0zozone - Tumblr blog

0zozone · 2 months ago

Text

In the Presence of Truth {"Sage of Truth" (SMC) x Reader} PT 30

<<<Previous Next>>>

You leaned over the table with an intensity that rivaled pre-exam week, ink smudged on your fingertips and the edge of your sleeve. Parchment covered in hasty scrawl sat in front of you, each paragraph dripping with formal logic, magical ethics, a dash of heartfelt plea, and a surprising amount of literary flourish.

You slid the page toward Chai Latte Cookie first. “Alright. I need you to… Chai-ify it. Make it poetic or profound or something.”

Chai, practically vibrating with glee, took the parchment in both hands. “Oh, yes. Let me just elevate this rhetoric.”

She pulled a quill from behind her ear like she’d been waiting for this moment her whole life. “I’m going to add a line about the transformation of truth through form. And maybe a metaphor about moonlight as mutable identity.”

Hazelnut Biscotti stared at her. “Do you even know what that means?”

“No,” Chai said, flourishing her quill. “But it sounds so convincing.”

You chuckled as she scribbled. “Make sure it still sounds like me though. I don’t want him to think I was possessed mid-sentence.”

Chai looked up with a grin. “Don’t worry. I’ll make it your voice. Just slightly more dramatic.”

After she was satisfied, you passed the updated version across the table to Earl Grey Cookie.

He scanned it with surgical precision, eyes flicking left to right, pausing only to make corrections with his fountain pen that seemed designed to make every edit sting with dignity.

“Your thesis is strong,” he murmured. “But tighten the second paragraph. You’re leaning too much into emotional leverage. Balance it with academic precedent.”

“You say that like he isn’t already emotionally compromised,” you muttered.

Earl didn’t look up. “All the more reason to prove you’re serious.”

He handed it off with a final flick. “The final paragraph is surprisingly elegant. That must’ve been Chai.”

“Thank you,” she said sweetly, twirling a strand of her hair.

Then it was Hazelnut’s turn.

You slid the parchment over, watching as he read through it at a pace both cautious and skeptical. He frowned at a few spots but said nothing until the end.

Finally, he leaned back and scratched his chin. “Alright… it’s convincing.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

Hazelnut shrugged. “I don’t know if it’ll work, but if someone handed me a scroll like this, I’d be too impressed to say no. It’s half spell theory, half love letter to magical curiosity.”

“That’s the vibe I was going for,” you said, relieved.

Earl nodded. “Then I’d say it’s ready.”

You looked down at the page revised, refined, and full of lines like

Let this transformation not be a spectacle, but a symbol that even truth, immutable and enduring, has the capacity for grace in change.

…Yeah. You were definitely not getting out of this without compromising some dignity.

Chai grinned. “So… when are you giving it to him?”

You swallowed.

“Tomorrow.”

Your friends exchanged glances.

“Stars help him,” Hazelnut said dryly.

“Stars help you,” Chai added, practically glowing. “Because if he says yes… I need to be there.”

You covered your face with both hands, already regretting everything.

But also?

Kind of excited.

You peeked through your fingers, face still buried in your hands, and muttered, “I think he’d be a lot less convinced if there were an audience.”

Chai immediately gasped, clutching her chest in mock offense. “You’re not going to let me witness history?”

“Do you want him to say yes or turn into mist and vanish?” you deadpanned, lifting your head.

Hazelnut Biscotti chuckled. “They have a point.”

“Exactly!” You gestured toward him. “If I walk in there with all three of you breathing down his neck from the doorway, he’s going to think it’s a prank or some kind of social experiment.”

Earl Grey sipped his tea calmly. “It is a social experiment. But your hypothesis requires solitude.”

Chai groaned dramatically. “Fine. But if he does it if you have to tell me everything.”

“I will write a report. With citations.”

Chai brightened instantly. “Deal.”

Hazelnut smirked. “Just don’t die from embarrassment when you hand it to him.”

You nodded slowly, lips pressed into a line. “That’s a risk I’m willing to take… for science.”

Earl Grey tilted his head. “And unhinged curiosity.”

“And possibly love,” Chai added with a wink.

You groaned. “I hate it here.”

They all laughed, and Chai nudged your arm affectionately, you couldn’t help but smile again, nervous, yes, but genuinely excited.

Because the scroll in your bag might just be your most ambitious experiment yet. You twirled your spoon slowly in your cup, watching the last of the honey swirl into your tea before lifting your gaze, more hesitant than before.

The parchment containing your “essay” sat folded neatly in your bag, safe and final. But the laughter had settled, and the buzz of the dining hall had faded into the quiet hum of content students and clinking cutlery. For a moment, your thoughts shifted somewhere else somewhere more uncertain.

“…Hey,” you said softly, glancing around the table. “Can I ask something kind of serious?”

Chai leaned forward immediately. “Of course.”

Hazelnut Biscotti looked up mid-sip, nodding once.

But your eyes turned to Earl Grey Cookie.

“Do you think this is… love?” you asked carefully. “And I don’t mean that in a sad way I’m not trying to self-deprecate. I just… I’ve been thinking about it. A lot.”

Earl Grey froze mid-reach for his napkin, caught completely off guard for what might’ve been the first time ever.

You continued before he could speak. “I mean, how do you know if it’s too soon? Like, maybe it’s just care. Or affection. Or something like love but not really it.”

He stared at you, brows furrowing slightly not in judgment, but in rare, genuine contemplation.

You gestured vaguely in the air, trying to explain. “I’m not unhappy. We’re… partners now, I think. He hasn’t said anything overly poetic since, which is weirdly comforting. It’s not grand gestures or dramatic confessions, just… quiet. Natural. Like we’re two close friends who occasionally kiss and study theory together. And that feels normal. But should it?”

The table was silent now your friends watching, not with pity, but with care. No one laughed or brushed it off.

“I just… don’t know if it’s supposed to feel like more. Or maybe it’s supposed to feel like this. Like something calm. Familiar. Comfortable. And I don’t know if that’s love or something else.”

You turned back to Earl Grey, eyes steady. “You always give me the most concise answers. So. Do you know what love feels like?”

He was quiet for a long moment.

Then, slowly, he set his napkin aside.

“I think,” he said, voice softer than usual, “that love doesn’t always announce itself with fanfare. Sometimes, it grows in quiet hours and shared routines. Sometimes it’s loud. Sometimes it’s gentle. But in all its forms, it’s not about how much it feels like something.”

He looked at you directly.

“It’s about whether it makes you more yourself. Whether you feel safer, more curious, more seen. Not just when it’s easy, but also when it’s hard. When you're not at your best. If someone still chooses to understand you in those moments, even when it would be easier not to… that might be love.”

You blinked, lips parting slightly.

Earl leaned back again, adjusting his sleeve. “But even then, love is not static. It changes. Grows. What it feels like now may not be what it feels like in a year.”

Chai exhaled, leaning her chin on her palm. “That was… beautiful.”

Hazelnut frowned a little. “I mean, yeah. I guess I agree.”

You sat there, letting his words settle in the space between your ribs.

Not an answer. But maybe something better.

A starting point. You stared at Earl Grey Cookie, the words he had just spoken echoing in your chest like a soft chime struck in the heart of a quiet cathedral. For a moment, you forgot to breathe.

“Earl…” you murmured, eyes wide, “how did you word that so beautifully?”

He didn’t meet your gaze.

Instead, he stared off slightly to the side, eyes fixed on nothing in particular, a distant look creeping into his normally unreadable expression. The tea in his cup had long since cooled, but his fingers remained wrapped around it like a tether to the present.

“…I thought once I felt it,” he said, his voice low not quite guarded, but measured.

Not for your sake.

For his.

You felt your heart still, your own breath quieter now as his words unraveled something more vulnerable than you had expected.

“Of course love changes,” he continued, almost to himself. “That’s what makes it so impossible to define. It grows, recedes, reshapes… But I know what it is.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was reverent.

Chai, for once, didn’t fill the space with teasing. She just watched him with the same awe-struck softness you felt creeping into your own chest.

Hazelnut Biscotti lowered his gaze slightly, respectful.

You didn’t ask who it had been. You didn’t have to. Somewhere between the distance in his voice and the strength in his words… you knew the answer wasn’t meant to be named.

It just was.

And that was enough.

You smiled gently at him, not pressing further.

“Thank you,” you said.

He nodded once, composed again, the moment sealed away behind his usual mask but not gone.

Not forgotten.

And somehow… it made the question in your heart feel a little less impossible. The conversation had drifted, as all good ones did softly, like mist curling away from morning tea.

