usual composed smile faltering just slightly. Astrid tilted her head, sensing something was off.

“You’re late,” she teased, though there was a question in her gaze. “Got caught up?”

Rook hesitated for half a second before shaking off the weight of Vil’s words. Tonight wasn’t about that. Tonight was for them.

“ Ma belle chasseuse, ” he greeted, gently taking her hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “Forgive my delay. Shall we?”

Astrid arched a brow, but allowed herself to be led toward the shimmering lights of Royal Sword Academy in the distance.

As the two of them mounted his broom, Rook cast one last glance over his shoulder—half expecting to see Vil’s disapproving silhouette watching from the shadows.

But the school remained still, its windows dark and unreadable.

With a deep breath, he turned back to Astrid. Whatever consequences awaited him, he would face them later.

The journey to Royal Sword Academy felt longer than usual, though Rook couldn’t tell if it was because of the lingering weight of Vil’s ultimatum or the way Astrid’s presence made every second feel stretched out and significant. The soft glow of the academy’s lanterns flickered in the distance, illuminating the pristine white stone of its castle-like campus. Music drifted through the air—elegant, refined, the kind of melody that made it impossible to forget that this school was the very definition of a fairytale setting.

Astrid, however, looked unimpressed.

“Ugh. It’s like walking into a storybook,” she muttered, her fingers adjusting the claw clip in her hair once they’d dismounted. “How does anybody live in a place like this without throwing up?”

Rook chuckled. “Not all are as drawn to the shadows as you and I, ma chérie . Some prefer the illusion of light.”

Astrid rolled her eyes but let him lead her toward the ballroom. The grand double doors stood open, revealing a lavish scene inside. Chandeliers sparkled overhead, casting golden light upon a sea of formally dressed students. There was an air of practiced elegance—students twirling across the dance floor, others conversing in polite, refined tones.

And at the center of it all, a bright, familiar presence.

Neige LeBlanche.

Rook’s grip on Astrid’s hand tightened involuntarily. There he was, RSA’s golden boy, dressed in an impeccable white suit that made him look like he had walked straight out of a fairytale. He was laughing with his friends, his eyes alight with warmth as he greeted guests. The perfect prince, if not for his humble beginnings.

Rook suddenly became acutely aware of his own attire. The dark palette of his uniform all but screamed NRC, a glaring contrast against the sea of white, silver, and gold surrounding them. He knew his presence would be tolerated—he and Vil had been invited, after all—but still, he could already feel the eyes of RSA students lingering on him and Astrid, whispers forming like ripples in the air.

Astrid seemed oblivious, or perhaps she simply didn’t care. “So, what now?” she asked, her tone indifferent.

Rook exhaled, casting aside any lingering hesitation. He turned to her with a playful smile, bowing dramatically. “Now, my dear Astrid, we dance.”

He led her onto the floor, ignoring the stares, the whispers, the unspoken divide between NRC and RSA. Tonight was not for rivalries, for Neige, for Vil’s disapproval. Tonight, for just a few fleeting hours, it was only for them.

Chapter Text

Through all the pain, sorrow, and loneliness, the blond boy never let go of the hope that one day, his dreams of freedom would become reality.

The Shadewings were a reclusive people, and their children were always homeschooled. Any invitations to enroll in arcane academies were discarded without a second thought, often left unopened. But the blond boy was different. Whenever he found one, he would secretly rescue it from the trash, poring over the words in his stolen moments of solitude. Each letter spoke of grand halls filled with towering bookshelves, of training grounds where students honed their magic, of opportunities far beyond the confines of the attic where he spent his days. He imagined himself walking through those halls, learning alongside others who weren’t bound by the rigid traditions of the Shadewing clan. He dreamed of casting spells freely, not just to serve, but for himself.

Then, one day, everything changed.

The blond boy—now a young man—intercepted the mail before his brothers could retrieve it. As he sifted through the usual letters and formal correspondences, his breath caught when his fingers brushed against a familiar envelope. An enrollment invitation. Its crimson wax seal bore the emblem of a raven. His heart pounded as he swiftly tucked it into his shirt, opting to read it later, before delivering the rest to Noctharis.

Lately, he had sensed that his father was plotting something. Noctharis’ visitors had begun taking notice of him, their lingering gazes filled with curiosity—and something far more unsettling. Male thrall children rarely survived long enough to reach sexual maturity. That he had lived this long, grown tall and strong, made him an anomaly. And anomalies were dangerous.

He knew he had to escape. Soon.

That night, he sat by the dim candlelight, carefully breaking the wax seal on the invitation. As his eyes scanned the elegant script, he froze.

His name was on it.

Not Noctharis’, not his brothers’— his .

And beneath it, a single line that sent his heart racing: ‘A carriage will arrive for you this coming September.’

This was it.

His way out.

The blond boy eagerly counted down the days until September. On the night of his departure, he packed what little he owned—his worn wolf pelt, his precious rabbit plushie, and a few threadbare clothes—into a small, tattered duffle bag. Heart pounding, he climbed down the drainpipe outside his window, careful to make no sound.

But when he laid eyes on the carriage waiting for him, he froze.

It wasn’t a passenger carriage. It was a cargo carriage. And in its rear sat an intricate, ornate coffin.

A shiver ran down his spine. He barely had time to process what he was seeing before the driver turned to him and called his name. He nodded hesitantly, his grip tightening around his bag. The driver motioned toward the coffin, gesturing for him to climb inside.

The blond boy hesitated.

Years of abuse at the hands of his father and brothers had made him wary, distrustful of anything unfamiliar. Was this truly an invitation to a school, or had Noctharis set a trap?

Sensing his apprehension, the driver offered a small, knowing smirk. “The headmage of this academy is… eccentric, to say the least.” His tone was almost amused. “But if you wish to leave, this is the way.”

The boy swallowed hard. Then, with a deep breath, he forced himself to step forward. With one last glance at the night sky—the sky of a place he swore he would never return to—he climbed into the coffin.

The carriage rocked gently as it set off, the steady clopping of hooves against the dirt road lulling him into an uneasy sleep.

When he awoke, he was met with the sounds of a strange ceremony.

A lock clicked. A creaking noise followed. Muffled voices filled the air.

It happened again. And again.

Every few minutes, another coffin would be unlatched, opened, and followed by voices.

Then, finally, it was his turn.

Dim candlelight spilled into his confined space, casting eerie shadows along the interior. He blinked, his vision adjusting.

The first thing he saw was a pair of glowing yellow eyes staring directly at him.

Panic shot through him like lightning. He jerked back, heart hammering, and instinctively buried his face in his arms.

A voice—smooth, amused—broke through the blond boy’s panic.

“My, my. What do we have here?”

The boy trembled, his fingers clutching at his tattered duffle bag. He barely dared to peek through his hands. The yellow-eyed figure stood over him, a tall, slim man with dark hair and an elaborate cloak. He radiated an aura of authority, though there was an undeniable playfulness in his smirk.

The boy swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper. “W-where am I?”

The man tilted his head, regarding him with interest. “Why, Night Raven College, of course. And I… am Headmage Dire Crowley.” He flourished his cloak dramatically before extending a gloved hand. “Welcome.”

The boy hesitated. He had spent his entire life at the mercy of men who sought to hurt or belittle him. This Crowley could be no different. His hands remained clenched around his bag.

Crowley’s smirk didn’t falter, but his eyes gleamed with intrigue. “Ah, a wary little fledgling, aren’t you?” He stepped back, allowing more light to spill into the coffin. “Come, come. You wouldn’t want to spend your first night at school crammed in there, would you?”

The boy hesitated a moment longer before, finally, slowly, he stepped out. His bare feet met cold stone. The room was vast, gothic in design, with black and gold banners hanging from the high, arched ceiling.

Behind the Headmage, murmurs and snickers rippled through the assembled students. Their gazes were sharp, judging—what was someone so ragged, so clearly beneath them, doing in their territory?

The blond boy swallowed hard, rubbing at a smudge on his cheek. His tattered clothes, his bare feet—he could feel their disdain like a weight pressing down on him. His face burned with shame.

Crowley cleared his throat pointedly. “Now, now! Let’s not dawdle! Step forward and receive your dorm assignment.”

The boy took a shaky breath and approached the Dark Mirror. Its surface rippled like liquid obsidian as he drew near.

“State your name,” the Mirror commanded, its voice deep and resonant.

The boy hesitated before opting to swipe his mother’s maiden name.

“R-Rook… Hunt.”

Chapter Text

After the dinner service, as guests freshened up in the restrooms before returning to the dance floor, Astrid pulled Rook aside. “Come on, blondie. This place is a total snoozefest. Let’s go hang out at my hideout instead.”

Rook raised an eyebrow but couldn’t help the smirk tugging at his lips. “ Mon trésor, are you suggesting we abandon a grand soirée hosted by the esteemed Royal Sword Academy?”

Astrid rolled her eyes, tugging him by the wrist. “I’m suggesting we ditch a boring, stuffy dance where everyone is too busy playing perfect little nobles to actually have fun.”

He let himself be pulled along, intrigued. “And your hideout, ma chérie, promises a more thrilling alternative?”

“Way more thrilling.” She grinned, leading him through a side exit and out into the crisp night air.

They slipped away unnoticed, mounting Rook’s broom and soaring over the ocean. He had no idea where she was leading him, but he followed without hesitation.

And that, perhaps, was the most dangerous part.

Eventually, a shape loomed on the horizon—an oil rig. Rusted, weatherworn, and long abandoned. They touched down on a corroded balcony, and Astrid wasted no time in pushing open the heavy door.

Inside was unlike anything Rook had ever seen—both alien and mesmerizing. Layers upon layers of spiderwebs draped the interior, shimmering in the sparse moonlight filtering through gaps in the ceiling. The air carried the faint scent of salt and rust, and as the door’s light spilled into the room, countless spiders of all shapes and sizes scurried into the shadows.

Rook stepped inside, his boots crunching softly against the dust-coated floor. The webs glistened like spun silver, stretching from corroded beams to the rusted remains of machinery. A faint chittering noise echoed in the vast emptiness, a chorus of unseen legs skittering through the shadows.

Astrid turned to him with a sly smile, clearly unbothered by their eerie surroundings. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

Rook let out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head. “I should’ve known. You do have a fondness for the dramatic.”

She grinned. “And you have a fondness for the strange and dangerous.”

He couldn't argue with that.

Astrid led him deeper inside, past long-abandoned control panels now blanketed in silk, past steel grates where the sea whispered through the gaps below. Eventually, they arrived at what had once been the mess hall—a vast space now shrouded floor to ceiling in thick sheets of spider silk.

Rook ran his fingers along one of the silken strands, feeling its unexpected strength. “I have to ask—what exactly made you pick this place?”

Astrid shrugged, perching herself on a nearby crate. “It’s isolated, quiet, and nobody comes here. Except for the spiders, of course.” She smirked. “Besides, I like it.”

Rook heaved a dramatic sigh as he settled beside her. “I fear you may be the only person alive who would call a haunted oil rig cozy.”

“Spiders make better company than people.” She plucked an eight-legged visitor from her arm and let it crawl across her fingers before setting it aside. “Well, most people.”

Rook’s lips quirked. “Should I be flattered?”

“Maybe.” She leaned forward slightly, her gaze sharp, searching. “You don’t ask questions. I like that about you.”

His smile faltered slightly. He had questions—too many to count. About her, about the strange way she always seemed to know things she shouldn’t, about why she felt a little out of step with the rest of the world.

But he never asked.

And perhaps that, too, was dangerous.

Their faces were mere inches apart.

Rook could see his own reflection in Astrid’s deep, periwinkle eyes, feel the warmth of her breath ghosting across his lips. His heart pounded, his senses zeroed in on the moment—on her .

Then she smiled.

Not a soft, affectionate smile. Not a playful smirk.

A knowing smile.

And in an instant, the entire world tilted sideways.

“You really are something, blondie,” she murmured.

Rook barely had time to register the shift before a crawling sensation prickled across his skin.

His breath hitched, every nerve in his body going rigid. “Astrid?”

Alarmed, Rook abruptly stood, attempting to back away—only to find his movements sluggish, restrained. He glanced down and felt his stomach drop.

Spiders.

Dozens, maybe hundreds, skittering over him, weaving their silk around his limbs, tightening like a noose. He swatted at them, frantically trying to tear the strands away, but his foot caught on the leg of a toppled chair. He stumbled, crashing backward into one of the larger webs—only to realize, with sickening dread, that he was now stuck.

His wide, panicked gaze snapped back to Astrid.

“You made this almost too easy, you know that?” she mused, tilting her head with an amused hum. “Don’t take it personally, blondie. This was always the plan.”

The plan? Rook’s heart pounded as fragments of memory flared through his mind—every stolen moment with her, every time she had lured him away, the way she always sidestepped his unspoken questions.

It was never coincidence.

His breath came shallow and uneven. “You lied to me.”

Astrid chuckled, taking a slow, deliberate step forward. “Oh, blondie,” she whispered, eyes alight with something cruel and wicked. “You have no idea how long I’ve been playing this game.” Her words dissolved into a guttural snarl.

Then—she changed.

She arched backward as four spindly spider legs burst from her sides, followed swiftly by another four. Her dress shredded away, revealing a shiny, black abdomen. Her lower arms twisted and contorted, warping into sharp, scorpion-like claws. Her chocolate-brown hair bled into an inky black. Her skin turned pallid and translucent, and where blood should have flowed, an eerie, dark substance pulsed beneath the surface. Her teeth sharpened, elongating into glistening fangs.

And staring hungrily back at Rook were five beady black eyes arranged in a half-circle across her face.

Rook, bound and terrified, did the only thing he could.

He screamed.

Back in Pomefiore, Vil was trying to enjoy a quiet evening with a book when his phone buzzed. Then buzzed again. And again.

“Oh, for the love of the Seven!” he huffed, snatching it up. “Who dares interrupt my me time?!”

A flurry of new messages from Rook filled the screen.

ROOK: SOIKS

ROOK: DSOD

ROOK: SIOS

ROOK: DOA

Vil scowled. What in Twisted Wonderland is he going on about?

Meanwhile, Rook—desperate and restrained—had managed to levitate his phone from his pocket, attempting to type with his nose. His fingers were bound, his movements restricted. But he kept trying.

ROOK: SOPDS

ROOK: SPOSA

ROOK: ASID

ROOK: AOS

Annoyed, Vil started rattling off a response, demanding to know what the hell Rook wanted—until the final message appeared.

ROOK: SOS

Vil’s breath caught. His irritation vanished, replaced by something cold and uneasy.

This wasn’t a joke.

He dialed Rook’s number.

It connected.

A faint rustling came through the speaker, followed by ragged breathing.

“Rook?” Vil demanded, gripping his phone tighter. “What is going on? Where are you?”

There was a pause. Then, the unmistakable sound of skittering.

A sharp, muffled noise—like someone struggling against restraints.

Then, a whisper.

“…Vil…”

It was Rook’s voice, but it was barely above a breath, trembling and weak.

Vil shot to his feet. “Rook, where are you?!”

More shuffling. Then a feminine voice—low, taunting, but oddly familiar.

“Oh dear,” the voice cooed, dripping with mock concern. “Looks like your little friend is in a bit of a bind.”

Vil’s stomach lurched. His grip on the phone tightened. “Who the hell is this?!”

A soft chuckle, sickly sweet. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Then—an abrupt crunch of metal and glass.

The line went dead.

Vil immediately got to work, firing off texts to the other dorms.

In Diasomnia, Malleus was jolted awake as Lilia shook his shoulder. “Malleus, hurry and get dressed! Vil just called an emergency meeting!”

Without hesitation, Malleus scrambled for the washroom.