No dramatic shifts. No clean cuts between topics or time. Just shared laughter, the slow stacking of empty plates, the warmth of familiarity, and the comfort of being surrounded by those who knew when to speak and when to simply be.

Somewhere between Earl Grey’s quiet reflection and Hazelnut’s reluctant second dessert, the sun had dipped low, casting golden light across the dining hall’s stone archways. The air had taken on that dimmer, cooler quality that meant class hours had long passed, and free time had become scarce once more.

The anticipation of tomorrow left a sour taste in your mouth. You didn’t think anything bad would come out of it but who knows. The next day was like any other and the hours seemed to slip away from you. Even during lunch, you were absent, caught up in your thoughts that seemed endless. Of course, that didn’t go unnoticed by your friends, which is why Chai insisted they drop you off with the sage himself. Something about ‘Knights can’t go without their steeds”.

And now, here you were.

The halls of the Scholar’s Wing were quiet again, washed in lantern light and the faint rustling of ancient banners. You stood before the carved door you knew too well, parchment scroll clutched in both hands like it was sacred, dangerous, or perhaps… deeply personal.

Chai Latte Cookie bounced on her heels beside you, practically glowing. “Okay, so remember shoulders back, voice steady, don’t crumple the scroll in panic”

“I won’t,” you muttered, eyes locked on the door. “Probably.”

Hazelnut Biscotti raised an eyebrow. “If he doesn’t agree, I’ll eat the dining hall’s jelly meatloaf for a week.”

Earl Grey Cookie offered a dignified nod. “You’ve edited it thoroughly. It’s a compelling argument.”

Chai smiled softly, squeezing your arm. “And it’s very you. If he says no… it’s not because it’s not good. It just means he’s being cryptic and annoying. You’ve got this.”

You took a slow breath, nodding. “Right.”

This wasn’t just an essay.

It was your most current fascination with him. One that started with curiosity, twisted into wonder, and now shimmered somewhere on the horizon between truth and vulnerability.

You weren’t sure what he’d say.

But you were ready to find out.

You turned toward the door.

Looked towards your friends for courage.

And knocked three times.

You heard his voice from the other side of the door smooth, composed, as always.

“Come in.”

You stepped through the threshold before your nerves had the chance to revolt, before your heart could second-guess the weight of the scroll in your hands or the practiced way you had folded it three times to make it feel more formal than it was. You moved past the threshold, into the warm glow of parchment and starlight that always seemed to fill his office.

Shadow Milk Cookie looked up from his notes, one hand still curled around a quill, the other resting near an open book. His gaze lifted to you, curious but not unkind his expression expectant.

But before he could say anything, you moved.

With every ounce of the determination your friends had just poured into you, you strode forward and held out the scroll between both hands.

He blinked.

Your expression was steady. Unflinching.

Like you were handing him something that could very well decide the future of magic itself.

He set his quill down with slow precision and took the scroll from your hands. The parchment barely made a sound between your fingers, but in your chest, your heart thudded like it echoed across stone halls.

Then, without a word, you turned on your heel.

And marched to the chair across from his desk.

But instead of sitting, you bent down and grabbed the legs of the chair with both hands.

You began to drag.

The wood groaned in protest as you struggled to maneuver it around the polished corner of the desk and just as you were halfway through gritting your teeth and about to commit to dragging it all the way-

It moved.

Soundlessly. Cleanly. As though the stone beneath it had turned to air.

You blinked. Your hands hovered in the air for a moment before you looked up.

Shadow Milk Cookie stood beside his desk now, parchment scroll in one hand, a long-suffering sigh escaping through his nose.

He didn’t say a word.

You offered a grin and settled into the chair now neatly aligned beside his, shoulder-to-shoulder. “Thank you. You're getting faster at that.”

“I was trying to save the floor.”

“I was trying to make a point,” you replied, folding your hands with faux dignity. “That this is a co-investigator level interaction.”

He arched a brow, gaze lowering to the scroll.

You nudged him slightly with your elbow. “Now read it carefully. Every word. Analyze it like it’s critical spell theory. This is very important.”

He looked at you again, eyes narrowing slightly with a glimmer of suspicion. “For science, I assume?”

“Exactly,” you said solemnly. “For science.”

He exhaled softly.

Then, without another word, he began to unroll the scroll.

You sat beside him, doing your best to appear calm, collected, and completely unaware of the fact that you were sitting next to the most unreadable person in the entire Academy with a ticking time bomb of magical curiosity in his hands.

This was fine.

You were fine.

You just… might pass out a little.

But for science? Worth it. You folded your hands in your lap to stop yourself from fidgeting, but it didn’t help much. Your knee still bounced the smallest bit, your shoulders tense despite your best efforts.

There was something deeply embarrassing about having someone read your work always had been. Even when it wasn’t personal.

Even when it was just a simple analysis on mana circuits or historical transmutations, there was always that flicker of vulnerability. That tiny voice whispering, What if it’s not good enough? What if they think it’s silly?

But this?

This wasn’t just coursework.

This was you asking the Sage of Truth to shapeshift.

This was every spiraling thought and late-night curiosity packed neatly into metaphors, magic theory, and if you were being honest at least two and a half emotionally compromised flourishes courtesy of Chai Latte Cookie.

And he was reading it.

Right next to you.

His eyes moved slowly down the page, calm and steady. His posture unchanged, expression unreadable. Not a twitch of an eyebrow. Not a quirk of his lips. Just the soft rustle of parchment as he unrolled a bit more, and the occasional pause that made your heart leap into your throat.

You tried to steal a glance at his face just a peek.

But there was nothing.

Not disapproval. Not amusement. Just… silence.

You swallowed, suddenly aware of how loud your own thoughts were. Every second felt like it stretched too long, too wide.

Still, you waited.

Because despite the silence, despite the burn of embarrassment crawling up your neck… you wanted him to see it.

Because this wasn’t just for science.

This was yours.

And right now, that had to be enough. You waited.

Not the impatient kind of waiting, the fidgeting, time-checking, foot-tapping sort but the quiet, breath-held kind. The kind of stillness that only happened when something delicate was unfolding, and you didn’t want to move in case it shattered.

You could feel your own heartbeat in your throat as he reached the end of the scroll. His eyes lingered on the final line Chai’s idea, something about “truth reshaping itself not to deceive, but to reveal what curiosity dares to ask.” It felt too dramatic when you wrote it. It still did now.

And then he looked at you.

He didn’t speak right away.

Just regarded you with that steady, deep gaze mismatched eyes so calm they made the silence feel like part of the conversation.

You braced yourself.

“This is…” He paused, folding the parchment carefully with deliberate hands. “Remarkably structured.”

You blinked. “Wait structured?” You knew it was but to hear it from him was another thing.

“A logical progression. Efficient use of magical precedent. Clear intent.” He placed the scroll down on the desk with reverence, as though it were a thesis submitted to a higher council.

You stared at him, unblinking. “That’s all you got from it?”

He turned to you fully now, his expression softening just slightly.

“And charming,” he added.

Your heart skipped.

“I did read every word. Including the parts where you tried to convince me this was purely academic,” he said, lips curling just faintly.

You opened your mouth to object but he held up a hand.

“No need to deny it. I appreciate the effort. And the… scholarly fervor.” He leaned back a little in his chair, gaze thoughtful. “You’ve always been curious. But this kind of curiosity is… different. More personal.”

You looked down, fingers twitching in your lap. “Well, yeah. I guess… I just wanted to see. To know. It’s not like I’d publish a paper on it or anything.”

“I know,” he said gently. “And I am not dismissing the request.”

Your head snapped up. “Wait, really?”

His smile was small. But it was real.

“I’m merely considering my terms.”

You gawked. “Terms?”

He tilted his head slightly. “Surely, you didn’t expect something like this to be without cost.”

You blinked. “Are you saying I have to pay you to shapeshift?”

“Not in gold,” he mused. “But perhaps in kind. One trade of curiosity for another.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Immensely.”

You huffed, slouching in your seat. “I can’t believe you’re making this into a negotiation.”

He raised a brow. “It’s what scholars do.”

You exhaled sharply… but a smile tugged at the corner of your lips despite yourself.

“Fine,” you said. “But I want it noted that this began with you withholding cosmic-level shapeshifting powers and me just wanting to observe.”

“And now,” he said softly, “we’re here. At the edge of something new.”

You stared at him for a long, quiet beat.

And, just beneath your breath, you said, “I can live with that.”

You leaned in a little, eyes narrowing not with suspicion, but with the kind of sharpened curiosity that always surfaced when he dangled something just out of reach. It was like he’d placed a rare tome on the top shelf and was waiting to see if you’d dare climb for it.

“…Alright,” you said, voice low but certain. “What are your terms?”

Shadow Milk Cookie looked almost too pleased. Not smug. Not condescending. Just… quietly, profoundly satisfied, like he’d known you would ask from the moment you handed him the scroll.

He folded his hands atop the parchment, his expression measured but still touched with that unreadable warmth that always seemed to creep in when he thought you weren’t looking.

“My terms,” he repeated slowly, “are quite simple.”

You raised a brow. “Simple for you or for me?”

He inclined his head, ignoring the jab entirely.

“One; You must allow me to ask a question of equal weight.”

You blinked. “That’s… vague.”

“Precisely,” he said, tone maddeningly light. “You may not know when I’ll ask. Or what it will be.”

“So you’re setting a trap.”

“I’m offering balance.”

You gave him a long look. “Fine. One mysterious, possibly ominous question to be determined later. What else?”

“Two…” He reached for a quill, idly spinning it between his fingers. “You must promise not to run.”

Your brow furrowed slightly. “Why would I run?”

He glanced at you not with teasing, not with challenge. Just… something steadier. Something deeper.

“Because,” he said softly, “when truth is given form, it often changes the one who sought it.”

You held his gaze for a moment, and something in your chest tightened just a little.

Still, you nodded. “Okay. I won’t run.”

He considered you, as if weighing whether to believe you.

Then, slowly, he nodded once in return.

“That’s it?” you asked, your voice quiet now. “Just those two things?”

“Is that not enough?”

You hesitated then exhaled.

“…No. It’s fair.”

He said nothing for a moment.

Then leaned in just slightly, voice barely above a whisper.

“Then the terms are accepted.”

And somewhere, beneath all the words exchanged between you, a quiet agreement settled. Not signed in ink or blood but in trust.

And maybe something a little closer to wonder. You stared at him, your curiosity prickling again, even sharper now that you’d agreed to his cryptic little bargain.

“…What is it you wish to know?” you asked, voice steady but soft. “If I’m agreeing to answer one question of equal weight… then what is it you’re so eager to ask?”

You expected him to deflect. Maybe lean back in his chair, say something evasive like in time or you’ll know when it matters. Maybe arch a brow and smirk like he so often did when you wandered too close to truths he wasn’t ready to name.

But he didn’t.

He just watched you.

And then

“I don’t know yet,” he said.

That stopped you.

You blinked. “You… don’t know?”

He shook his head, slow and honest. “Not yet. But I will.”

You tilted your head, wary. “That’s a little unnerving.”

“I could lie,” he offered, lips curling slightly.

“Please don’t. You’re the last person I need lying to me.”

“I wouldn’t,” he said quietly. “Not to you.”

You sat back, the weight of that truth settling into your chest like something warm and strangely grounding. There was no game here. No dramatic setup. Just honesty clear, rare, and a little too vulnerable if you thought about it for too long.

You looked down at your hands, thumbs brushing over each other.

“And when you do figure out the question?”

“I’ll ask it.”

“And I’ll have to answer.”

His voice was barely above a whisper. “Yes.”

You met his gaze again, your pulse thrumming in your ears. “I hope it’s something good.”

“It will be,” he said, and somehow it felt like a promise not of comfort or safety, but of knowing. Of being seen in a way that went past observation and into belief.

You nodded once.

And sat there beside him, heart full of stars and questions. You rested your elbow on the desk, cheek in your hand, still watching him carefully half wary, half fascinated. The scroll between you was no longer just a scroll. It was a pact. One sealed with curiosity and trust, and maybe a little too much emotional investment for your comfort.

“…So,” you said slowly, eyes narrowing, “does that mean I’ll only get to see you shapeshift after you ask your mysterious life-altering question?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he took his time of course he did fingers trailing lightly along the edge of the parchment, as if rereading your words in silence.

You waited, trying not to fidget.

Eventually, he spoke, voice calm. “That depends.”

“On?”

His eyes met yours, something unreadable flickering behind them.

“On whether I think you’re ready to see me like that.”

Your breath hitched.

“…Like what?” you asked, the words coming out softer than you meant them to.

He tilted his head, gaze unwavering. “As something unfamiliar. As something outside the image you’ve grown used to.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the gravity in his tone.

“I don’t want to unsettle you,” he added, more gently now. “That’s not the point of this. You asked out of curiosity. But if I do this, if I show you a version of myself that’s entirely unlike what you’ve known… I want you to understand it’s still me. That the truth doesn’t vanish just because the form changes.”

You swallowed, your voice barely audible. “I would still know you.”

He watched you a moment longer, as if searching for the depth of your certainty.

Then, finally, he nodded. “Then no. You will not have to wait until I ask the question.”

Your heart fluttered.

“But,” he added, with a glint of amusement now dancing at the edges of his lips, “I reserve the right to make you wait just long enough to drive you mildly mad.”

You groaned, slumping forward with your forehead on the desk. “I knew there was a catch.”

His chuckle rippled through the air like warm silk.

And somehow, the idea of waiting didn’t seem so terrible after all. You lifted your head off the desk just enough to glare at him, squinting like you were trying to set his robes on fire with sheer willpower.

“You’re being unfair,” you declared, pointing an accusing finger at him. “I put together a well-researched, carefully-worded, academically sound paper with citations, by the way and you’re going to tease me? After all that?”

Shadow Milk Cookie, ever composed, simply raised an eyebrow, lips threatening the faintest smirk. “You also included a metaphor about truth wearing earrings.”

“Poetic license!” you snapped. “Chai said it was evocative.”

“It was certainly something.”

You groaned, slumping dramatically back into your seat with your arms folded. “I deserve better.”

He leaned back in his chair, clearly enjoying himself far too much. “You believe scholarly diligence should be rewarded with spectacle.”

“Yes,” you grumbled. “I believe me being very nice, very respectful, and putting my soul into that scroll means I should absolutely get to see you shapeshift, like, today. Or now. Or, better yet yesterday.”

He watched you silently for a moment, a trace of that fond, unreadable amusement still hovering in his eyes.

“You truly are relentless when you want something,” he said finally.

“I’m a scholar,” you said, lifting your chin. “It’s my job to question the universe. And also… you.”

“Then you’ve succeeded.” He set the scroll aside, folding his hands. “The universe is duly questioned.”

“And?”

“And I never said no,” he murmured, voice low and deliberately maddening.

You narrowed your eyes. “You are enjoying this.”

“Immensely.”

You let out another sigh and leaned back against the chair, arms still crossed. “I’m going to file an academic grievance.”

“I’ll be sure to grade it personally.”

You shot him a look, but you were already smiling again, despite yourself.

Because as much as he was teasing you he hadn’t said no.

And that, more than anything, meant it was only a matter of time. You glanced sideways at him, still slouched in your chair, your arms crossed in a dramatic show of indignation. But after a beat after the laughter had softened and his smirk still lingered you let the question slip.

“…What if we run out of time?”

You said it lightly, jokingly, like it was just another thing to throw into the endless back-and-forth between you. Like you were still riding the high of teasing him. Like it didn’t matter.

But he didn’t laugh.

He didn’t even smile.

The silence that followed was subtle, but immediate.

He turned his head toward you fully now, the low golden lamplight casting a soft shadow across the edge of his face. His expression wasn’t unreadable not this time. It was something else.

Still.

Quiet.

Serious.

“Then I will regret,” he said slowly, “not showing you sooner.”

Your breath caught, the shift in atmosphere pulling the words right out of your chest. The weight of his voice was different now, not sharp, not heavy, but true. Like something ancient being spoken for the first time in a very long time.

“I may live longer,” he went on, his gaze unwavering, “but that doesn’t mean I am exempt from time. Or from what it takes.”

You sat up straighter.

“…Takes?”

He nodded once. “Patience. Intention. Restraint. All things I wield because I have to because I must maintain control. Because if I give in to every impulse, then I become no different than the truths I’ve warned others about: overwhelming. Dangerous. Absolute.”

You swallowed.

He looked down briefly, folding his hands together again. “But if I ever did run out of time… I would rather be remembered by you as known, than as a mystery you never had the chance to understand.”

The quiet between you stretched. It wasn’t uncomfortable.

It was reverent.

You blinked slowly, the weight of his words settling in your chest like a stone dropped in still water.

“…You’re not a mystery,” you said softly.

He looked at you.

“Not to me,” you added, quieter now. “Not anymore.” This of course was a lie but it felt right to say.