In Scarabia, Jamil was on the verge of sleep when Kalim suddenly burst in. “Jamil, wake up!” he shouted. “Vil’s calling a meeting!”

Jamil flailed, lost his balance, and rolled off the bed, hopelessly tangled in his sheets.

In Savanaclaw, Leona’s phone buzzed, dragging him out of his slumber. He groaned, muttered a curse, and stuffed his head under the pillow.

“Yo, Boss! Get off your ass!” Ruggie threw the door open. “We got a meeting to—”

Leona’s phone ricocheted off Ruggie's forehead, cutting him off mid-sentence. He hit the floor with a thud.

In Ignihyde, Idia was deep into a late-night gaming session when Ortho barged in. “Idia! Where’s your tablet? Someone just called a meeting!”

Startled, Idia jumped, sending his controller flying. It smacked him in the forehead, bounced off, and landed with a clatter. Dazed, he looked up just in time to watch his character get KO’d on-screen.

Chapter Text

“All right, Schoenheit, spill it,” Yuon demanded once everyone had gathered in the Lecture Hall.

Vil stood at the front of the Lecture Hall, arms crossed, expression carved from ice. The tension in the room was palpable—no one called an emergency meeting in the dead of night unless it was serious.

He took a steadying breath. “It’s Rook,” he said, his voice sharp and unwavering. “He’s in trouble.”

Murmurs rippled through the crowd, but before anyone could ask questions, he raised his phone. “I received these messages from him just minutes ago.” He swiped through the garbled texts before stopping on the final one.

ROOK: SOS

A heavy silence fell over the room.

“Wait, hold on,” Idia piped up through his tablet, rubbing his sore forehead. “Are we sure he’s not just drunk-texting or something?”

“Rook doesn’t drink,” Vil snapped. “And even if he did, that does not explain the call I received immediately after.” His fingers tightened around his phone. “Someone else answered. And then all I heard was a crunch before the line went dead.”

Malleus’ gaze darkened. “You believe he has been taken.”

“I don’t believe it—I know it.” Vil’s nails dug into his sleeves. “And we’re going to get him back.”

Leona, still groggy and irritated, arched a brow. “And where, exactly, do you expect us to start looking?”

Vil’s eyes burned with determination. “He was at Royal Sword Academy’s dance tonight. Now, who’s going to assist me?”

Crickets.

No one looked particularly concerned.

“Ugh, do we really gotta?” Floyd groaned, slumping over his seat. “Seagull’s such a chatterbox. Dude never shuts up.”

“Not to mention he’s a total creep,” Ruggie added with a shrug. “Honestly, I say good riddance.”

“And let’s not forget,” Yuon chimed in, propping his feet up on the desk with a smirk, “he cost us the win at the SDC. Looks like karma bit him in the ass real good.”

Vil’s gaze hardened. “I don’t care about the SDC, his past mistakes, or his… eccentricities. Rook’s in danger, and that’s all that matters. Now, if none of you are going to step up, I’ll handle this myself!”

The room quieted, the weight of Vil’s words sinking in. They knew better than to push him any further when he was like this. After a long pause, Malleus spoke up, his voice calm but resolute.

“I will assist you, Schoenheit. If Hunt is in danger, then we must act swiftly.”

“I’ll go too,” Leona muttered, stretching his arms lazily. “Could use a good excuse to knock some heads.”

Deuce grinned. “Well, can’t let you guys all have all the fun, right? I’m in too.”

Ace’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “Guess I’ll tag along too.” He jerked a thumb at Deuce. “Somebody’s gotta make sure Loosey-Deucey doesn’t screw up or wimp out!”

Vil’s expression softened slightly, though the fire never left his gaze. “Good. Now, let’s move.”

Upon arriving at Royal Sword, the group made a beeline for Neige. “Hiya, Vee!” he greeted Vil with a wide, easy grin. “What brings you guys out here so late? The party’s over already.”

Vil didn’t waste time on pleasantries. “Rook and Astrid were here tonight. Where are they right now?”

Neige blinked, his smile faltering. “Oh! Um… They left right after dinner.”

Vil’s frown deepened. “Where did they go?”

Neige scratched his cheek, suddenly sheepish. “I dunno. They left on his broom, but I didn’t see where they went. But, um… is everything okay? Did something happen?”

Vil’s jaw tightened. “That remains to be seen.”

Epel groaned. “Ugh. That means they could be anywhere. If she’s got a hideout someplace, it’s probably off the grid.”

Nearby, the band was packing up their equipment when their guitarist hesitated, glancing over.

“Erm… I… might know where they are,” he interjected.

“Then spit it out,” Leona drawled, stretching as he leaned against a pillar.

“They flew out over the ocean,” the guitarist said. “If I had to guess, they were headed for the abandoned oil rig.”

At the mention of the oil rig, Malleus went rigid. His already-pale complexion turned ashen, and without a word, he slumped down onto a boulder, hugging himself as his breath grew shallow and ragged.

Sebek was the first to notice Malleus’ sudden change in demeanor. “Lord Malleus? What’s wrong?”

Malleus didn’t answer right away. His hands clenched the fabric of his sleeves, knuckles white. The memory of that place, of what he had seen, came flooding back—the glistening, silken threads stretching across rusted beams, the eerie stillness, the feeling of being watched by something ancient and terrible.

“I’ve been there,” Malleus finally muttered, his voice hoarse. “There is a web. A massive one.” His grip on his arms tightened. “I wandered in by accident… and barely made it out alive.”

A heavy silence fell over the group.

Vil’s expression darkened. “Then that’s where we’re going. Now.”

Chapter Text

The group took flight immediately, Malleus and Lilia levitating, everyone else on brooms. The wind howled around them as they soared over the dark ocean, the moonlight glinting off the water below. The abandoned oil rig loomed in the distance, a skeletal structure of rusted metal and forgotten industry.

As they approached, the first thing they noticed was the eerie glistening of silk stretched across its beams, barely visible in the moonlight. The web was massive, spanning the entire rig like a fortress built of thread.

Jamil shuddered. “I don’t like this.”

“Ya think I do?” Epel muttered, gripping his broom tighter.

Malleus remained silent, his chartreuse eyes locked onto the rig, his jaw clenched. He could still feel the suffocating presence that had nearly swallowed him whole last time.

Vil landed first, stepping onto the platform with precise, measured steps. “Stay sharp. We don’t know what we’re walking into.”

“Correction,” Ace muttered, drawing his magic pen. “We do know. And it’s a flippin’ nightmare. ”

Sebek was the first to take a defensive stance. “If anything dares attack Lord Malleus, I will strike it down!”

“Don't waste your energy, Crocodile,” Leona grumbled. “Save it for whatever’s actually waiting for us in there.”

A sudden sound echoed from within the structure. A chittering, skittering noise.

Then… a voice.

“Oh, you actually came.”

They turned sharply toward the source.

Astrid stood on a steel beam above them, her five beady black eyes gleaming in the darkness. Rook, now completely encased in silk, hung motionless beneath her like a fly in a spider’s trap. On the floor lay the shattered remains of Rook’s phone.

Astrid smirked. “How thoughtful.”

Scattered across the web were other bundles, their shapes grotesque and unmistakable—mummified remains, long since claimed by the nest.

“Whelp, looks like we found all the missing guys,” Jack muttered.

“Indeed,” Lilia said, his tone grim. “It seems we’ve stumbled upon the nest of a Jorogumo.”

“A what?” Deuce asked, glancing between Lilia and Astrid warily.

“A spider demon,” Lilia explained. “One that takes the form of a beautiful woman to lure young men away. Though…” His gaze flickered toward Rook’s cocoon. “She doesn’t always eat them. Sometimes, she keeps one alive—to incubate her brood.”

Cater recoiled in disgust. “TMI, Lils!”

Jamil let out a sharp breath. “Spiders. WHY did it have to be SPIDERS?!!” He threw up his hands.

Ortho scanned Rook’s cocoon, his eyes glowing as he processed the data. “He’s already unconscious from hypoxia! We need to get him out of there—fast!”

Vil didn’t hesitate. “Then let’s move.”

He shot upward, wind whipping past him as he readied a spell. Before he could fire, Astrid’s smirk widened.

“Oh, no, no, no,” she purred. With inhuman speed, she scuttled higher into the rafters, dragging Rook’s cocooned form along with her. “I went through all this trouble, and you’re already trying to ruin my fun?”

She gave the silk threads a sharp tug, causing the web to tremble. From the darkness above, dozens—no, hundreds —of smaller spiders skittered down, their glowing eyes like tiny pinpricks in the shadows.

“Son of a—!” Epel gritted his teeth, barely dodging as a wave of spiders dropped toward him.

Leona let out a low growl, summoning a burst of wind to scatter the oncoming swarm. “You guys get Rook. I’ll handle the small fry.”

“I despise this plan,” Jamil muttered, already summoning a fire spell.

Meanwhile, Malleus hovered in place, his breath still shallow. The memories clawed at the edges of his mind—of nearly being trapped , of something whispering just beyond the veil of silk. He forced the thoughts down. Not again.

With a snap of his fingers, a bright green flame erupted in his palm. “You will not escape this time!”

Astrid let out a clicking laugh. “Oh, my dear prince…” Her beady black eyes gleamed. “I was never trying to escape.”

She lunged.

Malleus barely had time to react before her scorpion-like claw slammed into his side, sending him crashing through a rusted beam.

“Lord Malleus!” Sebek’s cry echoed as the battle erupted.

Malleus hit the metal grating below with a sickening crash, sending a tremor through the decrepit structure. Dust and rust rained down from the rafters. Sebek dove after him, panic seizing his chest.

“You fiend!” Vil roared, magic crackling at his fingertips. “Return my huntsman at once! ”

Astrid sneered down at him from her perch. “ Your huntsman belongs to me now.” Her five black eyes gleamed with malice. “You can have him back—once I’ve sucked him dry! ”

Sebek landed beside Malleus, gripping his shoulders. “My liege! Are you all right?!”

Malleus groaned, shaking off the daze. “I will manage…” He clenched his jaw, pushing himself up. His ribs ached where she’d struck him.

Above them, the others had their hands full.

“Ugh, gross, gross, gross! ” Cater yelped as he batted away spiders crawling up his arm.

Deuce swung his broom like a club, knocking them away from Ortho as the little android frantically scanned Rook’s cocoon. “I need more time to cut him out!” Ortho called.

Epel swooped in, slashing at the webbing with a wind spell. “We ain’t got time!”

Astrid scuttled along the steel beams, her many eyes locking onto them. “You’re wasting your energy.” She hissed loudly, spraying a bright green liquid from her fangs.

Splash!

A force field intercepted, the liquid dripping onto the floor, sizzling as it melted through.

Ortho reeled back in shock. “Whoa! Was that acid?! ”

“Yeah, and she almost turned you into sludge, ya little tin can.” Leona rolled his shoulders, his green eyes flashing with a predatory gleam. “You wanna spin a web? Try this. ”

A sandstorm erupted from his hands, blasting through Astrid’s nest and sending the smaller spiders shrieking into the depths below. Unfortunately, one particularly large tarantula was launched straight into Jamil’s face.

“YAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!” Jamil shrieked, flailing wildly as he bolted across the platform. “GET IT OFF, GET IT OFF, GET IT OFF, GET IT OFF!!! ”

Astrid hissed in irritation, flipping backward onto another beam. “Tsk. Fine.” She turned her gaze back toward Malleus, grinning as he rose to his feet. “Let’s finish what we started, shall we?”

Malleus exhaled, eyes shining in the darkness. His aura crackled.

“Yes,” he growled. “Let’s.”

Chartreuse lightning split the sky.

Back on the floor, Ortho had finished slicing through the silk, freeing Rook from his cocoon. Jack wasted no time—he was already on top of Rook, pressing down hard with chest compressions.

“Come on! Breathe, dammit!” Jack growled through clenched teeth.

Rook suddenly gasped, sucking in a ragged breath as his body jolted back to life. He wheezed, his chest rising and falling unevenly as he blinked up at the dim, rust-streaked ceiling of the oil rig. His limbs felt like lead, his head foggy, but he was alive.

“Rook! Are you with us?” Vil’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp with worry.

Rook turned his head slightly, his lips twitching into a weak smile. “Ah… mon roi… how gallant of you to come to my rescue…”

“Shut up, you idiot!” Vil snapped, but the relief in his voice was unmistakable.

Above them, Astrid screeched, her many eyes gleaming with fury. The remains of her web fluttered in tatters, shredded by Leona’s sandstorm. The smaller spiders had scurried away, but she remained, claws scraping against the metal beam she perched on.

“You meddlesome little pests!” she snarled. “He was mine!”

“Ya don’t get to claim people, hag!” Epel shouted, brandishing his pen. “Now git down here and fight fair!”

Astrid hissed, fangs bared, and suddenly lunged downward.

“MOVE!!” Lilia shouted.

The group scattered as Astrid landed where they had been, her impact denting the rusted floor. Her many legs moved with unsettling speed as she swiped at them, forcing them back.

Malleus, still hovering in the air, narrowed his eyes, crackling electricity dancing between his fingers.

“No more games,” he intoned, his voice echoing with power.

A bolt of draconic energy surged from his fingertips, striking Astrid dead-on. She screamed, writhing as the magic engulfed her, searing through silk and flesh alike.

“NOW!! WHILE SHE’S WEAKENED!!” Vil commanded.

Everyone unleashed their strongest attacks in unison—blasts of fire, ice, wind, and lightning colliding into Astrid in a dazzling, devastating barrage.

With one last ear-piercing screech, Astrid’s body convulsed and collapsed, smoldering and motionless, wheezing for breath.

Silence fell over the ruined nest. The only sounds were the crackling of lingering embers and Rook’s rasping breaths.

Jamil exhaled heavily, shoulders slumping. “All right, can we PLEASE get out of this nightmare now?!”

Before anyone could answer, a violent explosion rocked the rig, followed by another. And another. Thick smoke billowed upward as Astrid’s web ignited, flames spreading fast.

“Wuh-oh!” Cater gulped. “I think Malleus lit the crude on fire!”

Leona groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Great. Damn lizard overdid it—again!”

A flaming steel beam crashed down onto Astrid’s motionless body, setting her ablaze.

“COME ON!! We gotta bail!” Deuce shouted over her final, ungodly shriek.

No one wasted another second. Everyone latched onto Malleus and Lilia, who teleported the group out just as the rig was consumed in an inferno.

Chapter Text

Rook had never been to school before, and so far, his first semester was shaping up to be a disaster. He quickly learned that in Savanaclaw, status wasn’t just about dominance—it was also about skill in Spelldrive.

“All right, ya newbies!” The leopard Housewarden barked at the gathered first-years. “Time to show off your Spelldrive talent!”

Rook blinked in confusion. “Spell… drive?” he asked hesitantly.

The Housewarden’s ears twitched. “You tellin’ me ya never heard of Spelldrive before?!” he shouted, his voice laced with disbelief.

Rook flinched, instinctively shrinking back. He shook his head. “…Non.”

The Housewarden scowled. “Well, can ya at least fly a broom?!”

“I’ve… never tried,” Rook admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

“ THEN BEAT IT!!! ” The Housewarden roared in his face. “ THE LAST THING THIS TEAM NEEDS IS SOME USELESS SISSY WEIGHIN’ US DOWN!!! ”

Before he could process what was happening, Rook found himself retreating under a hail of laughter, stones, and low-powered energy bolts hurled by his dormmates.

Savanaclaw’s pecking order didn’t just dictate social standing—it determined one’s living quarters as well. The strongest and most skilled students claimed spacious single rooms for themselves. Those who held their own were paired off into two-person rooms. And at the very bottom, the weak and the unwanted were crammed into compact, overcrowded four-person spaces.