He exhaled slowly, gaze warm and distant at once. “Then perhaps time is not the thing we should fear.”

You stared at him for a moment longer, unsure of what to say. What could be said, really?

So instead, you whispered “Then don’t wait too long.” The weight of the moment lingered in the air between you soft, thick, impossible to ignore.

His words still echoed in your chest. “Then I will regret not showing you sooner.” And the way he said it not with drama, but with sincerity lodged somewhere too close to your heart for comfort.

Which was exactly why you did what you always did.

You reached over, grabbed the scroll you’d painstakingly written and edited with your friends’ help, and waved it in the air dramatically.

“Well,” you said, voice suddenly bright, “if you do run out of time, I’m keeping this and publishing it under ‘Unfulfilled Magical Requests and the Tragedy of Teasing Professors.’ Subtitle; Why Saying ‘Maybe’ Is Emotional Warfare.”

He blinked, visibly caught off guard for a second not at the words, but at the sharp shift.

And then, as expected, he exhaled a quiet sound that might’ve been a laugh. Barely there. But real.

Your tone only got more theatrical. “I’ll submit it to the Academy archive. It’ll become required reading in Magical Ethics courses. You’ll go down in history as the Sage of Selective Silence.”

He arched a brow, amused again, watching you with that knowing gaze of his the one that always saw a little too much.

“You always do this,” he murmured, not unkindly.

You froze mid-rant. “Do what?”

“When emotions get too close.” He tilted his head, gently, like he was observing you the way one observes the stars curious, fascinated, never quite needing to name what they are.

“You run. Not with your feet. But with your words.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Fumbled. “I… I don’t run. I sidestep. Gracefully.”

He gave you that faint, insufferable smile. “You deflect.”

You threw your arms up. “Okay, fine, I deflect. But I do it charmingly.”

“And with purpose,” he said softly. “I’m not blaming you.”

That shut you up again.

Just for a second.

You looked away, hands lowering to your lap.

“I just…” you mumbled, “I’m not always sure how to hold things like that. The big stuff. It doesn’t sit right in my chest. It… gets too quiet. Too real. So if I make it lighter, I can breathe again.”

There was no judgment in his silence.

Only understanding.

“I’ll let you know,” he said, “before I show you.”

You looked up.

“Before I shift,” he clarified. “So that you’re not caught by something too heavy.”

You smiled, soft and crooked. “See? That’s why you’re the best mentor-slash-possibly-more-than-that-but-we’re-still-not-labelling-it.”

He chuckled under his breath.

And just like that, the weight in the room eased dissolved into something warmer, lighter.

Exactly how you liked it. He let the quiet linger a moment longer, eyes still on you not dissecting, not calculating, just… aware. Then, with a soft exhale, he leaned back slightly and tapped a nearby stack of parchment with the edge of his finger, drawing the moment to a gentle close.

“But,” he said, voice smoothing back into his usual scholar’s tone cool, calm, gently chiding, “as much as I enjoy doing nothing with you…”

You raised an eyebrow. “Wow. Thanks. So romantic.”

He ignored the comment entirely. “...Your academics come first.”

You groaned, already slumping in your seat. “Nooooo.”

“Yes,” he said with a little more firmness now. “Your finals are approaching. You will need to revise elemental stabilization matrices, temporal layering, and the ethics of magical application Professor Almond Custard’s section in particular will be weighed heavily.”

You tried to groan louder, but he continued smoothly.

“You should also be prepared to interpret dream-sequence transcriptions and disprove flawed magical constructs. There will be case studies. And likely, one open-ended essay.”

“Can’t I just write about how emotionally repressed you are and pass with extra credit?” you muttered under your breath.

He didn’t miss a beat. “Only if you can do so with proper citations.”

You let your head thunk against the back of the chair dramatically. “I miss when this was about shapeshifting.”

He smirked. “This is about preparing you for the world beyond me.”

You blinked, then squinted at him. “That… sounded way more ominous than you meant it to.”

He gave a small, amused nod. “Possibly.”

Still half-draped across the chair, you sighed loudly but turned your head to glance at him from the corner of your eye. “Fine. Academics first.”

His voice softened just slightly again, enough to make it linger. “Always.”

You looked away, smiling faintly.

Always… but maybe not forever. And just like that, the mood shifted not in the jarring way, but with the smooth precision of turning a page in a very familiar book.

He began going over the foundational elements again: temporal layering and how unstable weaves behave when disrupted by external magical sources, the difference between intention-led spellcraft and reflexive casting, how to analyze illusory magic without being misled by form.

You sat up straighter, less slouch and more scholar now, drawn into the rhythm of it. It wasn’t like lecture. It was quieter. Closer. The kind of exchange where your thoughts could unravel safely where you could be wrong, get messy, ask without embarrassment.

He would correct you, sure, but never harshly.

You got through the key points on stabilizing enchantments, and you were halfway through the philosophy behind magical ethics debating the fine line between intention and consequence when something in your brain clicked into place.

“Oh! Wait!” you straightened suddenly, eyes brightening. “That reminds me of something Almond Custard said last week during lecture, about layered intention in temporal folds! I thought it was going to be boring, but it wasn’t it was actually kind of brilliant”

He paused mid-note, already familiar with your tone. “Go on.”

“Okay, so,” you said, already talking with your hands, “he was going on about the theory that when you perform a time-anchored spell, the intent you embed in it doesn't just affect the spell in that moment, it actually reverberates backward into the framework of the spell. It influences how the spell began forming even before you consciously made it! Isn’t that wild? Like, magic reaching backwards through your own process of thought!”

You barely registered that he’d stopped writing and was now watching you just listening.

“So technically, that means spells are always a little bit alive, right? Not just in how they act, but in how they echo. Which also made me think, what about spells that go wrong because the caster’s intent wasn’t stable to begin with? Not because they didn’t mean to do it right, but because their emotions were split? Can you even fix that if it’s embedded into the foundation of the magic before you even consciously realize it?”

You leaned forward, completely lost in your own spiraling fascination now. “And then I wondered does that mean if someone has really conflicting emotions, they’re always casting unstable magic? And what if the magic responds by changing in ways we don’t even detect because the system we use to measure it doesn’t account for the emotional resonance inp”

“You memorized all of this?” he asked, quietly.

You blinked mid-ramble, realizing you hadn’t taken a breath in quite some time. “Uh. Yeah? Sort of. Not intentionally. I just thought it was really cool, and I kept thinking about it, and then suddenly I was writing notes in the margin of my spellbook and-”

He nodded slowly.

You hesitated, glancing at him.

He was smiling.

Not his usual, teasing sort of smile. Not even the fond one he sometimes wore when you said something accidentally poetic.

This was softer. Subtler.

So you took a breath. Sat back.

And kept going. You didn’t mean to keep going.

You really didn’t.

But once the words started, once the thought had begun to spill forward, there was no stopping it. The idea kept unraveling, tugging at every half-formed theory you’d scribbled in the margins of your notebook, every late-night thought you hadn’t been able to let go of. And he just sat there, quietly, without so much as a breath of interruption.

“-and I mean, if magical intention does retroactively shape a spell’s formation, then that would explain why some spells collapse even when the mechanics are perfect, right? Because the caster isn’t emotionally consistent. So the spell reflects that instability, and maybe that’s why certain enchantments degrade faster in emotionally charged environments especially in collaborative spellcasting! Because two people means two layers of intent, and if they’re not aligned, then the foundation is compromised before it even stabilizes-"

You paused only to breathe, your hands gesturing in sweeping arcs as your brain tumbled faster than your words could follow.

"and what if that’s why ancient spells needed entire rituals to stabilize emotional intent? Like, not just precision of word or motion, but the actual state of the person casting. They knew it, right? That the heart informs the spell just as much as the incantation? What if that’s what we’re missing in modern instruction-”

You stopped.

Not because you’d run out of thoughts, stars, you had so many more but because you finally noticed the silence again. The kind that meant you were being watched, and not just watched, but heard.

You turned.

He hadn’t moved.

Shadow Milk Cookie sat beside you, one arm resting on the desk, the other relaxed in his lap. His expression wasn’t the usual calm, unreadable veil you’d grown used to.

He looked…

Content.

Not the fleeting contentment that came from a good book or a solved problem. No, it was something deeper. Something that settled quietly into the space between you. As if he had been waiting not for you to stop talking, but simply to be there while you did.

Not once had he tried to redirect you. Not once had he told you to focus or stay on topic.

He had let you speak. Let you spill, without judgment, without impatience. Just listened, as though every spiraling tangent was worthy of his time.