But Rook? He was forced into something even worse.

Since vacant dorm rooms were used as extra storage, his dormmates decided that one of them might as well serve another purpose. And so, the soft-spoken, unskilled Rook Hunt was relegated to a dusty, cluttered room at the very back of the dorm—alone.

As the lowest-ranking member of Savanaclaw, Rook was treated as the dorm’s lackey, forced to handle the tasks no one else wanted—running errands, doing laundry, and keeping the dorm tidy.

Despite the constant torment, Rook endured. He had spent his entire life as an outcast, so this treatment was nothing new. At least here, he had an actual bed, decent food, and a chance at something he had never dared to dream of before: an education.

During a rare moment of free time at lunch, Rook practiced his archery in a secluded area of the dorm. Lounging beneath a nearby tree, Leona—then a second-year—watched him with a bored yet perceptive gaze. Something about Rook’s stance caught his attention. The way he extended his index finger as he aimed… it was familiar.

Intrigued, Leona pushed himself up and sauntered over. “Hmph. The Iron Maiden used to aim like that,” he remarked. “Come to think of it, you’ve got the same last name, the same speech patterns… Hell, you even look just like her.”

Rook lowered his bow slightly, puzzled. “ La Demoiselle de Fer? ” he echoed. “Who is that?”

Leona folded his arms. “A traveler from Fleur City who settled in the Sunset Savannah. She joined the Royal Guard and turned out to be one of the best archers they ever had.” His expression darkened. “But then, during an attack on Sunrise City, she vanished in the middle of the fight, leaving my brother unprotected. The rumors say she ran off with some mystery lover, abandoning her duty. She’s been a disgrace to the Royal Guard ever since. And her prissy little name still leaves a bad taste in our mouths.”

Leona leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper.

“Agnés.”

Rook’s breath caught in his throat.

Agnés…

…was his mother’s name.

Rook’s grip on his bow slackened, fingers trembling as he processed Leona’s words.

His mother… a warrior? An elite archer of the Royal Guard? It sounded impossible—he had only ever known her as a gentle, loving woman who whispered lullabies and stroked his hair when he was afraid. She had never spoken of her past life, never mentioned Fleur City, the Royal Guard, or anything that tied her to the Sunset Savannah’s royal family.

And yet…

Leona’s sharp green eyes narrowed. “You ain’t related by any chance, are ya?”

Rook’s heart pounded. He had a feeling that telling the truth would only lead to trouble. “ …N-non, ” he stammered.

“Good,” Leona drawled, picking up a ham bone from his plate. “’Cause if you were…”

With a casual snap of his jaw, he bit the bone clean in half.

Rook swallowed hard, his palms damp with sweat. Slowly, he took a step back. “ O-oui, of course…”

He stood frozen, watching as Leona disappeared into a crowd of students.

His mother… had abandoned her post? Deserted the Royal Guard?

The words cut deep.

Had she… abandoned him the same way?

One evening, as Rook carried a heavy basket of freshly laundered uniforms back through the dorm, he overheard a conversation between two upperclassmen returning from the Spelldrive field.

“Did ya hear?” one of them said, tossing a ball lazily between his hands. “The Pomefiore team’s comin’ over for a practice match.”

“Pomefiore?” the other scoffed. “Tch. Who do those stuck-up pretty boys think they’re kidding?”

“Dunno, but their Housewarden’s gonna be there, too.”

Rook paused. Pomefiore… A dorm known for its strict discipline, elegance, and high standards. It was everything Savanaclaw was not. He thought of the Dark Mirror’s words when he was sorted: A hunter’s heart beats within you. Why had it chosen to place him in Savanaclaw?

He shook the thought away and continued toward the dorm. It didn’t matter. He was stuck here, and he had to survive.

But as he rounded a corner, a foot suddenly shot out in front of him. Rook barely had time to react before he tripped, the basket flying from his arms. Clothes scattered everywhere. Laughter erupted around him.

“Whoops,” a second-year sneered, looming over him. “Did the little errand boy fall down?”

Rook scrambled to gather the uniforms before they touched the muddy ground. “ Pardon, pardon, ” he muttered, keeping his head low.

A sharp kick to his side sent him sprawling again. “Tch. Pathetic,” the second-year growled. “You don’t belong here.”

The others laughed, stepping over him as they walked deeper into the dorm.

Rook remained where he was, clutching his aching ribs, his breath shallow.

Maybe they were right. Maybe he didn’t belong here.

But if not here… then where?

Chapter Text

In the NRC Infirmary, the TV blared a breaking news bulletin about the oil rig. The anchor reported that the structure had ‘mysteriously caught fire’, while live aerial footage showed the rig collapsing into the sea, unable to withstand the devastation.

The group sat on the Infirmary cots, waiting their turn as the Infirmary Ghost tended to their wounds.

Jamil lay curled on his side, clutching his knees, eyes wide as saucers. He trembled violently. “Th-th-thanks a lot, Rook,” he stammered. “You know how much I hate bugs! And now I’m going to have nightmares for weeks because of this!”

Nearby, Vil scrutinized his reflection in a compact mirror, meticulously checking for any scratches or bruises. Satisfied he was unharmed, he snapped the mirror shut and turned a sharp glare on his Vice.

“Rook, I certainly hope you’ve learned your lesson.”

Rook, lying on his cot with bandages wrapped around his chest and arms, gave a weak chuckle. “Ah, mon Roi du Poison, ever the stern disciplinarian,” he rasped. “But I must say, what a thrilling hunt that was!”

Vil’s eye twitched. “Thrilling?! You were about to be spider food, you imbecile!”

“Oui, but what is life without a bit of danger?” Rook mused, giving a wincing smile.

Jack scoffed from his cot. “Yeah? Well, next time, leave us out of it.”

Jamil sat up suddenly, still looking shaken. “Forget next time! If I see one more spider, I swear I’m setting the whole dorm on fire!”

“Okay, let’s not commit arson over a bug,” Deuce muttered, rubbing his temple.

The Infirmary Ghost floated over to Malleus, who sat eerily silent at the edge of his cot. His usual composed expression was clouded, his fingers interlocked tightly in his lap.

Sebek noticed immediately. “Lord Malleus! Are you injured?!”

Malleus slowly shook his head. “No… I am unharmed.” His voice was quiet, distant. “But that place… I had nearly fallen into her web once before. I had assumed it was simply another ruin of no consequence. I was… mistaken.”

Lilia hovered beside him, arms crossed. “It’s rare to see you so shaken, Malleus.”

Malleus exhaled slowly. “Had I been a mage of a lower caliber, without the power to teleport away, I fear I would have been lost that night.” His grip tightened. “And now, that monster is no more… but I cannot help but wonder—was she the only one of her kind?”

A heavy silence fell over the group.

Then, Ortho’s eyes flashed with incoming data. “I just scanned the news archives. Several inexplicably large webs have been found throughout the Land of Dawning over the past few decades. If Astrid was the only one, she’s been preying on people for a long time.”

Ace shuddered. “Yeesh. Just imagine how many guys she reeled in before we found out…”

Leona smirked, stretching luxuriantly. “Heh. Too bad we didn’t get to smack her around longer. I was just startin’ to have fun.”

Cater groaned. “Dude. She had five eyes and so many legs! That’s #nightmarefuel!”

Vil pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply. “Regardless, it’s over now. Rook is safe, the monster is dead, and—”

The Infirmary door suddenly burst open. A flustered Crowley stormed in, his uniform disheveled, clutching a stack of documents. “My precious, wonderful students!” he wailed dramatically. “What have you done?!”

The group exchanged wary glances.

“…Define ‘done’,” Leona muttered.

Crowley dramatically threw the stack of papers into the air. “The fire! The explosions! The international incident! Do you have any idea how many phone calls I’ve received tonight?!”

Malleus arched a brow. “It was an abandoned oil rig. Who, exactly, is calling you?”

Crowley flailed. “Oh, just everyone and their mother! Headmage Ambrose, the coast guard, the news stations, the local government—do you know how hard it is to explain why a derelict offshore facility suddenly went up in flames?!”

Vil crossed his arms. “Perhaps you should tell them the truth—that it was the nest of a man-eating spider demon, and we had to destroy it.”

“Oh, brilliant! And then we’ll just sit back and wait for the masses to panic about mutant spider infestations,” Crowley snapped. “Or better yet, let’s have NRC branded as a public menace! Do you want us to get shut down?!”

Leona snickered. “Heh. Might be fun.”

Crowley ignored him, rubbing his temples. “I barely managed to smooth things over by calling it an unfortunate structural collapse caused by age and corrosion, but still—” He dramatically pointed at Vil. “You! Why were you even there?!”

Vil placed a hand on his hip. “Because my Vice nearly died, Headmage.”

Rook gave an exhausted thumbs-up from his cot.

Crowley let out a long, exasperated groan. “Fine, fine! I suppose rescuing a fellow student is a noble cause, but must you all make so much destruction along the way?”

Jamil threw up his hands. “We were fighting for our lives! What did you expect?!”

Crowley huffed, straightening his vest. “Well, what’s done is done. But mark my words—if the school receives any further complaints, I will have to implement disciplinary measures.”

The group collectively groaned.

Leona rolled onto his side. “Tch. Yeah, yeah. You done squawkin’ now? Some of us’re tryin’ to sleep.”

Crowley sniffed, clearly unimpressed, but decided to let it go. “Very well. But don’t think this conversation is over.” With a final flourish, he swept out of the Infirmary.

As soon as the door shut, Epel slumped against his pillow. “Ugh. I dunno about y’all, but I am so done with today.”

Jamil groaned. “Agreed. If anyone so much as mentions spiders near me, I’m hexing them!”

Rook gave a weak chuckle. “Ah, but what an adventure this was! A true test of courage!”

“SHUT UP, ROOK!!!” the group chorused, thoroughly exasperated.

Vil fixed him with a withering glare. “You… are in so much trouble, mister.”

Rook, for once, wisely chose to hold his tongue after that.

As the Infirmary settled into an exhausted silence, Malleus glanced at the news footage still playing on the TV. The smoldering remains of the oil rig flickered across the screen, slowly sinking beneath the waves.

And yet… despite the monster’s defeat, despite the destruction of her nest, an unsettling thought remained in the back of his mind.

What if Astrid wasn’t the only one?

What if there were more?

Somewhere, in the darkest corners of the world… waiting.

Chapter Text

On the day of the practice match, Savanaclaw quickly realized they had underestimated Pomefiore.

Pomefiore was supposed to be one of the weakest dorms in terms of physical strength, yet they moved with a precision and grace that left Savanaclaw scrambling to keep up. Every play was executed with near-flawless coordination, their steps swift and light, their spellwork sharp and efficient. Even the supposedly delicate Housewarden, a short, dainty-looking brunette, commanded the field like a general, his light brown hair shimmering in the setting sun as he sent the Spelldrive disc soaring through the air with practiced ease.

“What the hell?!” one of the Savanaclaw players snarled as a Pomefiore student evaded his tackle with a perfectly timed twirl. “These guys ain’t s’posed to be this good!”

Leona, watching from the sidelines with his Housewarden, clicked his tongue in irritation. “Tch. Should’ve known they’d have some tricks up their sleeves. They don’t rely on brute strength, but strategy.”

Among the Savanaclaw benches, Rook—who was always relegated to serving as water boy and ball boy during Spelldrive games—stood mesmerized as the Pomefiore players weaved effortlessly around his dormmates, their movements elegant and refined.

The contrast between the two teams was striking. Where Savanaclaw relied on brute strength and aggression, Pomefiore moved like dancers, their footwork precise, their coordination seamless. Every pass, every feint, every strike was executed with the grace of a well-rehearsed performance. It was hypnotizing—spellbinding, even.

Rook’s fingers tightened around the water bottles he carried, his heart pounding. He had never seen anything like this. The raw ferocity of his dorm had always seemed unstoppable, but now, they were being outmaneuvered, outplayed.

A particularly swift Pomefiore player, a second-year with silver-blue hair, darted past one of Savanaclaw’s bulkier upperclassmen with an effortless spin. The Spelldrive disc arced through the air, landing neatly in the hands of another teammate, who flipped gracefully over a defender and sent the disc soaring through the goal ring.

The Pomefiore bench erupted in cheers.

Savanaclaw, on the other hand, was fuming. The Housewarden’s sharp voice cut through the air. “What the hell are you people doin’?! Stop dancin’ around and START HITTIN’ ‘EM BACK!!”

Rook flinched at the venom in his Housewarden’s tone. He turned back to the field just in time to see the game grow rougher. The Savanaclaw players, humiliated and desperate to turn the tide, abandoned strategy in favor of brute force. The game turned into a series of increasingly vicious tackles and body slams, but Pomefiore, to Rook’s surprise, was undeterred.

“They are not afraid,” he murmured under his breath.

Despite their delicate appearances, Pomefiore’s players endured every hit with remarkable resilience. Even after being knocked down, they rose with their heads held high, their expressions as composed as ever. Rook’s attention kept drifting back to the Pomefiore Housewarden—valiant and fierce, despite his small stature. Every move he made was effortless, yet commanding. His mere presence on the field seemed to unnerve Savanaclaw’s players, as if they weren’t just facing an opponent, but an inevitability.

Before he could dwell on it, the sharp whistle of the referee signaled the end of the match. The scoreboard left no room for doubt—Pomefiore had won.

Savanaclaw’s players stormed off the field in a foul mood, shoving Rook aside as they passed. He stumbled but caught himself, still staring at the Housewarden.

As Rook made his way toward the stadium exit, lost in thought, someone suddenly collided with him, sending him tumbling straight into a mud puddle.

“Oh dear, I am so sorry! Are you alright?”

Rook sat up, spluttering and wiping the grime from his face. As he blinked mud from his eyes, his gaze landed on the Pomefiore uniform of the person standing over him. Looking up, he found himself staring at a fellow first-year.

But not just any first-year.

This was none other than the Vil Schoenheit—world-renowned actor, supermodel, and living legend.

Vil extended a perfectly manicured hand toward Rook, his violet eyes filled with mild concern—but also scrutiny. “Honestly, some people have no awareness of their surroundings. Are you hurt?”

Rook, still reeling from the collision and the sheer presence of Vil Schoenheit, barely managed to stammer out, “ N-non, I am fine…” before realizing he was covered head to toe in mud. His cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

Vil’s lips pressed into a thin line as he took in Rook’s disheveled state. With a sigh, he pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to him. “Here. At least get your face cleaned up.”

Rook hesitated, glancing between Vil and the undoubtedly expensive fabric. “Ah… merci, but I—”

“Just take it,” Vil said, waving off his protest. “I have plenty.”

Rook accepted it gingerly and dabbed at his face, acutely aware of the difference between them—Vil, immaculate even after a Spelldrive match, and himself, sitting in the mud like a bedraggled stray.

Vil gave him a once-over, his expression thoughtful. “You’re from Savanaclaw, aren’t you?”

Rook tensed slightly. “…Oui.”

“Hm. You don’t quite fit the image,” Vil mused, tilting his head. “I suppose that’s why you were watching us so intently during the game?”

Rook’s eyes widened. Had Vil noticed?

Before he could answer, Vil straightened and flipped his hair over his shoulder. “Well, you certainly have potential. That much is clear.”

“P-potential?” Rook echoed.

“HUNT!! Get your sorry ass over here!” The Savanaclaw Housewarden barked. “You got work to do!”

Vil’s gaze remained locked on Rook. “It doesn’t have to be this way,” he said. “I can help you.”

Rook turned back to him, uncertainty flickering in his eyes.

“Right now, you are rough around the edges,” Vil continued. “You need more than strength to overcome your problem. You need a teacher, a mentor. Come with me, and I can teach you to shine. ” He extended his hand.