And when your voice finally trailed off, breathless and wide-eyed, he simply said “You’ve thought about this deeply.”

You flushed, suddenly self-conscious now that the adrenaline had burned off. “yeah. Sorry. I know I talk too much sometimes. When something gets stuck in my head, it stays there until I-”

“I know.”

You blinked.

He looked at you again, gaze unwavering.

“And I’m glad you shared it with me.”

The words hit soft, but true like all his truths did. Not loud. Not showy.

But deep enough to echo.

And for a moment, you forgot the embarrassment entirely.

Because being heard like that?

That felt like magic too. You shifted in your seat, your fingers idly tracing the edge of the desk as your thoughts, still fired up from your last tangent, began to circle back to something else you hadn’t planned on bringing up. You hesitated but only for a second.

“So… um.” You glanced at him. “Not that I was looking for your papers specifically, but I-sort of ran into a few. On purpose.”

His brow lifted slightly. “On purpose?”

“Not in a weird way!” you said quickly. “I just… yours were the most detailed. They cited things no one else did, and you reference primary sources everyone else avoids because they’re obscure or out of translation. So I kind of... leaned toward them. That’s all.”

He said nothing, but the corners of his mouth tugged in the faintest way that suggested he was either amused, flattered, or both.

You cleared your throat and pushed forward. “One of them the one on emotionally synchronized casting you mentioned that intention and magical efficiency increase when the spellcaster’s emotional state aligns with the elemental resonance of the spell being cast. I wanted to ask what you meant in the part where you talked about ‘harmonic temperance as a conduit of magical fidelity’ because I kind of get it, but also kind of didn’t. I think you were saying the more regulated the emotion, the stronger the anchor, but…”

You trailed off, looking at him expectantly.

He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepling. “That’s a fair interpretation. But it’s less about regulation and more about clarity. If you’re angry and know you’re angry, and the spell is born of that emotion, it’s clearer than if you’re conflicted and trying to hide that anger while casting.”

You nodded, thoughtful. “Right. That makes sense. And I actually tried it.”

He blinked. “You what?”

The words tumbled out before you could stop them. “I tried using the same spell basic levitation but in different moods. I kept everything else consistent. Stance, intent, recitation speed. But one time I did it while I was really upset. Another time when I was focused. Another time when I was… not thrilled but not miserable. Just a little sad.”

He stared at you now, expression unreadable again but in the way that meant he was definitely reading everything.

“And I know I probably shouldn’t have,” you added quickly, panic creeping into your tone as you waved your hands. “I mean, I know it’s unstable casting while upset is basically asking for backlash. I didn’t do anything dangerous, I swear! But I just… wanted to see. I kept it small. Nothing got flung across the room! Just… you know. Some unexpected hover-jitters.”

You winced. “I forgot I didn’t want to tell you.”

His gaze didn’t waver.

“I mean, I know you’re going to say it was reckless and dumb and you’d be right but-”

“I’m not angry.”

You froze mid-babble.

“…You’re not?”

He shook his head, voice calm. “Curious. And mildly exasperated.”

You exhaled in relief. “Oh. That’s fine.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Fine?”

“I’ve lived with exasperation before. I can handle that.”

He let out a slow breath and leaned forward, resting one elbow on the desk as he studied you.

“You shouldn’t test unstable casting conditions without supervision,” he said, “but your observation was not without merit. And your control, evidently, was sufficient.”

“…So you’re not going to scold me?”

“Oh, I absolutely will.” His voice was sharp, but his expression softened again. “But later. For now…”

He tilted his head slightly.

“Tell me what else you found.”

And just like that, you forgot you were supposed to be nervous.

Because there was something about the way he said it quiet, steady, and open that reminded you this wasn’t just your curiosity anymore.

It was shared.

So you did.

You told him everything. Of course, it didn’t last.

The moment the last of your excited words trailed off, the Sage of Truth went perfectly still. Too still.

You knew that stillness. You recognized it.

It was the calm before the storm, not the shouting kind, but the quieter, more dangerous kind. The kind that came with controlled words and an expression that said, You’re lucky I like you, because otherwise this would be a formal disciplinary hearing.

He closed the parchment he had been idly referencing, set it aside, and laced his fingers together on the desk in front of him.

“I want to be very clear,” he began, his voice calm too calm. “You’re telling me you willingly cast spells while emotionally compromised. Alone. Repeatedly. Without consulting anyone. Without recording your safeguards. Without a controlled environment. And without protective wards.”

You blinked. “...Okay when you say it like that-”

“Because that is exactly how I’m going to say it,” he interrupted, expression firm. “Do you know how many recorded magical accidents come from spells cast in a state of emotional instability?”

You slumped slightly. “Yes.”

“Do you know how often those spells backfire in ways that don’t harm the caster, but others around them?”

“Yes.”

“Then why-”

“I had wards!” you insisted. “Not strong ones, but I was careful! I picked a classroom no one was using! I triple-checked the threshold sigils!”

He gave you that look again the one that felt like he was peeling back every layer of your argument in silence.

And you did what you always did when confronted by well-earned disappointment.

You tuned him out.

Not fully. Not rudely. You just… let your focus drift. You knew the consequences. You knew it had been risky. You weren’t proud of it. You didn’t regret it either, but you knew it wasn’t something he could condone.

Still, as he went on listing magical theory, emotional resonance thresholds, the dangers of internal misalignment you found yourself staring at the edge of his desk, at the way his fingers moved when he spoke, the way his voice dipped not with anger, but worry.

That’s what stung most.

The fact that beneath the precise scolding and the well-structured warnings, what you heard clearest was: you could have been hurt.

“…And if anything had gone wrong,” he said, at last finishing, “do you think I would have forgiven myself?”

Your head lifted at that, a little startled.

He hadn’t raised his voice. But the weight behind those words that got your attention.

You blinked slowly.

“…No,” you said, a little quieter. “I guess not.”

His shoulders eased slightly, just enough to suggest he hadn’t even realized they’d tensed.

He looked at you. And now his tone was soft. Controlled. But not cold.

“Next time,” he said, “you don’t do it alone.”

You nodded, subdued now, guilt settling in with a quiet sort of ache. “Okay.”

He leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair, exhaling through his nose like you’d aged him a century.

You offered a tentative smile. “You done?”

“For now.”

You smirked faintly. “You sure?”

“I could assign a research essay on magical misfires.”

You gasped. “Cruelty.”

He didn’t smile.

But his eyes did. You had barely begun to relax sinking ever so slightly into your chair with that tentative sense of okay, he’s done, I survived when you heard him shift.

Not a dramatic shift.

Just a quiet repositioning of his posture, the slight realignment of his spine, the way he folded his hands again with renewed purpose.

Oh no.

You straightened instantly. “Wait there’s more?”

He didn’t even blink. “Yes.”

You groaned. “But you just said-”

“I said I was done for now. That ‘now’ has passed.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he was already on a roll.

“You treat magic like it’s something pliable,” he said calmly. “Something that will always bend around your curiosity. But it doesn’t bend. Not without cost. The difference between exploration and recklessness lies in preparation. You know better.”

You winced slightly, eyes darting away. “It was just levitation-”

“It could have been anything.”

You sighed and leaned your cheek on your hand, muttering under your breath, “Truth doesn’t punish the seeker for being curious. It simply demands they be prepared.”

He paused.

A long pause.

You slowly looked up at him.

His expression was flat. Deadpan.

“…Did you just quote me at me?” he asked.

You tried very hard not to smile. “I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.”

“Oh, I noticed.”

You gave him your best innocent blink. “You’re the one who said it.”

“And you’re using it to dodge accountability.”

“I’m using it to highlight that I was seeking knowledge with intention and poetic integrity.”

He stared at you.

You gave him a small, helpless shrug. “For science?”

“...You are infuriating,” he said, and somehow despite the words his voice was so fond it made your stomach flip.

You grinned. “You say that like it’s a surprise.”

“I keep hoping it won’t be,” he muttered.

And then, because you were shameless: “You said hope was an enduring trait of scholars.”

He gave a slow exhale, leaned back in his chair, and covered his face with one hand.

“…Stars preserve me.” You watched as he pinched the bridge of his nose, fingers pressed lightly to his temple like you were the cause of every headache he’d ever had past, present, and hypothetical future. The silence stretched long enough that you dared to hope.

“...So,” you said, lifting your chin, daring to test the waters, “are you done lecturing me now?”

His hand dropped.

He gave you a look. The kind that should’ve turned you to stone if magical eye-rolling were a real curse. “No,” he said flatly.

You groaned. “Come on-”

But he was already on his feet, pacing behind his desk now not dramatically, not angrily. Just with that purposeful stride he got when his thoughts were lining up like dominoes ready to fall.

“You cast unsupervised magic while emotionally compromised,” he began, holding up one finger. “In an unsecured setting,” another finger “without proper safeguards or documentation-”

“I had thresholds-”

“without proper safeguards,” he repeated, louder this time, “and you withheld that information from me until it accidentally slipped during a completely unrelated tangent.”

You huffed. “I wasn’t trying to hide it! I just… didn’t want to hear the lecture!”

“Then why would you remind me to keep going?” he demanded, clearly bewildered by your logic.

“Because I thought we reached the natural conclusion!”

“There is no natural conclusion when you treat magic like an emotional experiment and use yourself as the test subject!”

“I was safe!”

“You were lucky!” His voice was sharper now, not loud but edged. It cut more because it wasn’t fury. It was something closer to fear, pressed down into composure. “Luck is not a framework. It is not a shield. It is not something I want you relying on. You-”

He stopped.

Just for a moment.

Then, much quieter, under his breath but loud enough for you to hear:

“Stars, I could’ve lost you.”

You froze.

But he didn’t let the weight linger this time.

He turned back toward you, more composed now, drawing in a breath that steadied him like it had steadied you so many times before.

“I’m lecturing you,” he said, “because I care.”

He crossed his arms, the motion calm, firm. “Because you’re not just a scholar. You’re my scholar. And if anything happened to you because of something preventable because you pushed too far, too fast, without thinking I wouldn’t just be furious. I would be devastated.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

Because he wasn’t being dramatic. Or manipulative. Or even theatrical.

He was being honest.

And that somehow hurt more than any scolding could have.

“…Okay,” you said softly, after a beat.

And you meant it this time.

He watched you for a moment longer, his jaw tight but slowly, his shoulders eased.

Still, he wasn’t quite done.

“You’ll come to me next time,” he said, voice even. “If you want to experiment. If something upsets you. If you need supervision. Or help. Or… anything.”

You nodded again, smaller. “I will.”

He exhaled.

Then sat back down beside you.

“…Good.”

And for a few seconds, neither of you said a word.

You just sat there. Both a little overwhelmed. Both still holding onto the edges of something fragile. The rest of the tutoring session passed with a kind of soft, deliberate quiet.

You returned to the notes event manipulation, cross-channel mana resonance, comparative theory between willed enchantments and reflexive charmcraft. Nothing too complicated. Nothing too simple. Just enough to fill the space between you, to let things settle without pressing too hard on what had just been said.

He explained things clearly, as he always did. You asked your questions, less playful now, but no less curious. He corrected your diagrams with gentle precision, sometimes conjuring a flicker of light to demonstrate, other times just guiding your hand across the page.

It all felt normal.

Mostly.

But not entirely.

The echoes of his words from earlier still clung to the edges of your awareness. Not in a sharp or stinging way but like the faint warmth of a fire that had already burned through its most dangerous heat. That lingering feeling of something having mattered.

And you knew he felt it too.

Because even though he returned to his composed rhythm, he didn’t move quite the same. He sat a little closer than usual. Watched you a little longer between your thoughts. And when your brow furrowed at one particularly dense passage, his hand came to rest gently on the edge of your parchment steadying, grounding without comment.

By the time you reached the end of the session, you’d covered more than you expected to. You’d understood more than you thought you would.

And yet, underneath it all, that earlier moment still pulsed.

As if some invisible line between you had been redrawn.

Not a boundary crossed.

But something acknowledged.

As you gathered your notes and slid them back into your bag, he said nothing but you could feel his gaze on you again.

You glanced up at him, offering a small, tired smile.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” you said quietly.

He inclined his head. “And I didn’t mean to overwhelm you.”

You stood, slinging your bag over your shoulder, and looked toward the door. Then back to him.

“I guess we’re even.”

He didn’t smile, not really.

But the look he gave you then the soft glint in his eyes, the way his head tilted just so, like he was considering something precious was more than enough.

“Until next time,” he murmured.

You nodded once.

And left with more than just your notes. By the time you made it to dinner, the smell of baked cheese rolls and grilled rosemary vegetables hit you like a sigh of relief.

The hall was already buzzing with familiar chatter, forks clinking, laughter echoing between rows of stone pillars and there, in your usual corner, sat your friends. Chai Latte Cookie was already waving frantically the moment she spotted you, nearly knocking over her cup of tea in the process.

“You’re late,” she said the moment you dropped into the seat beside her. “We were this close to staging a recovery mission. Again.”

Earl Grey Cookie looked up from his notes, though his expression betrayed only mild concern. “You missed the raspberry lemonade. It went fast.”

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie, across from you, handed you a roll before you even asked. “Rough tutoring session?” You sighed, resting your arms on the table. “You have no idea.”

A/N So apparently this didn't get posted I clicked post now yesterday night but I checked my page and it's not there... So late upload MY BAD GUYS

also I just want to note there is no reason why mc would run my thinking for why I did that is just because he's making sure to cover all his bases because quite honestly the reasoning he provides isn't great if I'm being honest.

Also just completed my first work week woohoo!!!

anyways...

Remember to follow and reblog for more bangers 😎😎😎🔥🔥🔥

<<<Previous Next>>>

301 notes · View notes

0zozone · 2 months ago

Text

WOOOO SMILK WITH KINDERGARTEN TEACHER WIFE!!!

786 notes · View notes

0zozone · 2 months ago

Text

In the Presence of Truth {"Sage of Truth" (SMC) x Reader} PT 29

<<<Previous Next>>>

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie was in the middle of telling Earl Grey Cookie something about their lab report’s spell diagrams being mislabeled when Chai Latte Cookie slammed her hands on the table with a dramatic gasp that made all of you jump.

“You won’t believe what I saw this morning!”

Earl Grey didn’t even flinch. “Romantic scandal or magical catastrophe?”

Chai Latte leaned in, eyes gleaming with excitement. “Romantic scandal.”

You blinked, your spoon hovering mid-air. “Is this about the professors again?”

“Oh, you bet it is,” she said, practically vibrating in her seat. “You remember Professor Star Anise Cookie and Professor Frosted Clementine Cookie?”

Hazelnut groaned into his teacup. “You never let this go.”

Chai Latte ignored him. “So. Apparently Professor Star Anise is going on leave for a while.”

Earl Grey raised an eyebrow. “Leave? Voluntary or sabbatical?”

“I don’t know,” she said, waving her hand, “but-and this is the good part I saw him this morning with a new accessory on his hand.”

You blinked. “What kind of accessory?”

Chai Latte smiled like she was about to drop the most important discovery in all of magical academia.

“A ring. On his left hand. That kind of accessory.”

Hazelnut Biscotti dropped his fork.

You sat up straighter, eyes wide. “No way.”

“Oh, yes way,” she said, drawing out the words. “It was gold with a tiny starlight enchantment. And I know it wasn’t there before because I have been watching. Closely.”

Earl Grey sipped his tea. “You need a hobby.”

“I have a hobby,” Chai Latte said proudly. “It’s observing forbidden romance unfold in real time. Speaking of which…”

She paused dramatically, making sure she had everyone’s attention. You all stared, begrudgingly invested.

“Two weeks ago,” she said, “I saw them on a walk. Just the two of them, near the eastern conservatory. Holding hands. And I forgot to tell you!”

“You forgot?” you gasped, scandalized.

“I was distracted!” she whined. “I got caught up with an essay, and then I ran into Hazelnut near the dueling court, and-whatever, the point is, they looked happy. Like, genuinely content. And now he’s leaving the Academy for a while and wearing a ring? Come on. It’s happening.”

You couldn’t help it you laughed. The sound came out lighter than you expected, and it loosened something tight in your chest.

“They’re really doing it,” you said, smiling despite everything. “A real forbidden love arc.”

“I still can’t believe you saw them first,” Chai said, turning to you with a warm smile, “but I’m so glad you did. If you hadn’t told me, I never would’ve looked. And now look at us we’re tracking an actual secret relationship. This is the kind of drama that keeps me alive.”

Hazelnut groaned again, muttering into his plate. “You’re all emotionally unstable.”

“You’re just mad you didn’t see it first,” you teased.

Earl Grey looked contemplative. “The ring is new… and she did avoid his gaze during faculty council last week.”

Chai gasped. “You noticed that too?!”

“Unfortunately,” he murmured.