“ Hunt… ” The Savanaclaw Housewarden growled. “You ditch us for those prissy show-offs, you’ve had it.”

Rook’s heart pounded as he looked between Vil’s outstretched hand and the scowling Housewarden of Savanaclaw.

He had spent his entire life being tossed around like a rag doll, following orders, obeying without question. But here was someone—someone powerful, respected—offering him a choice.

His fingers twitched.

He could already hear the jeers, feel the punishment waiting for him if he defied his dorm. But when he met Vil’s gaze—calm, confident, assured—something inside him stirred.

He had spent his whole life bowing his head.

Maybe… maybe it was time to do something else.

With a deep breath, Rook reached out and grasped Vil’s hand.

The Savanaclaw Housewarden snarled. “Hunt, ya piece of—!”

Vil turned sharply, his tone ice-cold. “I believe he’s made his decision.”

The Housewarden took a step forward, but Vil didn’t flinch. He simply arched a brow, his presence alone enough to make the older student hesitate.

“Tch.” The Housewarden spat on the ground. “Fine. Don’t come crawlin’ back when they kick ya to the curb.”

Rook tightened his grip on Vil’s hand as the Housewarden stormed off, the weight of what he’d just done settling over him. He had defied them. Walked away. And yet… for the first time, he didn’t feel like cowering.

Vil studied him for a moment, then smirked. “A wise decision.”

With that, he turned on his heel, leading Rook away from the stadium and toward a new chapter of his life.

Chapter Text

With the Astrid incident behind them, life at NRC gradually returned to normal.

Except…

People began to notice that Rook was unusually quiet, his usual grin subdued.

Despite the revelation that Astrid had been nothing more than a monstrous arachnid intent on devouring him, Rook couldn’t shake the lingering sense of loss. Against all reason, he found himself missing her company.

He wasn’t his usual exuberant self. He still showed up to class, still did his duties as Vice Housewarden, but his once ever-present smile had faded. His poetic musings were fewer and far between. Even his stalking habits seemed… less intense.

Rook wandered the campus aimlessly, his usual incessant chattiness absent. His fellow students noticed the change—his silence was almost unsettling.

But the huntsman had bigger problems to worry about. Fed up with Rook’s antics, the seemingly passive, indifferent Yuon had finally revealed his true colors—a bully more ruthless than any Savanaclaw student. He exposed Rook’s betrayal at the SDC and his admiration for Neige LeBlanche to the entire school, effectively branding him an outcast, even among his own dormmates.

Rook quickly found himself isolated. Pomefiore’s once-welcoming halls now felt colder, the stares of his dormmates sharp with disdain. No one spoke to him unless it was to utter an insult. Even Epel, who had once tolerated his eccentricities, refused to meet his eyes.

The worst of it, however, was Vil.

The Pomefiore Housewarden barely acknowledged his Vice anymore, consumed by preparations for an upcoming fashion magazine photoshoot.

For the first time since they’d met, Vil treated Rook as if he didn’t exist. No commands, no exasperated sighs, no sharp reprimands. Just cold, absolute indifference.

And Yuon?

Yuon made sure Rook felt every ounce of his social leprosy.

At first, it was small things—a shoulder bump in the hallway, a mocking smirk from across the room. Then it escalated. His arrows went missing from the archery range. His uniform was mysteriously soaked in ink. Every time he turned a corner, someone was there to shove him, to sneer and spit words like venom.

“Traitor!”

 “LeBlanche lapdog!”

 “Why don’t you just transfer to Royal Sword?!”

Rook kept his head high, his smile in place. But it was forced. Hollow.

He was a hunter. He had been surrounded by enemies before.

But never like this.

A few days later, after PE, Rook stepped inside the Gym locker room—only to find F R E A K ! spray-painted in neon red across the door of his locker. He scanned the room, his sharp eyes landing on Yuon, who lounged against the wall among a group of Savanaclaw students. A smirk curled Yuon’s lips as he lazily tossed a spray can up and down in one hand.

Rook said nothing. He simply turned away, as if the insult didn’t faze him.

After his shower, he cracked open the stall door, reaching for his towels—only to grasp at nothing. He patted around, frowning, before peering out.

His towels, along with his uniform, had been moved to another stall…

…clear on the other side of the locker room.

Laughter echoed as he spotted the Savanaclaw group stifling their chuckles on their way out. Yuon, bringing up the rear, shot him a smug grin—flipping him the Middle Finger before disappearing through the door.

Rook exhaled slowly, his grip tightening on the stall door. He had endured worse. He had survived worse.

But this?

This was not a battlefield. This was supposed to be his home.

For a fleeting moment, his fingers twitched toward his magic pen, but he hesitated.

No. Not for something as petty as this.

So, with a practiced, unwavering smile, he strode across the locker room, completely unbothered by his state of undress. He plucked his towels and uniform from the other stall, took his time drying off, and dressed as if nothing had happened.

By the time he left the locker room, the smirks and whispers that followed him barely registered.

No one—not even Rook himself—noticed his magestone darkening slightly.

Late that evening in Pomefiore, Vil and Epel sat alone in the lounge, making final preparations for the next day’s photoshoot. Noticing Vil’s deepening scowl, Epel finally broke the silence.

“C’mon, Vil. I can tell you’re mighty peeved. And Meemaw always says it ain’t good for ya to hold it in. I’m right here if ya need to vent. Sure, most of it’ll probably go over my head, but still.”

Vil remained silent for a moment, meticulously adjusting the placement of an accessory in his open suitcase. Then, with a sigh, he snapped it shut and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“That fool,” he muttered.

Epel rolled his eyes. “Which fool? We got a whole school full of ‘em.”

Vil shot him a sharp look. “Rook,” he clarified. “Of all the ridiculous things he’s done, this… this is beyond comprehension.” His fingers curled into his palms, perfectly manicured nails pressing into his skin. “His betrayal at the SDC was bad enough. But to be so careless, so reckless, that he let himself be captured by that creature? That he nearly—rrgh!”

Epel shifted, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve.

Vil continued, voice colder now. “Honestly, what did I ever see in that freak?! All he ever seems to do is get in my way! When we bumped into each other after that Spelldrive game our freshman year, I thought I’d found a diamond in the rough. But he turned out to be nothing more than crystal glass—utterly! WORTHLESS!! ”

He took a slow breath to steady himself, but something felt off. Epel wasn’t looking at him anymore—his eyes were fixed on something behind Vil.

Then, Vil heard it.

A sharp, unsteady inhale. The sound of someone on the verge of tears. Then footsteps—quick, desperate—bolting up the stairs. A door slammed in the distance.

Vil visibly deflated. “…He heard everything, didn’t he?” he exhaled.

Epel sighed. “Yep.”

Rook burst into his room, slamming the door shut behind him. His breath came in ragged gasps as he braced himself against the door, his fingers trembling.

Freak. Worthless.

Vil’s words echoed in his skull, each syllable striking him like an arrow to the heart.

He had endured the whispers, the taunts, the pranks—every cruel joke Yuon and Savanaclaw had thrown at him. But this? This was something else.

Vil, his Housewarden. His Roi du Poison. The one person whose judgment he respected above all others. The one person he had believed still saw value in him, even after everything.

And yet…

Nothing more than crystal glass—utterly worthless.

A choked laugh bubbled past his lips. It was bitter, humorless. He backed away from the door, his legs giving out as he slumped onto the edge of his bed. He stared blankly at the floor, his usually bright emerald eyes dull, empty. He pulled Astre close, squeezing her tight, burying his face between her ears.

A hunter knew when they were outmatched. When the prey turned on the predator.

He had nowhere left to run.

Slowly, Rook turned his gaze to his magic pen, resting on the nightstand. The once-vibrant gem was now marred with streaks of darkness, the corruption creeping ever so subtly through its core.

His fingers twitched.

Perhaps…

Perhaps it was time to stop pretending everything was fine.

Chapter Text

Dorm transfers were rare, but not unheard of. Vil had practically pleaded with his Housewarden—a fact he found utterly mortifying—but somehow, he had managed to get Rook’s transfer begrudgingly approved.

Now, the two of them stood before the Housewarden’s throne in Pomefiore’s lavish lounge, Rook cowering slightly behind Vil as the Housewarden finalized the paperwork.

The Housewarden sighed as he set his pen down. His sharp eyes swept over Rook, who stiffened under the scrutiny.

“I still don’t see what you’re playing at, Vil,” the Housewarden remarked, leaning back in his seat. “A Savanaclaw reject? Hardly Pomefiore material.”

Vil, standing tall and unwavering, crossed his arms. “He has potential.”

“Hmph. Potential, ” the Housewarden repeated with a trace of amusement. “I’ll believe it when I see it.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Very well. I’ll allow it, but he’s your responsibility now. If he causes trouble, it’s your problem.”

“Understood, sir.” Vil inclined his head in thanks, then turned to Rook. “Come, let’s get you settled.”

Rook hesitated for a moment before bowing stiffly to the Housewarden. “ Merci… ” he mumbled.

As Vil led him out of the lounge, the murmurs of other Pomefiore students followed them.

“Did you see his hair? ”

“Such a mess—like he just rolled out of bed.”

“A Savanaclaw brute in our dorm? How disgraceful.”

Rook clenched his fists, the words stinging more than they should have. He had expected a cold welcome, but that didn’t make it any easier.

Vil shot him a glance. “Ignore them. You’re in Pomefiore now. That means you must carry yourself with grace.”

Rook swallowed hard and nodded.

“I would have preferred to address your appearance first,” Vil said, eyeing Rook critically, “but your Flight grade is so far down the drain that it’s practically out to sea. As they say, duty before beauty.”

They stepped into a two-person dorm room. The left side was unmistakably Vil’s—pristine, organized, and adorned with an elegant vanity. The right side, however, was completely bare.

“My previous roommate,” Vil explained with a sigh, “requested a room swap the moment he heard about you.” He turned to Rook with a smirk. “You certainly know how to make an impression.”

Rook swallowed hard, glancing at the empty side of the room. He had expected hostility from his former dormmates, but even here, in the refined halls of Pomefiore, he was already unwanted.

Vil, noticing Rook’s hesitation, rolled his eyes. “Oh, don’t look so pathetic. This just means you have an entire space to make your own. Consider it a blank canvas.”

Rook nodded slowly, setting his tattered duffle bag down on the bed. Compared to the luxurious bedding on Vil’s side, the plain white sheets seemed almost out of place.

“Now,” Vil continued, arms crossed, “first thing’s first. Before we can even think about getting you up to Pomefiore standards, we need to ensure you can at least stay in the air during Flight class.”

Rook flinched. “ …Oui. Of course.”

Vil sighed dramatically. “Honestly, how did you survive in Savanaclaw? What were you even doing all this time?”

“…Laundry,” Rook admitted meekly.

Vil stared at him for a long moment, then pinched the bridge of his nose. “We have SO much work to do.”

He strode toward his vanity, grabbed a notebook, and flipped it open. “All right, we’ll begin with a structured schedule—morning flight training, midday etiquette lessons, afternoon Spelldrive practice, and evening refinement courses. That should be a good start.”

Rook blinked. “Th-that… sounds like a lot…”

Vil snapped his notebook shut with a decisive nod. “It is. And if you want to thrive in Pomefiore, you will keep up. I refuse to have my efforts wasted.”

Rook straightened slightly, sensing the unspoken challenge in Vil’s words. He had taken a leap of faith by leaving Savanaclaw. If he wanted to make this work, he had to prove he belonged here.

“ …D’accord, ” he said. “I will do my best.”

Vil smirked. “Good. Now, let’s see just how much of a disaster your Flight skills really are.”

A disaster they most certainly were. Half the time, Rook’s broom stubbornly refused to budge. And when he did manage to get airborne, he either shot off like a firework across campus or was tossed around like a rag doll on a wild bull.

“Oh, Great Seven…” Vil groaned, pressing his fingers to his temples. “This is worse than I thought.”

Vil sighed and crossed his arms, watching as Rook tumbled head over heels into the dirt for what felt like the hundredth time. His broom clattered to the ground beside him, rolling to a stop at Vil’s feet.

Rook sat up, groaning, and spat out a mouthful of grass. “I… I do not understand,” he murmured, rubbing his sore shoulder. “Why will it not listen to me?”

Vil exhaled sharply and strode over, picking up the broom with a scrutinizing gaze. “It’s not the broom’s fault, you know. Magic responds to confidence and control. You have neither.”

Rook flinched at the bluntness of the statement, but he couldn’t argue. He had spent his entire life avoiding notice, bowing his head, and moving quietly so as not to anger those around him. Confidence had never been an option.

Vil tapped the broom against the ground, thinking. “First thing’s first. You need to stop looking like a helpless little rabbit every time you lift off. Come on, stand up.”

Rook obeyed, dusting off his uniform. Vil stepped behind him and placed his hands firmly on Rook’s shoulders.

“Straighten up,” Vil instructed. “No slouching. Shoulders back. Chin up.” He gave Rook a poke between the shoulder blades when he didn’t correct his posture fast enough. “You are not some pathetic, beaten-down mutt anymore. You are a member of Pomefiore now. So act like it.”

Rook swallowed nervously but did as he was told.

“Good,” Vil said. “Now, try again. And this time, believe that you belong in the sky.”

Taking a steadying breath, Rook reached for the broom. He mounted it, hesitated only briefly, and then—

The broom lifted smoothly off the ground.

Rook’s heart leapt. He wasn’t wobbling. He wasn’t being thrown like a sack of potatoes. He was actually flying.

Vil smirked. “There you go. Much better.”

Rook turned to look at him, eyes shining. “I am flying.”

“Yes, yes, don’t get sentimental about it,” Vil huffed, rolling his eyes. “We still have a long way to go before you’re anywhere near passable.”

But Rook barely heard him. For the first time in his life, he was soaring.

Before he knew it, the winter holiday had arrived. The dorm buzzed with excitement as students rushed about, packing their suitcases and making last-minute travel plans. Rook, however, simply sat on his bed, gazing out at the frozen landscape, Astre clutched to his chest and his wolf pelt draped over his shoulders.

He heard the door open, then a pause. “Rook? Why haven’t you packed?”

Rook tightened his hold on Astre. “There is no reason to. I’ve nowhere to return to.”

Vil’s sharp gaze softened. “You’re an orphan.”

Rook turned his attention back to the window. “I may as well be.”

He offered no further explanation, and Vil—keen as he was—chose not to pry. Instead, he folded his arms and said simply,

“Then why don’t you spend the break at my house?”

Vil’s offer caught Rook completely off guard. He turned, wide-eyed. “At… your house?”

Vil shrugged, as if it were the most obvious solution in the world. “It’s certainly better than staying here all alone like some tragic novel character.” He sighed and crossed his arms. “I suppose I should have expected this. You never get any letters, and you never talk about your family. I assumed there was a reason for that.”

Rook looked down, stroking Astre’s worn fabric ear. “…You are certain I would not be imposing?”

Vil scoffed. “Oh, please. Do you have any idea how big my family’s estate is? You could probably disappear into one of the guest rooms for days and no one would notice.”

Rook hesitated. He had never been invited anywhere before. No one had ever wanted him around unless it was to order him around. The idea that Vil—perfectionist, sharp-tongued, prideful Vil—would willingly bring him home was almost too much to believe.

But Vil was looking at him expectantly, one perfectly manicured brow raised.

“…Then I accept,” Rook said softly.

Vil smiled, satisfied. “Good. Now pack your things. You’re not showing up looking like an urchin.”