You laughed again, this time genuinely. And for a moment, you let yourself lean into it. The warmth of their voices, the sparkle in Chai’s eyes, the utter absurdity of it all it washed over the quiet ache still settled behind your ribs.

You still had so many doubts. Still didn’t know if the people who’d tried to break you would succeed in the long run.

But you had this. You had them that always made everything feel a little more bearable. You leaned forward, squinting suspiciously across the table at Earl Grey. “Wait. How do you know what happened at faculty council?”

He didn’t even blink. “Observation.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Observation from where?”

Chai Latte turned slowly toward him, her expression dawning with theatrical disbelief. “Hold on. You were there?”

Earl Grey calmly sipped his tea, not even bothering to deny it.

“Are you saying you’ve been secretly spying on the faculty meetings too?” you asked, half-joking, half-horrified. “Is this what we’ve become?”

“There’s a difference between spying and… academic curiosity,” he replied smoothly, setting his cup down with a faint clink.

“There isn’t,” Chai declared. “You mean to tell me I was in the ventilation hallway above the east stairwell and I didn’t see you?”

You blinked, startled. “I’m sorry-the what now?”

“The vents,” Chai Latte said, matter-of-fact. “There’s this open space just above the stairwell landing near the old astronomy wing. If you climb up and wedge yourself between the beams, you can hear everything.”

Hazelnut Biscotti groaned. “I am begging you to choose sanity.”

“You were in the vents?” Earl Grey asked flatly.

“I had perfect line of sound,” she said proudly. “And you still haven’t told us where you were.”

Earl Grey glanced toward the high windows of the dining hall. “Third-floor maintenance corridor. There’s a warped tile. You can see through the gap if you know what angle to lean at.”

You and Chai both stared at him.

“What?” he asked, unbothered. “It’s a structural flaw. I simply… utilized it.”

“This is insane,” you muttered, grinning despite yourself. “So you were both watching the same council meeting and didn’t notice each other?”

“I was busy taking notes,” Earl Grey said.

“I was busy almost falling out of a vent!” Chai snapped. “Which I would’ve mentioned if someone had made noise, but noooo, apparently someone was just lurking in the shadows with their perfect angles.”

Hazelnut Biscotti put his head down on the table. “I don’t know any of you.”

You were laughing now, really laughing, the sound bubbling up in the pit of your chest half from amusement, half from sheer relief that something, anything, could still feel light.

“You two are unreal,” you said, wiping a tear from the corner of your eye. “Honestly. The real secret relationship here is the one between you and the Academy’s air ducts.”

Chai grinned. “You joke, but if I hear wedding bells between Frosted Clementine and Star Anise, you’re all going to thank me.”

Earl Grey calmly reached for his tea. “And I will document it with precise academic detail.”

You shook your head, still smiling.

And in that moment, it almost felt like the ache in your chest had never been there at all. As the laughter settled into a comfortable hum around the table, Chai Latte Cookie turned toward you, resting her chin in her palm with a knowing smile.

“So… are you going to tutoring today?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone. “Huh?”

“Tutoring,” she repeated sweetly. “With our ever-enigmatic, robe-draped scholar of the stars.” She batted her lashes with exaggerated flair. “You know who I mean.”

You resisted the urge to groan. “Shadow Milk.”

“Shadow Milk,” she echoed dreamily in an attempt to jest. “Mmm, yes. His voice could read me the theory of mana convergence and I’d still call it poetry.”

Hazelnut Biscotti pointed his fork at her, frowning. “You say that, but the moment he asked you to cite your sources on magical ether depletion, you’d start weeping.”

“Dramatically,” she said with a nod. “But I’d still do it.”

Earl Grey didn’t look up from his notes. “So. Tutoring. Are you going?”

You hesitated, spoon pausing halfway to your mouth.

That pause didn’t go unnoticed, not in your own head, anyway but your friends didn’t push. They must’ve chalked it up to nerves. Of course they would. After all, if you were going to meet with the Sage of Truth after what had happened this morning even they would be anxious.

You nodded once, not quite able to meet Chai’s eyes. “I… think so.”

“If it’s cancelled,” she said lightly, “we should all go to the library. Chill out, get the pre-lab done, maybe snag one of the quiet study rooms before they fill up.”

Hazelnut grunted. “We’re going to be in the library either way. Might as well work on something.”

Chai gave you a small nudge with her elbow. “But hey, if you do end up at tutoring and don’t get pulled into some philosophical debate or have your soul gently realigned by a single, piercing comment” she winked, “just meet us there after. No pressure.”

You nodded, managing a small smile.

And they didn’t press further. They didn’t question the hesitation in your voice or the flicker of something raw that passed through your expression when the word tutoring was said. They didn’t notice the slight tension in your shoulders or the way your hand gripped your spoon just a bit tighter.

Because to them, this was nerves. Flustered affection. The butterflies before you saw the person who made your life academically and maybe emotionally unpredictable.

And maybe that was true. But not all of it. Because today… today was different.

Today, you weren’t just nervous about seeing him. You were scared of what he saw in you now. Or worse what he didn’t. You twirled your spoon absentmindedly, watching how the light from the dining hall chandeliers danced on the curve of the metal. For a moment, you didn’t say anything just let the murmur of your friends fill the space like a buffer, soft and familiar.

Then, you looked up at them and smiled easy, casual, just the way they’d expect.

“If I don’t show up,” you said lightly, “dinner will be as usual. Like always.”

Your voice was smooth, practiced. Your expression relaxed, touched with just enough humor to pass as entirely genuine.

And it worked of course it did.

Chai Latte Cookie gave a bright hum of agreement, already moving on to discuss which table she planned to claim in the library. Hazelnut Biscotti grumbled something about seat-stealing first-years, and Earl Grey Cookie made a dry remark about bringing noise-cancelling enchantments.

None of them asked if you were really okay.

None of them pressed.

Because your smile had done what it was meant to do dispelled any lingering doubt, quieted any unspoken concern.

You could play the part. You’d learned to wear it well.

Even if inside, the thought of seeing him again made your chest feel like glass held under too much pressure.

Even if, for just a moment, you weren’t sure what would hurt more if he looked at you the same way he always did…

…or if he didn’t. Lunch passed in a blur of half-listened conversation and the occasional half-hearted laugh. You kept your plate mostly picked over, your smile mostly in place, and your voice low enough to seem calm, high enough to pass as fine.

When your friends got up and tapped your shoulder looking at you with worried expressions, signaling the end of break and the start of the next rotation of classes, you moved on autopilot. Shoulders back, head up, books under your arm.

You didn’t let yourself think.

Not about what had happened that morning. Not about what might happen this afternoon.

Just get through the day.

The History of Food lecture hall was as warm and dim as ever, the air perfumed with faint traces of cinnamon and aged parchment. Professor Brambleberry Cookie, a soft-spoken scholar with a deep affection for ancient culinary texts and restorative teas, was already mid-monologue when you slid into your usual seat in the back corner.

“…and of course, the Honeyroot Pudding Riots of the Mint Age were not, in fact, a response to pudding taxation,” he was saying with serene conviction, “but to the mass replacement of traditional clove-based spice blends with imported golden cardamom.”

You blinked slowly.

Your quill slipped from your fingers.

And before you could stop yourself, your head dipped into the crook of your elbow.

Sleep crept in gently, as if it knew your body had already surrendered. You didn’t fight it. Not here, not in this cocoon of old legends and drifting spice lore. Brambleberry’s voice became a lullaby of lost recipes and sweet-root trade routes, his words washing over you in soft, uninterrupted waves.

You didn’t dream. You didn’t need to.

You just rested.

For the first time that day, your mind went quiet.

It wasn’t peace, not really.

But it was a pause.

And that was something.

By the time chattering became known again, your body jolted slightly, muscles stiff from being folded awkwardly for nearly an hour. You blinked, stretched your fingers, and wiped the crease from your cheek.

Professor Brambleberry was already collecting his notes, his voice fading into a gentle reminder about next week’s reading on ceremonial feast magic.

You gathered your things slowly.

Because you knew what came next.

It was time.

Tutoring.

Your legs felt heavier than usual as you walked, each step toward the Scholar’s Wing ringing louder than it should have. The hallway was quiet. Too quiet. The earlier sting of words still echoed at the back of your mind.

But you kept going anyway.

Because no matter how uncertain your heart felt…You wanted to see him.

Even if you were afraid of what his eyes might say. You walked the path to his office like you always did.

The corridor was quiet too quiet, like the world had pressed pause. Golden lanternlight stretched long shadows along the Scholar’s Wing, the familiar weight of carved stone and hushed magic resting on your shoulders like a cloak.