Chapter Text

The next day, Rook’s smile had vanished completely. He moped about and would hardly eat. That morning in the Cafeteria, the atmosphere was noticeably different. Rook usually carried himself with an air of dramatic flair, always smiling, always speaking in flowery prose—whether people wanted to hear it or not. But today, he was silent.

He sat at the farthest end of the table, head bowed, absently pushing his food around his plate. His once-bright eyes were dull, and his usual impeccable posture was slumped, as if the weight of the entire world rested on his shoulders. Even his cap feather seemed to droop like a blade of grass heavy with condensation.

Epel, watching from a few seats down, frowned. He’d never seen Rook look so... defeated. Not even when had Vil scolded him in the past. This was different. This was worse.

No one spoke to him. No one acknowledged his presence. Pomefiore students whispered about him behind his back, some snickering, others sneering. Yuon, seated with the Savanaclaw students as usual, sent Rook a smug look before turning back to his conversation, laughing loudly at some joke.

Epel clenched his fists. His gut told him this wasn’t right. Yeah, Rook could be annoying as hell sometimes, and yeah, what he did during the SDC sucked ass, but this? This was starting to feel like outright cruelty.

And what made it even worse was that Rook just took it. No witty remarks. No dramatic exclamations. No riddles or poems.

Just silence.

In Potionology, the students were rapidly growing mandrakes by infusing them with magic. As always, Cater was having fun with it, coaxing his mandrakes into striking photogenic poses for his Magicam account. Across the room, two of Sebek’s mandrakes were locked in an intense sword fight, using twigs as makeshift weapons. Jack, hyped for an upcoming track meet, ended up with one that zipped around his desk like it had chugged an entire energy drink.

But when Professor Crewel reached Rook’s station, he immediately sensed that something was wrong.

Rook sat with his head down, barely reacting to anything around him. More concerning, however, were his mandrakes. Unlike the usual vibrant, lively ones he typically produced, these were… off. One was curled into a tight ball against his textbook, trembling as though terrified. Another lay on its side, clutching its middle as if wracked with pain. A third dangled limply over the edge of a beaker, looking like it was about to be sick.

And there was something else.

Cater had once accidentally grown a particularly moody-looking mandrake, but even that one had been healthy. These, however, were different. Their leaves were wilted, their stems discolored, their energy completely drained.

They looked diseased.

Crewel frowned, his sharp eyes narrowing.

Later, in the hallway, the usual routine continued—shoving, name-calling, rude gestures, and biting insults. Rook barely reacted anymore. He kept his head down, his once-proud posture slouched, moving through the halls like a ghost. A hard shove sent him stumbling into the lockers, but he didn’t protest. Snide whispers trailed behind him, but he didn’t respond. Even when someone flicked his fedora off his head, letting it tumble to the floor, he simply knelt to pick it up, dusted it off, and kept walking.

These days, everyone looked at him as if he were something foul stuck to the bottom of their shoes. Even the few students who never had a problem with Rook before treated him with the same disdain. Yuon’s mocking voice suddenly rang out over the laughter.

“Guess ya shouldn’t have wasted so much time goofin’ around with your girlfriend, blondie.”

That struck a nerve.

Like a whip crack, memories surged—his father’s scoffing voice, his brothers’ taunting jeers, that cursed nickname thrown at him over and over again.

Everyone jumped when, in a blur of movement, Rook grabbed Yuon’s arm and slammed him against the wall. The impact echoed down the hallway.

“You do not call me that,” Rook said, his voice low, dangerously steady.

“Tch. Damn rat—OW, son of a…!” Yuon yelped as Rook’s grip tightened like a vice.

The crowd instinctively stepped back. Up until now, Rook Hunt had been thought incapable of anger.

Yuon tried to yank his arm free, but Rook’s grip only tightened, his nails digging into the fabric of Yuon’s sleeve. His emerald eyes, usually so full of mirth, were sharp and gleaming with something unreadable—something dangerous.

For the first time since this whole mess began, Rook looked like a hunter.

“Lemme go, freak,” Yuon spat, though there was a flicker of unease in his expression.

Rook leaned in slightly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Do you know what happens to prey that taunts a predator, mon cher lapin?”

Yuon swallowed. He wasn’t sure if it was Rook’s voice or the way his nails pressed just a little too close to his pulse that sent an involuntary shiver down his spine.

A tense silence settled over the hallway. No one was laughing now. No shoving. No jeering.

Jack and Deuce exchanged uneasy glances. Even Cater, who loved a bit of drama, was gripping his phone but not recording.

Finally, Professor Trein’s stern voice cut through the tension like a knife.

“Hunt, release him. Now.”

Rook’s jaw tensed, but he didn’t break eye contact with Yuon. Then, with a scoff, he shoved the Ramshackle prefect back and stepped away, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeves.

Yuon, now free, stumbled but quickly regained his footing. He shot a venomous glare at Rook while rubbing his bruised arm. “Damn, is he hidin’ gorilla arms in those sleeves or what?” he muttered under his breath before retreating down the hall. His posse hesitated for a moment before hurrying after him.

As soon as Yuon was gone, the crowd began to disperse, murmuring amongst themselves. But the damage had already been done—they had seen it.

For the first time since his exile, Rook had fought back.

The whispers spread like wildfire.

“Did you see that? Rook actually snapped!”

“I didn’t even know he could get mad.”

“Man, Yuon totally had it coming, but still—Rook looked kinda scary for a second there.”

Rook ignored the murmurs as he strode away, his smile nowhere to be seen. His mind was too tangled in emotions to care. Anger. Frustration. Exhaustion. And beneath it all… emptiness.

Even as he walked through the familiar halls of Pomefiore, they no longer felt like home. He barely acknowledged the sharp looks from his dormmates.

Epel frowned, watching his retreating figure. That wasn’t Rook’s usual ‘I know something you don’t’ attitude.

No, this was different.

This was a man losing himself.

Chapter Text

Upon arriving at Vil’s mansion, the butler greeted them at the door, his gaze lingering on Rook for a moment before he arched a questioning brow at Vil.

Vil merely waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t give me that look. He’s my guest.”

The butler, ever the professional, gave a small nod and stepped aside to let them in. Rook hesitated at the threshold, glancing around at the grand entryway. It was unlike anything he had ever seen—polished marble floors, a grand staircase, ornate chandeliers casting a warm glow over the space. He suddenly felt very small, very out of place.

“Come along,” Vil said, leading the way inside. “I’ll show you to your room.”

Rook followed, clutching his duffle bag a little tighter. They ascended the staircase and walked down a long hallway lined with portraits of distinguished-looking individuals—Vil’s ancestors, most likely. Eventually, Vil stopped at a door and pushed it open.

“You’ll be staying here,” he said.

The room was elegant yet simple—far more luxurious than anything Rook was used to. The bed alone looked softer than any he had ever slept in. He hesitated in the doorway, unsure if he should even step inside.

Vil sighed, placing a hand on his hip. “Honestly, you look like a lost puppy. Just set your things down already.”

Rook nodded hesitantly and shuffled inside, placing his bag carefully at the foot of the bed. He turned to Vil. “ Merci… I truly appreciate this.”

Vil waved him off. “Think nothing of it. Now, get settled. Dinner will be served soon.”

As Vil left, Rook sat down on the edge of the bed, taking in his surroundings. For the first time in a long while, he wasn’t dreading what the night would bring.

It wasn’t until breakfast the next morning that Rook met Vil’s father—stage name Eric Venue, himself a world-famous actor and producer.

Eric sat at the head of the grand dining table, a newspaper in one hand and a steaming cup of coffee in the other. Despite the early hour, he was already impeccably dressed, exuding an effortless elegance that only came with years of experience in the spotlight. His sharp, violet eyes flicked up from the newspaper the moment Vil and Rook entered the dining room.

Rook stiffened under the man’s scrutinizing gaze. Though he had grown accustomed to Vil’s own sharp tongue and high standards, there was something different about Eric’s presence—something that made Rook feel even smaller than he already was.

Vil, however, merely took his seat without hesitation, motioning for Rook to do the same. “Good morning, Father,” he greeted smoothly.

“Morning,” Eric replied before setting his paper down and turning his attention fully to Rook. “And you must be the ‘project’ my son has been so invested in lately.”

Rook flinched slightly at the wording. Project? Was that all he was?

“His name is Rook Hunt,” Vil answered for him. “He’s my new dormmate, and I invited him to stay for the break.”

Eric hummed, taking a slow sip of his coffee before setting the cup down. “You’re from Savanaclaw, aren’t you?”

Rook nodded hesitantly. “ O-oui, monsieur. ”

“I see,” Eric mused, studying him carefully. “You don’t quite fit the image of a Savanaclaw student.”

Rook swallowed. That seemed to be a common observation.

“Regardless,” Eric continued, reclining slightly in his chair, “if my son has taken an interest in you, then I assume you must have some kind of potential.”

Vil smirked slightly at the words but said nothing, instead picking up his fork and beginning his meal.

Rook, unsure of what else to do, did the same—though he couldn’t shake the feeling that Eric was still watching him, evaluating him in ways he couldn’t yet understand.

Eric took another sip of his coffee, eyeing Rook with mild amusement. “Not much of a talker, is he?”

Vil set down his teacup with a small sigh. “He’s just not used to this kind of environment.”

Eric hummed, setting his coffee down as well. “I can tell. You’re a long way from home, aren’t you, kid?”

Rook hesitated, his hands tightening around his utensils. “ …Oui. ”

Eric studied him for a moment, then leaned back in his chair. “Well, anyone under my roof eats properly. No slouching, no picking at your food like a bird. Vil, make sure he learns the house rules.”

Vil rolled his eyes. “Obviously.”

Rook, meanwhile, sat stiffly, unsure of how to navigate this situation. It was strange—Eric Venue was a man who commanded attention effortlessly, yet he wasn’t cruel like Noctharis. The contrast unsettled him.

“Go on, eat,” Vil prompted, nodding toward Rook’s untouched plate.

Tentatively, Rook took a bite. The flavors melted across his tongue—rich, warm, and nothing like the scraps he had grown up on. It was… comforting.

Eric smirked as he caught the flicker of surprise in Rook’s expression. “Good, huh?”

Rook swallowed and gave a small nod.

Vil shook his head with a sigh. “We have a lot of work to do.”

Vil dedicated the entire holiday to refining Rook—improving his Flight skills and Spelldrive technique, instilling proper etiquette, and building his confidence. He sent Rook’s measurements to his tailor for a wardrobe upgrade, arranged for his stylist to tame his hair, and even introduced him to the art of makeup application.

By the time the holiday break was over, Rook hardly recognized himself. Gone were his tattered clothes, replaced with a refined, Pomefiore-worthy wardrobe tailored specifically for him. His unruly hair had been neatly styled, and under Vil’s meticulous instruction, he had learned the subtle art of enhancing his features with just the right touch of makeup. Even his posture had changed—no longer hunched and uncertain, but upright with a newfound sense of poise.

As they boarded the carriage back to Night Raven College, Vil studied him with a critical eye. “Much better,” he mused. “Though there’s still work to be done.”

Rook smiled slightly. “ Merci, Vil. For everything.”

Vil waved a hand dismissively, though the corners of his lips twitched upward. “Don’t thank me yet. I won’t be satisfied until you make everyone who doubted you eat their words. ”

When they strode into their dorm, the other Pomefiore students were absolutely floored.

“No. Way,” one gawked.

“That canNOT be the same ragged hairball you fished out of Savanaclaw’s gutter last semester,” another muttered in disbelief.

Even the Housewarden nearly choked on his tea, coughing as he dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief. Finally, he let out a sheepish chuckle. “Well… I suppose I should have known better than to doubt the Vil Schoenheit.”

Rook stood tall, his once-wild hair now sleek and styled, his ill-fitting rags replaced with tailored Pomefiore attire. Even his posture had changed—no longer hunched in timid submission, but poised and refined.

He met the stunned gazes around him with a small, confident smile. “ Bonsoir, mes camarades, ” he greeted, his voice smooth and sure.

One of the dorm members whispered to another, “Did he just—DID HE JUST GREET US LIKE A TRUE POMEFIORE?!!”

Vil smirked, arms crossed as he surveyed his handiwork. “Well? Have I not worked wonders?”

The Housewarden sipped his tea thoughtfully, now regarding Rook with genuine interest. “I’ll admit, I never expected this level of transformation.” He set his cup down, lacing his fingers together. “But appearances alone aren’t enough. If he’s truly Pomefiore now, he must prove it.”

Rook’s smile didn’t waver, though a flicker of curiosity danced in his emerald eyes. “Prove it?”

Vil nodded knowingly. “Ah, of course. A proper debut.” He turned to Rook with a glint of challenge in his gaze. “It’s time for your first test.”

Rook tilted his head. “And what would that be?”

Vil’s smirk widened. “A duel. Against me.”

A hush fell over the Pomefiore lounge.

“A duel?” Rook echoed, blinking.

Vil’s smirk didn’t waver. “If you wish to stand among Pomefiore’s elite, you must prove you have not only grace, but strength. Poise and power, beauty and brutality—our dorm embodies both. And what better way to test that than a duel?”

Rook swallowed. He had sparred with Vil before in their training sessions, but never with real stakes. The other students murmured excitedly, eager to see if the former Savanaclaw outcast could hold his own against the heir to the Schoenheit legacy.

The Housewarden leaned back in his chair, intrigued. “I’ll allow it. A test of skill—very Pomefiore.” He waved a hand. “The training hall, after dinner.”

And with that, Rook’s trial was set.

That evening, the training hall gleamed under the glow of enchanted chandeliers. A small crowd had gathered, filling the balconies and lining the walls, eager for the spectacle.

Rook stood at one end of the dueling ring, dressed in his new Pomefiore uniform. His fingers flexed around the hilt of the elegant training rapier Vil had lent him. His heart pounded, but he steadied himself.

Vil stood opposite him, utterly at ease. Dressed impeccably, he looked as though he were about to perform on stage rather than engage in combat. He tilted his head, amusement dancing in his violet eyes. “Don’t disappoint me, Rook.”

Rook nodded, tightening his grip. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

The Housewarden raised a hand from his seat. “Begin.”

Vil struck first, moving with the grace of a seasoned performer, his rapier slicing through the air in elegant, precise arcs. Rook barely had time to react, jerking his own blade up just in time to deflect the strike. The force of it sent a tremor down his arm.

He’s fast!

Rook stumbled back, but Vil was relentless. His attacks came like a choreographed dance, footwork light and effortless. Every movement was refined, every strike a lesson in discipline. It was clear he had been trained from a young age—dueling was not just a skill to him, but an art form.

Rook, on the other hand, was still getting used to his new body—the one Vil had helped him shape. He had grown stronger, more agile, but he lacked Vil’s precision.

Another strike—Rook barely dodged.

Another—he parried, but clumsily.

Vil tsked. “You hesitate.” A flick of his wrist, and Rook’s grip wavered. “You overthink.” A quick sidestep, and Vil’s blade came dangerously close to Rook’s neck. “And worst of all—” he knocked Rook’s rapier from his hands, sending it clattering to the ground, “—you still don’t trust yourself.”

Rook stared at the weapon, his breath coming in sharp pants.

The room was silent.

Vil exhaled, shaking his head. “I expected more.”

Something burned in Rook’s chest.

No.

No, he would not be a disappointment.

He lunged for his rapier, rolling to grab it as Vil moved in for the final strike. In a single motion, Rook spun on his heel and brought his blade up, catching Vil’s just in time. The clash rang through the hall.

Vil’s eyes widened ever so slightly.

Rook pushed forward, his stance lower now, more controlled. He wasn’t thinking anymore—he was moving. His body remembered the drills, the lessons, the training. He sidestepped Vil’s next strike, countering with a swift jab that forced the other back.

The spectators gasped.

Rook pressed on, matching Vil step for step, strike for strike. He was still far from perfect, but he was no longer just defending—he was fighting back.

For the first time, a smile tugged at Vil’s lips.

Then, with one final movement, Vil twisted his blade, hooking Rook’s rapier and sending it flying. It embedded itself in the far wall with a sharp thunk and twanged there.

Silence.

Rook’s chest heaved. He had lost. But as he met Vil’s gaze, he saw no disappointment—only approval.

Vil lowered his weapon. “Better.” He extended a hand. “Much better.”

Rook hesitated only for a second before clasping it.

The room erupted into murmurs, some impressed, some begrudgingly so. But one thing was certain:

Rook Hunt was no longer just a stray from Savanaclaw.

He was Pomefiore.

Chapter Text

Two days later, Rook returned to his dorm room after class…

…and turned pale as a sheet.

His beloved Astre looked like a dog had mauled her. One leg torn off, a button eye missing, an ear dangling by a thread, an arm split open, her torso ripped apart, stuffing strewn across the bed.

But… how? No one even knew about Astre, except for Vil and—

Oh no.

Leona had found out about Astre almost as soon as Rook had set foot in NRC. He must’ve spilled the secret to Yuon.

With shaking hands, Rook pulled out his sewing kit and got to work, carefully stitching her torn fabric, replacing her lost eye, and pushing her stuffing back inside.

His magestone—once vibrant violet—was now barely tinged with color.

After that first winter at Vil’s house, he and Vil had grown so close.

So where had it all gone wrong?

…

…That’s it.

It was the day THEY showed up.

Those three blasted freshmen.

Jack Howl, Vil’s childhood acquaintance, suddenly back in his life with stories to share and memories to rekindle.

Epel Felmier, the dainty-looking farm boy Vil had decided to take on as his new protégé.

Between the two of them, Vil’s attention had slowly drifted away.

From ‘How are you, Rook?’ to ‘Not now, Rook!’

From ‘Join me, Rook?’ to ‘Rook, I don’t have time for you right now!’

From ‘Yes, Rook?’ to ‘Stop bothering me, Rook!’

And then… there was Yuon. The magicless boy from another realm entirely.

Rook sat motionless on the edge of his bed, Astre clutched tightly in his arms. His fingers trembled as they traced over the newly sewn seams, the fresh stitches standing out against the aged fabric. The room felt suffocatingly quiet, save for the distant murmur of students moving through the dormitory halls.

Yuon.

Jack.

Epel.

It wasn’t as though Rook hadn’t welcomed new faces into their school before. Pomefiore had always been filled with students yearning for perfection, eager to please Vil, hoping to gain his favor. Rook had seen many students come and go, but none had ever managed to wedge themselves between him and Vil before.

Until them.

It wasn’t immediate. At first, Vil still greeted him the same way, still turned to him for advice, still trusted him as his Vice Housewarden. But little by little, the gaps grew wider. Epel needed special training. Jack was catching up with Vil over the years they’d been apart. And Yuon… Yuon had made Rook’s life misery since the SDC and Astrid’s demise.

And now?

Vil had called him worthless.

Rook felt his throat tighten, the words echoing over and over in his head.

Utterly! WORTHLESS!!

For the first time in two years, he felt utterly alone.

In that moment of solitude, Yuon became the embodiment of everything Rook despised.

Dark thoughts swirled in his mind, creeping in like shadows at dusk.

Those three had to go.

Only then would Vil be his again.

Chapter Text

That evening, Jack, Epel, and Yuon were in the woods behind campus, picking wild herbs for their Alchemy homework, completely unaware that Rook was watching them. His mind was clouded with a dark haze, his thoughts repeating in a single, maddening loop—

Catch them. Kill them. DESTROY THEM.

His fingers curled around his bow. An arrow nocked, string drawn tight.

Jack's ears twitched at the faint creak of stretched bowstring.

Instinct took over.

“GET DOWN!!” Jack tackled Epel and Yuon just as an arrow whizzed past, embedding itself deep in the tree trunk above them.

“What in tarnation?!” Epel shouted, scrambling for cover.

Yuon pushed himself up with a scowl. “YO!!” He waved a fist toward the shadows. “ Watch where ya fire that thing!”

No response. Just eerie silence.

Then, another arrow flew.

“Dude! What is your deal?!” Jack barked, twisting away as Epel barely dodged the shot.

Rook stood motionless in the darkness, another arrow already drawn. His eyes, usually bright with mischief, were empty. Cold.

And he was aiming to kill.

Jack growled, baring his fangs as he crouched low. “Epel, Yuon—run! Now!”

Epel hesitated. “But—”

“GO!!” Jack roared, shoving them both toward the trees.

Yuon didn’t need to be told twice. He grabbed Epel by the wrist and bolted. Another arrow whizzed past, grazing Yuon’s sleeve.

“WHAT THE HELL, HUNT?!!” Yuon shouted over his shoulder, but Rook was already reloading.

Jack lunged forward, closing the distance between them. If he could just disarm him—

But Rook moved faster.

The next shot came point-blank. Jack barely twisted in time, the arrow slicing through his uniform instead of his ribs. He lashed out, swiping at Rook with clawed fingers.

Rook ducked effortlessly, as fluid as ever. But Jack wasn't about to let him control the fight.

With a snarl, Jack surged forward, tackling Rook into the dirt. The bow clattered to the ground.

Pinned beneath Jack, Rook struggled wildly.

“Snap out of it, man!” Jack barked, gripping his wrists. “What is wrong with you?!”

Rook only thrashed harder in response, eyes flashing with something unrecognizable. Jack had wrestled plenty of people before, but Rook… Rook was desperate. It wasn’t just a fight. It was survival.

Then, for the first time, Jack saw it.

The glimmer of Rook’s magestone—normally a rich violet—had darkened completely.

Jack’s stomach dropped. “Oh, shit.”

He let go and bolted, sprinting to catch up with Yuon and Epel.

“This’s more than Rook bein’ a creep!” he gasped, just as an arrow zipped between his ears. “We gotta call for backup! His magestone—AHH!!”

He stumbled as pain exploded in his side, an arrow buried deep in his flesh.

Yuon and Epel skidded to a stop as Jack hit the ground with a pained grunt.

“Jack!” Epel shouted, rushing to his side.

Yuon spun around, fists clenched, eyes blazing. “Oh, hell no!”

Epel grabbed Jack’s arm, trying to hoist him up. “C’mon, big guy, we gotta move!”

Jack groaned, his ears flattened in pain. “Ngh… dammit…” Blood stained his uniform, the arrow lodged just deep enough to slow him down.

Rook reached for another arrow—only to grasp at empty air.

Yuon straightened with a smug grin. “HA!! Looks like you’re outta ammo!”

Rook didn’t respond. Instead, he discarded his bow and reached into his breast pocket, pulling out his magic pen. With a flick of his wrist, violet energy crackled to life, shaping itself into a shimmering bow, with the pen as its grip. He pulled back the glowing string, an energy bolt forming at his fingertips.

Yuon’s smirk vanished. “…Right,” he muttered. “Forgot he could do that.”

Panic surged through him. Without wasting another second, he ducked under Jack’s other arm, helping Epel haul their injured friend forward. But Jack’s wound slowed them down— too much.

Rook loosed the energy bolt.

It shot straight for them—

—only to be obliterated by a blast of swirling sand.

A figure emerged from the nearby brush, looking equal parts irritated and exhausted.

Leona yawned, cracking his neck as if he had just been rudely awakened. “Tch. Damn frosh, always makin’ a racket.” His sharp eyes flicked to the arrow lodged in Jack’s side, then to Rook, whose darkened magestone pulsed ominously.

His lip curled. “Oh, it’s you.”

Rook’s expression didn’t waver, but there was a subtle shift in the air around him—like a predator sizing up a new challenger.

Leona sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Y’know, I was gonna just sit this one out. Figured it was none of my business. But then—” his gaze flicked to Jack, still clutching at the arrow in his side, breathing heavily. “—ya just had to go and piss me off.”

Rook didn’t respond. He simply raised his energy bow and let another bolt fly.

Leona barely moved. With a flick of his wrist, another wall of sand shot up, swallowing the attack whole.

Rook fired again. And again. Each time, Leona countered effortlessly, batting away the bolts like they were nothing more than irritating insects.

“You done?” Leona drawled, unimpressed. “’Cause I’m gettin’ real tired of this game.”

Rook wasn’t listening. He lunged, closing the distance between them in an instant.

Leona sidestepped at the last second, grabbing Rook by the neck and slamming him into the nearest tree. Hard.

Rook gasped at the impact, but his magestone flared with unnatural energy, and he twisted like a snake, slipping from Leona’s grip and flipping backwards into a crouch. His breathing was heavy, erratic.

Leona narrowed his eyes. Something wasn’t right.

“So, you finally lost it, huh?” Leona muttered. “Figures. You Pomefiores are always so damn dramatic.”

Rook lunged again, but this time, Leona wasn’t playing around.

With a sharp snap of his fingers, the ground beneath Rook exploded in a swirl of shifting sands. Before he could react, the sand twisted around his legs, yanking him down.

Rook struggled—he clawed, thrashed, tried to fire another bolt—but the more he fought, the tighter the sand constricted. His magestone pulsed erratically, cracks of inky black spreading from its core.

“Rook, stop!” Epel shouted, still holding onto Jack. “Yer gonna—!”

The magestone shattered.

Chapter Text

A violent shockwave erupted from Rook’s body, sending Leona skidding back and nearly knocking Yuon, Epel, and Jack off their feet.

Then, the ground beneath Rook darkened. A pool of blot seeped out, swirling around him like a living thing. The inky fluid gathered behind him, rising and twisting—shaping itself into a towering, leafless creature. Its bark was a sickly gray, wrapped in rotting, brown-gray vines. High above, cradled within the gnarled branches, was its head—a cracked, oozing jar of blot. Crows circled overhead, drawn to its ominous presence.

Blot and blood leaked from every fractured crevice in its bark. Its roots slithered and writhed like a mass of snakes, churning the earth beneath them. The beast had four lanky, skeletal arms—the upper pair gripping a colossal bow, its string braided from thick, knotted vines, with arrows as large as tree branches. One lower arm ended in a jagged boulder, wielded like a crude mace. The other was a writhing nest of tendrils, coiling and flexing like grotesque fingers.

And at its feet stood Rook.

A tattered black cloak, its edges ragged and feathered like a raven’s wings, draped his shoulders, its hood pulled low over his face. Shadows concealed his face save for the mask of blot dripping over his eyes. Dark claws formed along his fingertips, oozing ink with every twitch of his hand.

Above, the clear night sky was swallowed by storm clouds, lightning flashing in jagged veins across the heavens. The very air turned heavy and stagnant as every plant in the area withered, drained lifeless by the overwhelming presence of blot.

A deafening roar tore through the forest, shaking the treetops and sending flocks of startled birds scattering into the sky. The monstrous tree-creature loomed over them, its grotesque form pulsating with raw blot energy. Its many arms flexed, the upper ones pulling back its massive bow while the lower ones tensed, ready to strike.

Leona clicked his tongue, feline-green eyes narrowing. “Great, just what I needed today.” He cracked his knuckles and let out a low growl, sand already gathering around him. “You two!” he called to Yuon and Epel. “Hurry up and get Jack outta the way!”

“But—” Epel started.

“Go!”

The beast loosed its first shot. The enormous arrow screamed through the air, crashing into the earth where Leona had been standing moments before. Dirt and splinters exploded from the impact.

Leona materialized behind Rook in an instant, the wind whipping around him as he went for a strike. “Tch. Hate to break it to ya, Hunt, but I ain't in the mood to babysit some Overblotted bra—”

KA-BLAM!!

The tree-monster’s boulder-fist slammed into him, sending him flying into the underbrush.

“Leona!” Jack, half-dazed from blood loss, tried to push himself up.

“Shit, we can’t fight this thing alone!” Yuon yelled. “We need a plan, and fast!”

Another branch-arrow fired, barely missing them as Epel yanked Jack out of the way. The tree-beast groaned, the mass of tendrils on its lower arm slithering hungrily toward them.

Yuon gritted his teeth. He might not have been a mage, but even he knew by now that this was bad.

Rook took a slow step forward, his mask of blot dripping like ink over his face. His lips barely moved, but his voice came in a whisper—cold, hollow, and echoing.

DISAPPEAR.

The tree-beast reared back, preparing for another devastating strike.

And then—

CRACK!!

A streak of green lightning whipped across the sky, striking the creature’s extended arm and sending crackling energy coursing through its twisted bark. It let out a hideous screech, reeling back.

Three figures on horseback charged into the clearing—Riddle, Silver, and Sebek, still in their Equestrian Club gear. They had been mid-practice when the chaos erupted, but now, their focus was locked onto the monstrosity before them.

Sebek pulled his horse to a sharp stop, eyes blazing as he lifted his magic pen. “YOU DARE TO THREATEN THE STUDENTS OF NIGHT RAVEN COLLEGE?!! PREPARE TO BE VANQUISHED, VILE FIEND!!”

Silver, more level-headed, scanned the battlefield. His gaze locked onto Rook, shrouded in his tattered, raven-like cloak, blot still trickling from his fingertips. He frowned. “He’s Overblotted,” he muttered to Riddle.

Riddle nodded, already gripping his pen. “Then we must stop him. Quickly.” He turned to the others. “Sebek, Silver—keep the monster distracted. I’ll handle Rook himself.”

With a sharp flick of his pen, chains of red energy snapped to life, swirling around him before shooting toward Rook. But the moment they reached him, a gust of unnatural wind blasted outward, shattering the chains mid-air. Rook lifted his head slightly, the blot-mask obscuring his expression, but the eerie glow behind it sent a chill down their spines.

Then, he spoke.

YOU TOOK HIM FROM ME.

His voice was low, distorted—like countless whispers layered over one another. The withered trees surrounding them groaned as if the forest itself was responding to his fury.

Riddle narrowed his eyes. “Snap out of it, Rook! This isn’t you!”

Rook didn’t respond. Instead, he raised a clawed hand, and the massive tree-creature behind him surged forward again, swinging its boulder-arm toward the riders.

BOOM!!

The ground exploded beneath the impact. Sebek barely swerved his horse in time, veering wide. “Silver! Flank it!” he barked.

Silver wordlessly pulled his sword from its sheath, leaping from his horse in a single fluid motion. He landed on a crumbling tree stump, using it as a springboard to lunge straight for Rook.

Rook snapped his head up—and before Silver could strike, he vanished.

Not teleported. Not dodged. Just—gone.

Silver’s blade sliced through empty air. He barely had time to process what happened before—

FWIP.

A whisper of movement behind him.

A sharp pain bloomed in Silver’s side.

He staggered, his vision blurring. Slowly, he looked down. A jagged black arrow was lodged just below his ribs, blot already seeping from the wound.

Rook stood behind him, bow in hand once again.

He had moved so fast it was inhuman.

“…Silver!” Riddle’s voice rang through the clearing.

Silver gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stay upright. The world swayed. The tree-beast loomed ahead, Jack was still down, Yuon and Epel looked terrified, and Rook—Rook was completely lost.

The beast’s lower, tendril-arm grabbed Silver and threw him aside like a ragdoll.

Riddle clenched his jaw. Enough was enough.

He lifted his pen high.

“OFF WITH YOUR HEAD!!”

The red energy surged forward, forming a shimmering collar ready to clamp around Rook’s neck—

THWIP.

Another blot-arrow sliced clean through it before it could make contact, dispersing the spell in a shower of crackling red sparks.

I DON’T WANT TO BE ALONE ANYMORE.

More people had gathered by now. Malleus popped in and out, teleporting the injured to the Infirmary, while Jamil flitted back and forth on Carpet, moving faster than the tree-monster could keep up, keeping it distracted.

Meanwhile, Vil—returning to campus on his broom after the photoshoot in town—glanced at the ominous storm cloud rolling in over campus. At first, he dismissed it with an eye roll.

“Malleus must be throwing another tantrum,” he sighed.

But then he frowned. The lightning flashing within the clouds wasn’t Malleus’ signature chartreuse—it was ordinary white.

Curious, he flew closer. That’s when he spotted it.

The massive, gnarled tree-creature looming over the withering forest, blot bleeding from its bark.

Vil exhaled in irritation. All right, who Overblotted this time?

Then, he saw the creature’s bow.

His breath caught.

Rook.

Chapter Text

Vil’s grip on his broom tightened, his pulse roaring in his ears.

Rook. Overblotted.

The very idea seemed impossible, absurd. Rook was always the one watching from the sidelines, the one who admired Overblots with an unsettling, artistic fascination—not the one succumbing to them.

And yet, there he was, shrouded in a tattered black cloak, his face obscured beneath a hood. The blot-markings that curled around his eyes like a thief’s mask made his expression unreadable. His magestone was completely destroyed—nothing left but a smear of ink where violet once gleamed.

Vil forced himself to breathe, steadying his hands. Focus. There was no time for shock. No time for hesitation.

He pulled his broom into a sharp descent, skimming the treetops as he shouted, “SEBEK!! RIDDLE!! KEEP IT DISTRACTED!!”

Sebek, who had been circling the beast on horseback, bared his teeth in a fierce grin. “AS YOU WISH!!” With a surge of magic, another green lightning bolt crashed into the beast’s shoulder, causing it to stumble backward.

Riddle urged his horse forward, weaving through the battlefield with a practiced grace. He conjured more glowing chains, snapping them toward the creature’s thrashing roots, attempting to bind its movements.

Meanwhile, Jamil darted past on Carpet, his eyes sharp with focus. “If you have a plan, Vil, now would be the time!”

But Vil wasn’t listening. His gaze was locked on Rook.

He took a deep breath, his voice carrying over the chaos. “ROOK!!! CAN YOU HEAR ME?!!”

Rook ignored him. His clawed fingers flexed. His bow—an abomination of twisted wood, blot, and ivy—twanged as another arrow of blot materialized in his grasp.

He fired without hesitation.

Yuon dodged cleanly, now moving much faster without Jack to support. He and Epel darted behind Vil, who hovered low to shield them.

“OK!!” Yuon shouted over the shrieking wind. “Maybe screwin’ with that creepy rabbit plushie on his bed was a bad idea!”

Vil spun around in disbelief. “You damaged Rook’s comfort item?! No wonder he’s upset with you!”

“Yeah, well, I’d say this is partly yer fault too!” Epel snapped. “Ever since I got here, all you’ve cared about is the SDC and beatin’ the pants off Neige! You’ve been dotin’ on me while makin’ Rook feel like a heap o’ horse dung!”

He jabbed a thumb toward the monstrous figure. “From where I’m standin’, this looks a helluva lot like ‘older sibling gets booted off his pedestal by the new baby’!”

Vil opened his mouth—then closed it.

He hovered there in silence, the wind tugging at his hair, the chaos raging around him, as two and a half years’ worth of choices, careless words, and fleeting moments crashed over him all at once.

He remembered the Spelldrive practice match against Savanaclaw—how he’d stumbled upon Rook by accident, running himself ragged as their lackey. He’d taken that timid, wide-eyed misfit under his wing, taught him elegance, poise, and the standards of Pomefiore.

Rook had clung to him, more tightly than Vil had realized.

And Vil… had been content to let him. To bask in the quiet admiration. To let Rook trail after him like a devoted shadow.

Until Epel and Jack arrived.

Epel with his stubborn streak. Jack chasing improvement, in his own rugged way. And Vil himself, too wrapped up in his obsession with dethroning Neige. Without even noticing, he’d let Rook slip from his orbit.

When Rook had fallen in love for the first time, Vil had dismissed Astrid outright—called her a distraction, a threat. It had sparked their first real fight.

Then Astrid had been exposed as a fraud, quickly followed by the SDC, where Rook’s vote—the vote—had cost NRC the win. The fallout was cruel. Savanaclaw had torn into him, and Yuon had made it worse.

And where had Vil been?

Planning a photoshoot.

He hadn’t even noticed.

A few nights ago, while Epel helped him pack, Rook had come to him—broken, humiliated, likely desperate for comfort—only to overhear Vil’s outburst instead.

In the moment Rook needed him most… Vil had turned his back.

And now, for the first time since the storm began, Vil felt truly, bitterly cold.

Not from the wind, or the blot, or even the looming threat of the tree-creature. But from something deep inside—an ache he didn’t have the luxury to name.

Rook… what have I done to you?

But cold was a feeling Vil could use.

He inhaled slowly, letting the chill anchor him. He had no time for guilt—not now. Regret would not save Rook. Hesitation would not undo what had been broken.

If he had failed Rook before, then he would not fail him now.

His grip tightened on his broom.

“Riddle!” he called over the wind. “Get the others clear of the blast radius—NOW!!”

Riddle obeyed without hesitation, whistling to his horse and veering toward Epel and Yuon, scooping them both up in one fluid motion as his mount galloped past.

Vil turned to Sebek. “Keep its attention off me.”

Sebek, wild-eyed and beaming, gave a salute. “IT SHALL FACE THE WRATH OF A TRUE KNIGHT!!”

Jamil followed Vil’s gaze and nodded grimly, charging his magic pen.

But Vil didn’t wait. He shot upward into the sky, higher than the clouds, wind stinging his eyes. As he hovered there alone, he drew his magic pen from its holster and held it close.

“You adored me without question,” he murmured, heart hammering, “and I never once told you how much that meant.”

Violet sparks coiled around his pen as he channeled his magic.

“I don’t care how deep the blot runs. I’m pulling you back.”

His eyes locked on the monstrous form below.

“Rook Hunt,” he whispered, voice fierce with resolve, “you are still mine to command.”

He dove like a comet, violet magic trailing in his wake. His dorm uniform flared behind him as his broom cut through the air, angling toward the writhing tree-beast that had once been his right hand.

The beast shrieked—somewhere between bird and storm—as it raised its bow and let loose another branch-arrow.

Vil’s broom veered hard, narrowly dodging. The arrow struck a nearby tree and instantly shattered it into wood chips.

“You always were theatrical,” Vil muttered under his breath, circling the creature like a hawk. He extended his pen. “Mirror, mirror, reflect their shame!”

A barrage of prismatic mirrors burst into existence around Rook’s creature, catching the next volley of arrows and hurling the corrupted energy back at it. One struck the creature’s arm, splintering bark and making it reel.

The tendril-arm shot out, snapping toward Vil.

“Too slow,” he growled, soaring higher and twisting out of reach. With a flick of his pen, he conjured glowing chains of light that lashed downward, binding the beast’s upper limbs.

For a second, it faltered.

And then—crack.

The chains shattered like glass.

From within its shadow, Rook raised his blot-masked face and hissed something indecipherable. The jar of blot nestled in the creature’s crown pulsed violently.

Lightning arced across the sky. Thick roots tore up from the ground, snatching for Vil’s broom, nearly throwing him. One root grazed his leg, burning with the sting of corruption.

“Enough of this,” Vil snarled. “Radiant Tempest!”

Magic flared like a sunburst around him. Wind and light collided into a single beam, slamming into the creature’s chest with a thunderous roar. Bark and vines cracked. One of its arms splintered and fell off in a plume of blot.

The creature staggered—then screeched, enraged. Its tendrils reared back and shot straight for Vil.

He didn’t dodge.

Instead, he raised both hands and let his voice ring like a commandment:

“ROOK HUNT—LOOK AT ME!!!”

The tendrils froze inches from his chest.

The cloak-shrouded figure stirred. The bow in his hands trembled. The blot mask flickered like static.

“I never meant to push you away,” Vil said, voice steady despite the wind, the dark, the chaos. “I never meant to make you feel alone.”

The creature’s limbs twitched. Rook’s eyes locked onto Vil, confused… trembling.

“Please, come back to me,” Vil said, softer now, almost pleading. “I can’t stand seeing you like this.”

A beat of silence.

Then—

The jar of blot cracked again, and a roar of anguish ripped from the tree-creature’s maw as it lunged.

Vil raised his arms to shield himself, but before the beast could reach him—

KRA-KA-BOOOOM!!!

A blinding bolt of green lightning crashed down from the heavens, cleaving the sky like a judgment. It struck the creature square in the chest with a deafening explosion that split the earth and shook the surrounding trees. For a second, everything vanished in light.

Then—black smoke.

A groan of twisting wood.

The massive blot-beast reeled, its body flickering with arcs of green static. The vines that held its limbs began to unravel. The roots quivered and stilled. Its bow fell from its hands and crumbled into ash.

And then, like a great tree finally felled—it collapsed.

Rook hit the ground first.

The creature shattered behind him into blot, bark, and broken vines, dissolving into oily puddles that hissed against the scorched ground as the storm dissipated.

Sebek skidded into the clearing on horseback, leaping down with a warrior’s roar still in his throat, panting, eyes blazing.

“BEGONE, MONSTROSITY!!!”

He blinked. Looked at the crater he’d just made. Saw Vil kneeling beside a smoldering figure curled on the ground, blot still steaming from his uniform.

“…Did I overdo it?”

Rook lay limp, his now-tattered uniform charred at the edges. His bow was gone. The blot mask had lost cohesion and slid away from his face. His breathing was shallow and raspy, skin pallid from the strain of both the Overblot and Sebek’s blast.

Vil leaned over him, cupping his cheek with trembling fingers.

“…Idiot,” he whispered. “You always overdo it.”

Sebek scratched his head, looking sheepish. “Well, he was about to impale you…”

Epel and Yuon arrived next, just in time to see Rook’s fingers twitch. His eyes fluttered open—barely—then flew wide.

Silver lay crumpled nearby, upside-down against a boulder, unmoving, a pool of blood growing beneath him.

Rook began to hyperventilate, his weak hands clutching at Vil’s robes.

In an instant, he was six years old again.

It was days after the jungle incident. He’d been peeking from behind the door frame while Noctharis and Agnes argued about him on the stairs.

At some point, Noctharis had pushed her.

She’d fallen backwards with a sickening crack.

The way Silver lay now… it was the same.

Rook’s missing mother had been dead all along.

And for twelve years, he had buried the memory deep—until Silver’s limp form dragged it back to the surface like a corpse from a swamp.

His vision tunneled. His limbs gave out.

The last of his strength ebbed away, and a cold, suffocating weight wrapped around his chest.

The world went dim.

Then dark.

Then nothing.

Chapter Text

A warm breeze stirred Rook from his slumber. Something prickly brushed his nose.

“H-hhhehhh—ACHOO!!”

He blinked awake… and froze.

The Sunset Savannah?

He sat at the edge of a narrow stream, surrounded by tall, sun-bleached grasses—the culprits behind his sneeze. An umbrella thorn tree cast dappled shade over him. The air was still. No animals stirred. No insects buzzed. There were no footprints, no roads, no signs of life.

But… he’d been at school. Just moments ago. Hadn’t he?

His eyes dropped to a puddle nearby—and his breath caught.

The reflection staring back at him was his freshman self: freckles, longer hair, smaller shoulders.

Slowly, he turned.

There, nestled beside him, peaceful as a dream—

“…Agnes?” he whispered. His voice trembled. “…Maman?”

Agnes stirred at the sound of his voice.

She opened her eyes, bright green like the floodplains during the wet season, and smiled in that warm, soft way he hadn’t seen in over a decade. “Mon petit oisillon… you’re up early.”

Rook choked on a breath. “I… I thought you were…”

Dead.

But the word stuck in his throat like thorns.

Agnes sat up slowly, brushing dust from her long skirt. She looked just as he remembered—tousled curls pinned loosely at her nape, a tiny smear of soil still beneath her fingernails, a necklace of carved beads that clicked together when she moved. The scent of her—earthy, herbal, familiar—nearly undid him.

“I missed you so much,” he whispered. “I forgot your voice. I nearly forgot your face.”

She reached out and cupped his cheek with both hands, her thumbs brushing away tears he hadn’t realized were falling. “You did not forget, mon cœur. You buried it, because remembering hurt too much.”

His lip trembled. “Why now?”

“Because now,” she said gently, “you are finally ready to let go of the lie.”

“The lie?”

“That I left you on purpose. That I did not love you. That what happened that day… was your fault.”

He stiffened. The memory flickered—stairs, shouting, the sound of a body hitting tile. The image of Silver lying broken, like a mirror to a moment he had spent twelve years running from.

“I—” Rook faltered. “I made you fall.”

“No,” Agnes said firmly. “I tripped. That was my own fault. But what broke you… was thinking you had to carry the blame alone.”

Rook broke into sobs, collapsing forward. Agnes caught him and held him close, rocking him gently as she had when he was small. His arms clung around her, fists curled tight into her shawl.

“You’ve grown so strong,” she murmured into his hair. “But even strong hearts need healing.”

“Are you really here?” he asked, voice muffled against her shoulder.

A pause.

“Perhaps,” she said. “Or perhaps I am merely the piece of me you carried with you all this time. The part you needed, right now.”

He looked up, eyes red and raw. “Do I have to leave?”

“Soon,” she said. “But not before you’re ready.”

In the distance, the sun began to set over the savannah, casting everything in gold.

She stroked his hair, and for a moment, everything was still.

Everything was whole.

The light began to change.

Warm gold faded into pale grey. The breeze quieted. Even the scent of the grass shifted—fresher now, cleaner, touched with antiseptic instead of sun and earth.

Rook felt it happening, the way a dream slips between your fingers even as you try to hold on.

He gripped Agnes tighter. “Please… just a little longer…”

She kissed his forehead, her touch feather-light. “I will always be with you, mon trésor. But there’s someone else who needs you now.”

Rook blinked, confused. “Who?”

Agnes smiled softly. “You will see.”

Then, with a sound like leaves on wind, she was gone.

The savannah dissolved into stone bricks.

Chapter Text

Rook’s eyes fluttered open with a wince. Everything hurt.

The sterile scent of potions, medicine, and freshly laundered linens filled his nose. His limbs felt heavy, his throat was raw, and his chest ached—not just from injury, but with something deeper, like a bruise on the soul.

He was in the Infirmary.

A soft beep echoed nearby. The quiet hum of medical equipment buzzed faintly at the edge of his hearing. Then he noticed a familiar weight draped over him—his wolf pelt. And nestled against him, worn and warm, was Astre.

He was safe.

He shifted slightly and looked up—only to find Vil seated at his bedside, head buried in his hands. The man who was always polished, always perfect, now looked nothing short of wrecked. Shadows clung beneath his eyes, his normally impeccable hair was mussed, and his posture sagged with exhaustion.

“…Vil?” Rook croaked.

Vil’s head snapped up. His eyes were rimmed with red, glistening with unshed tears. “Rook?” he breathed. Relief crashed over his face. “Oh, thank the Seven—you’re awake.” His voice cracked. “You’ve been unconscious for almost three days.”

He swallowed hard, voice trembling as the words spilled out. “Your heart stopped after Sebek’s lightning—Rook, I… I thought I lost you.”

Rook blinked slowly, trying to process Vil’s words. Three days. Heart stopped.

His fingers tightened around Astre.

“Je suis… ” He licked his cracked lips, voice barely a whisper. “I’m… alive?”

Vil let out a shaky breath, nodding. “Yes. You are. And you’re safe.”

Rook’s gaze drifted toward Vil’s face—his expression so open, so raw. His heart twisted.

“Why…?” he rasped. “Why are you here?”

Vil looked almost wounded by the question. “Because you’re my Vice Housewarden. My… friend. I couldn’t just leave you.” A pause, then softer, “I wouldn’t.”

Rook stared at him for a moment longer, eyes glassy, the memories hitting all at once—the arrows, the Overblot, Silver’s body, Agnes’ fall… The mask of composure he always wore cracked, then shattered completely.

His breath hitched. He curled inward, clutching Astre tightly to his chest, shoulders trembling.

“I remember,” he whispered, voice hollow. “Maman… she’s gone. She passed away… and I forgot. I forgot…”

Vil moved at once, scooting closer, gently cupping the back of Rook’s head and guiding it to his shoulder. “Oh, you poor thing,” he murmured. “ I’m so sorry.”

Rook didn’t speak again. He just clung to Vil and cried—silent, wracking sobs years in the making, finally breaking loose.

A familiar voice broke the moment.

“Well, well. Look who finally decided to wake up.”

Rook peeked out from behind Astre, eyes still glistening, to see Yuon leaning casually against the doorframe, hands stuffed in his pockets. Just ahead of him, Riddle and Jamil had already stepped inside, quietly moving from cot to cot to check on the other injured students.

Riddle glanced up from the clipboard in his hands, his usual stern expression softening the moment his eyes met Rook’s.

“You had us all worried,” he said, approaching the bed with calm, measured steps. “I was nearly ready to ban Sebek from casting offensive magic altogether.”

He stopped beside Vil and looked Rook over carefully—scanning his bandages, the monitors, even the faint traces of blot still staining his fingertips.

“But… I’m glad you’re awake.” His voice dropped to something quieter, more sincere. “And I’m sorry.”

Rook blinked. “…You?”

Riddle nodded, looking away. “I should’ve stepped in sooner—when the bullying started, or even before that. You’re a Vice Housewarden. I should have treated you as one, not… just another of Vil’s shadows.”

He looked at Rook again, frowning slightly, but it was a frown of guilt, not judgment. “You’ve been trying to carry too much for too long. That ends now.”

Yuon gave a low whistle from the door. “Damn, Riddle. Didn’t know you had a heart under all that policy and paperwork.”

Riddle gave him a look, but Yuon just shrugged and strolled inside, hands still buried in his pockets. He stopped at the foot of Rook’s cot, leaning slightly on one leg.

“I, uh…” Yuon scratched the back of his neck. “Look, I’m not exactly good at this kind of thing. Feelings and all that.”

He glanced down, his smirk faltering.

“You didn’t deserve what happened,” he said finally. “I was a huge dick. Like, all the time. And I told myself it was ‘cause you were weird, or ‘cause you cost us the SDC, or whatever stupid excuse made it easier.”

He looked back up, locking eyes with Rook.

“But that wasn’t it. I think I was just mad that you were always so... loyal to Vil. Even when he didn’t notice, or was kind of a dick himself. That takes guts. And I didn’t get it—still kinda don’t. But I get this: you went through hell, and I made it worse. So... I’m sorry, man.”

He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself.

As Yuon stepped back, awkwardly rubbing at his arm, Jamil approached the cot with his arms crossed and his expression unreadable.

“…You scared the hell out of us,” he said, voice calm but edged with something tight. “I thought you were dead.”

He sighed, glancing at the heart monitor as if to double-check it was still beeping.

“I’m not going to give some big, sappy speech. That’s not really my thing. But I do want to say something—because I get it.”

Rook blinked up at him, puffy-eyed and exhausted.

Jamil went on, softer now. “Being invisible. Being useful until you’re not. The whole world expecting you to smile while you break in the background? Yeah. I’ve been there.”

He looked away briefly, jaw tense. “It’s a terrible place to be. And no one should have to go through it alone.”

Then he looked back at Rook, and for once, his guard dropped entirely.

“You’re not alone. Not anymore.”

He reached into his sleeve and pulled out a folded square of thick paper. “Kalim heard what happened and freaked out. He wanted to send a very oversized bouquet. I told him you’d probably prefer this.”

He handed Rook a small, hand-drawn card—colored in markers, with an aggressively cheerful sun wearing sunglasses and a big GET WELL SOON, ROOK!! scribbled across the front. The sun was, unmistakably, winking.

“I tried to stop him,” Jamil added dryly.

“Speaking of people needing to be stopped,” Yuon chimed in, “When Lilia heard what happened to Silver, he lost it so hard that Malleus had to sedate him.”

He nodded toward the cot opposite Rook, where Silver lay unconscious and still. “He’s patched up, but we’re still waiting on him to wake.”

“Silver lost a lot of blood from that shot,” Riddle added, arms folded tightly. “Another inch to the left, and you would have struck his aorta. He would’ve bled out in minutes.”

“Luckily,” Yuon went on, jerking a thumb over his shoulder, “Jack’s a big dude with blood to spare.”

On Rook’s left, Jack was propped up in bed, already halfway through a massive bowl of chicken noodle soup like he hadn’t eaten in days.

“And last but not least…” Yuon moved to the cot beside Silver’s, where a thoroughly miserable Leona lay swaddled in bandages and casts. “That tree-monster’s mace-hand splattered Leona like a bug. I think he broke pretty much everything.”

“Tch. Yeah, thanks a lot, Hunt,” Leona growled. “I’m benched for the rest of the season thanks to you. I oughta turn you into pork chops for this—!” He winced, taking a few breaths as a sharp pain lanced through his ribs. “S…soon as my damn bones knit back together…”

Jack slurped noisily from his bowl and glanced over. “Nobody’s blamin’ you, Rook,” he said around a mouthful of noodles. “Well, ‘cept maybe him.” He jerked his head at Leona, who grumbled something incomprehensible into his pillow.

Yuon grinned. “Hey, don’t worry. Once you can walk again, I’m sure Leona’ll ‘accidentally’ trip and fall face-first into your fist. That’ll even things out.”

Rook didn’t respond. He was still curled against Vil, expression unreadable, eyes flickering between Silver, Jack, and Leona. His gaze finally settled on Silver’s pale face.

“I didn’t know,” he whispered hoarsely. “About… the memory. I didn’t know I was aiming at him.”

Vil gently rested a hand on his head. “We know.”

Jamil stepped closer, his voice even but firm. “No one’s pretending this didn’t hurt people. But you’re not the first student to Overblot, Rook. And you won’t be the last.” He met Rook’s eyes. “The important thing is what you do now.”

There was a long silence. The kind that felt like it stretched across seasons.

Then Yuon clicked his tongue. “Well, you can start with apologizin’ to Silver. Soon as he wakes up, of course. And maybe... don’t shoot anybody else while you’re at it.”

Riddle rolled his eyes. “Very helpful, Yuon.”

Yuon shrugged. “Hey, I ain’t the therapist here.”

“Clearly,” Jamil muttered.

But Rook barely heard them. He was still staring at Silver, something in his chest aching in a way that had nothing to do with bruises or burns. His voice was soft, barely audible beneath the beep of machines and the murmur of banter around him.

“…I hope he wakes soon.”

Chapter Text

At first, it was the scent.

Wildflowers. A warm spring breeze. The faintest hint of dew-soaked moss and polished metal.

Then came the sound.

A distant lullaby, half-forgotten, hummed in a voice he hadn’t heard in years. Familiar. Soothing. It echoed from somewhere just beyond the veil of sleep.

Silver stirred, his fingers twitching against the rough hospital sheets.

“…Father…?” he murmured.

The humming stopped.

Yuon was the first to notice. “Hey—hey, guys! He’s wakin’ up!”

Rook jolted upright just as Silver’s lashes fluttered and his eyes cracked open—slowly, like they weighed more than the world. His pupils struggled to adjust to the dim light of the evening.

“…Rook?” he rasped, voice dry.

Rook was already out of bed, dragging his IV with him as he stumbled to Silver’s side. “I’m here,” he whispered, clutching Silver’s hand. “I’m right here. I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to— I didn’t know it was you—”

Silver blinked again, unfocused. “You… you cried.”

Rook froze.

Silver’s lips curled ever so slightly, just enough to be called a smile. “I’ve never seen you cry before…”

Rook tried to laugh, but it came out as a hiccupped breath. “Trust you to notice that.”

Riddle cleared his throat from behind them. “Silver, don’t try to move too much. You lost a significant amount of blood. We’ve been monitoring your vitals—”

“I’m fine,” Silver mumbled, still staring at Rook. “Are you?”

Rook’s throat closed up. He squeezed Silver’s hand tighter and shook his head, tears welling again.

Silver gave a faint nod, like that was all he needed to hear. “Okay… Just rest now. I’ve got you…”

Then, like a spell had been broken, the tension in the room softened.

Yuon leaned against the wall again with a relieved sigh. “Well, damn. About time somethin’ went right today.”

Even Leona grumbled, “Yeah, yeah. Glad the drama queens made up. Can I get a better pillow now or what?”

Vil gave Rook’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze, his voice quiet. “We’ll give you two a moment.”

Everyone flinched as the door slammed open with a BANG, drawing a fresh wince and muttered curse from Leona.

“SILVER!!!” Sebek’s voice boomed through the Infirmary as he stormed in, his boots skidding slightly on the floor. He rushed to Silver’s bedside, nearly knocking Rook over in the process. “ARE YOU ALRIGHT?!! MASTER LILIA HAS BEEN BESIDE HIMSELF WITH WORRY!!”

Silver blinked blearily up at Sebek, his voice still weak but steady. “I’m… fine. Just tired.” He glanced toward Rook, and despite everything, offered a faint smile. “I’m glad you’re okay too.”

Sebek froze, as if the words hadn’t registered. Then his expression contorted—grief, fury, and sheer relief battling for dominance—until finally, red-faced and trembling, he rounded on Rook.

“YOU—!!!!”

His voice hit like thunder. “DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT YOU’VE DONE, HUMAN?!!!! YOU NEARLY KILLED MY PARTNER!! YOU COULD HAVE KILLED ANY OF US!!!! WHAT SORT OF PATHETIC, SNIVELING—!!!!”

“Sebek.”

The voice cut through the room like a blade.

Lilia, composed but still visibly tense, hovered forward and grabbed Sebek by the collar, holding him firmly back with one hand. “That’s enough.”

“BUT—!!”

“I said enough.”

Sebek’s mouth snapped shut, though his chest continued to heave with ragged breaths. His eyes burned with unshed tears as he stared daggers at Rook—who, to his credit, didn’t look away.

Rook simply whispered, “I know.”

The room fell uncomfortably quiet, save for the soft beeping of the monitors.

Lilia’s grip on Sebek slowly loosened, but his eyes remained on Rook—sharp, calculating, but no longer angry.

“…We’ll talk later,” Lilia said calmly, before turning to Silver and gently placing a hand on his shoulder.

Vil rose from his seat beside Rook, brushing a lock of hair out of his face. Though his voice was calm, there was steel underneath it.

“That’s quite enough hostility for one hospital room.”

He stepped between Rook and Sebek, not raising his voice but commanding the space all the same.

“Believe me,” Vil continued, eyes flicking toward Sebek and then Lilia, “no one in this room is more aware of the consequences of what happened than Rook. He doesn’t need your fury, Sebek. He needs time—and space—to heal.”

Sebek looked like he might argue again, but one glance at Lilia, then at Silver—who was still watching with that quietly tired expression—and he bit back his words, grumbling something unintelligible under his breath.

Vil turned back to Rook. The harshness in his features softened. “Rest. We’ll handle everything else.”

Rook stared up at him, blinking rapidly. His throat bobbed once, then he nodded, eyes glassy again.

Vil sat back down beside him, resuming his vigil with a much steadier expression. “You don’t have to carry this alone anymore,” he murmured under his breath. “Not this time.”

~~~~~

A few days later, the sky over Sage’s Island was clear. Not even the slightest wisp of a cloud marred the endless blanket of blue. Spring sunlight spilled across the campus, dappled with the sounds of broom traffic and the occasional squawk of a disgruntled crow.

Inside the Infirmary, a gentle breeze stirred the curtains. Rook stood by the window, fully dressed at last, save for an arm sling and a fresh bandage across his ribs. His hair was brushed neatly for the first time in days. Astre sat at the foot of the neatly made cot behind him, cleaned and fluffed with surprising care.

He took a slow breath, inhaling the scent of fresh air—and freedom.

Behind him, Vil crossed his arms, one brow arching critically. “You’re still recovering. Don’t make me chase you back into that cot.”

Rook chuckled softly. “I’ve spent enough time lying still. I’d rather walk, even if it’s slowly.”

Vil gave a short hum, somewhere between amused and skeptical. “Fine. But we’re stopping by the Alchemy Workshop first. Professor Crewel has been dying to poke at you like a chemistry set.”

Rook gave a mock-sigh, but his smile lingered.

Outside the door, familiar voices filtered in—Epel arguing with Yuon over who actually carried Jack to safety, Jamil telling them both to shut it, and Sebek loudly declaring that he would personally escort Silver back to class.

It sounded like… life. Messy, loud, and achingly ordinary.

And for the first time in a long while, Rook was glad to be part of it.

After their meeting with Professor Crewel, Rook and Vil wandered to the quiet sanctuary of the Botanical Garden.

There, surrounded by the scent of flowers and the soft hum of bees, Rook finally told Vil everything—how his mother had been the only one to accept him at birth; how his father had deliberately abandoned him in the jungle; the argument on the stairs that had claimed Agnes’ life; and the ten years of abuse that followed at the hands of his father and brothers, all because he was different. He spoke of the invitation letter from Night Raven College, the night he fled in the carriage, Savanaclaw casting him aside without a second thought, and finally, the Spelldrive practice match that had brought him to Vil’s attention. He left out only the truth of his father’s identity—and his ties to the Shadewing clan.

Vil listened in silence, not interrupting once. He stood with his arms crossed at first, jaw tight, eyes narrowed—not in anger, but in focus, as though memorizing every word. But the longer Rook spoke, the more his posture softened. His arms eventually fell to his sides. His eyes glistened. And when Rook finally finished, Vil stepped forward and pulled him into a tight embrace.

“You should never have had to go through any of that,” he said softly. “And I’m sorry. For not seeing it. For not being there. For pushing you away when you needed me most.”

Rook trembled against him, but didn’t pull back. “I didn’t want anyone to see,” he whispered. “Not the bruises, not the memories, not the truth. I wanted to be someone new here. Someone beautiful. Someone worthy of your world.”

Vil’s grip tightened slightly. “You were never unworthy of my world, Rook,” he murmured. “If anything, I was unworthy of yours.”

Rook blinked, startled. “What do you mean?”

Vil drew back just enough to meet his gaze. “I didn’t see you. Not truly. I let my pride and ambition blind me… and I lost sight of someone who stood by me when no one else did. I didn’t just fail you as Housewarden. I failed you as a friend.”

There was a beat of quiet between them, broken only by the rustle of leaves.

“I forgive you,” Rook said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Vil gave a faint, sad smile. “Good. Because I’m not letting you slip away again.”

Rook gave a watery laugh, then suddenly went pink. “…Do you think, perhaps… we could start over? You and I?”

Vil paused. Then, without hesitation, he took Rook’s hand.

“Let’s not start over,” he said. “Let’s start from here.”

Unbeknownst to the pair, they were being watched.

High in a tree just beyond the glass dome, a pale, cloaked figure crouched in silence, an unusually large raven preening itself at his side. Hidden in the shadows, he lowered a spyglass, his eyes narrowing with recognition.

He raised a hand to his mouth, tapping a sleek, watch-like communicator strapped to his wrist.

Two words left his lips in a low, cold whisper.

“Found him.”