You passed the same sigil-inscribed window panes, the same soft scuffs of centuries-old footfalls carved into the floor. And then, there it was his door. Ornate. Familiar. Carved with constellations that shimmered faintly at your approach.

You stopped, inhaled once, then knocked.

Three times.

Just like always.

The ritual felt grounding. If you stuck to the rhythm, maybe everything would stay in its place.

The door opened silently, smoothly, as though it had been waiting for you.

He was already at his desk, sleeves drawn back just slightly, ink drying on the edge of a scroll he’d been annotating. His quill was poised mid-thought, and for the briefest moment, he didn’t look up. Not right away.

And that small beat of silence it let you decide.

If you just… pretended it didn’t happen, maybe he would too.

No confrontation. No pity. No soft, measured voice asking you if you were alright when the truth was that you weren’t, and hearing him say it would undo you all over again.

So you stepped in.

You sat down.

You said nothing about the morning.

And neither did he.

It was almost convincing, the way he moved through the motions reaching for a second scroll, placing it before you, his voice as composed as ever when he finally spoke.

“There was a question you had last week about binding glyphs and elemental temperance,” he said, as though nothing in the world had shifted. “I found a passage that expands upon the tension between the two. You may find it enlightening.”

You nodded, replying just as evenly, “Thank you.”

And for a time, it almost felt normal.

He let you off the hook. Or maybe he was letting you pretend you were. The difference didn’t matter, not right now. Because you were already playing along.

If he wasn’t going to say anything, neither were you. You could survive this. You could be fine.

At least… for now. You pulled out your notes with practiced ease, laying them carefully on the desk between you both. Your fingers hovered at the page, hesitating for just a moment before you tapped the section in question runes underlined, a messy margin note scrawled beside it in a rushed half-thought.

“This part,” you said softly. “From Professor Almond Custard’s lecture. I think I missed something about the elemental delay between the aetheric influx and sigil anchoring.”

The Sage of Truth no Shadow Milk Cookie, in this quiet, familiar space shifted in his seat, folding his hands with gentle purpose as he leaned slightly closer to scan the page. His eyes flicked from the notes to you, back to the notes again.

“You’re referencing his lecture on inverse layering,” he said thoughtfully. “Here-” he reached for a nearby sheet of fresh parchment and began sketching the rune sequence, his ink strokes as precise and fluid as breath. “The delay isn’t a flaw. It’s intentional. It allows the spell to settle before the second layer amplifies its effect. If you tried to bind both at once-”

“The structure would collapse,” you murmured, watching the runes unfold beneath his hand. “Right.”

But you didn’t move your gaze back to your notes.

Because he was smiling.

Not the small, cryptic smile he often wore when entertaining a clever question or watching you slowly reach the answer on your own. This one was… softer. Fuller. Lacking that edge of performative elegance he usually carried like a second cloak.

And the way he looked at you, even as he continued explaining there was no theatrical flourish. No showmanship. Just warmth.

Too much warmth.

Your brow furrowed slightly. And after a long pause of silence on your part, you finally said, “Okay, no, hold on.”

He stopped mid-word, blinking once.

You leaned back slightly in your chair, eyeing him with mild suspicion. “You’re being weird.”

He raised an eyebrow, tilting his head ever so slightly. “Am I?”

“Yes,” you said, pointing a quill at him like an accusation. “You’re being… smiley.”

His lips twitched. “Is that a crime?”

“Not inherently, no,” you said slowly, narrowing your eyes. “But it’s weird on you. Not bad weird. Just…” You trailed off, thinking, trying to place it.

“It’s like uncanny valley. You’re not supposed to not have your usual Sage-of-Truth aura of restrained amusement and long-suffering composure. I’m used to the, you know, you version of gentle condescension.”

“I do not condescend,” he replied mildly, though amusement shimmered just under the surface.

“Not openly,” you shot back.

He looked at you for a long moment, the corner of his mouth pulling just slightly higher.

You swallowed. Then because the thought wouldn’t leave you added, “This doesn’t have anything to do with what happened this morning… does it?”

He blinked. For the briefest second, something flickered behind his eyes. Not guilt. Not surprise.

Just knowing.

But when he spoke again, his voice was as calm and composed as always.

“I am merely glad you’re here,” he said simply.

And though the words were soft, they landed in your chest like a weight not heavy, but grounding.

You didn’t know what to say to that.

So instead, you looked back down at your notes and muttered, “Still weird,” even as your lips betrayed you with the faintest upward curve.

But your heart was still unsteady.

Because something had changed. And you didn’t know what it meant yet. You didn’t look back down at your notes.

You couldn’t.

Not when he said it like that so simple, so casual, so infuriatingly sincere. Like it was just a fact, no different than a rune structure or elemental law. “I am merely glad you’re here.”

Your gaze snapped back up to him.

And you stared.

Hard.

Not in a confrontational way, but like someone trying to squint through fog to see if there was something hidden in the distance. Your brow furrowed.

You tilted your head slightly, as if changing the angle would shift the meaning of his words. As if there had to be more.

Because it didn’t make sense.

Not the way he said it. Not the quiet warmth that lingered in the room long after the words had left his mouth. Not the way he was looking at you now hands folded, posture relaxed, absolutely radiating smug satisfaction.

“What?” you asked, suspiciously.

He blinked once, slowly, like a cat basking in the sunlight.

“Nothing,” he said smoothly, though his tone was all too pleased.

“No,” you said, pointing at him again. “Don’t do that. Don’t look all…” You gestured vaguely at his entire face. “Like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you know something I don’t.”

He tilted his head ever so slightly. “That’s hardly new.”

You scowled. “Okay, yes, but you’re enjoying it.”

A beat passed.

His lips curled not into a smirk, not into his usual amused half-smile, but into something far too pleased. Like he’d just won a debate you hadn’t realized you were having.

“I often enjoy our conversations,” he said.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Isn’t it?”

You squinted harder, trying to read him, really read him, but it was like trying to make sense of constellations in a storm. There was something there, you just couldn’t see it clearly enough to understand.

Still, he said nothing else. Didn’t explain. Didn’t elaborate. Just sat there, utterly composed, like a scholar content with a theory they’d already proven.

And he looked so pleased with himself.

You exhaled slowly, dragging your hand down your face in mild defeat. “You’re going to be like this the whole session, aren’t you?”

“That depends,” he replied with maddening grace. “Will you be staring at me the whole time?”

Your eyes widened.

He smiled again barely but it was there.

Unapologetic. Warm. And completely unreadable. It’s as though he lets you peer through the cracked window, enough to let the breeze in but keep animals out.

You turned back to your notes, muttering under your breath.

“Unbelievable.”

But your heart was doing strange things again. And this time, it had nothing to do with anxiety. You stared at your notes, though you weren’t really seeing them. The glyphs blurred together, your own handwriting a tangle of half-sentences and frantic loops, but none of it mattered right now not when you could still feel his smile.

That same quiet smile that hadn’t left since you stepped into the room.

It was throwing you off.

He was always composed, always kind in his own exacting way, but today… he was soft. And warm. And pleased. Like someone who knew something you didn’t. And worse he clearly wasn’t going to just say it.

You tapped your quill once against the page.

Then again.

And then, finally because the curiosity was gnawing at you and pretending it wasn’t wouldn’t help. You turned to him fully and asked, earnestly

“Alright… what is it?”

He glanced up from the diagram he was annotating, brows raised ever so slightly. “Pardon?”

You squinted at him, the corner of your mouth twitching. “What’s got you in such a good mood today? You’re being way too... gentle.”

He said nothing at first. His eyes those mismatched, thoughtful eyes held yours like he was studying something delicate. And then, slowly, he set down his quill and folded his hands atop the parchment, his expression entirely serene.

“Would it surprise you,” he said, “if I said it’s because you’re here?”

You blinked.

Your breath hitched just slightly nothing dramatic, just enough to feel.

“No? But…You’re not usually this” you gestured vaguely in his direction again “smiley.”

“I smile often.”

“Not like this.”

His head tilted just a fraction, as if amused by your insistence. “Should I frown instead? Return to my cold, unreachable demeanor? Speak only in cryptic riddles and ancient quotes?”

You stared at him, deadpan. “That’s literally your default.”

“Ah,” he mused, the corner of his mouth pulling just a little higher. “Then I suppose today must be unusual.”

You huffed, crossing your arms loosely. “Seriously, though. What is it?”

He looked at you for a long moment. Not in silence, but in quiet. The kind that settled rather than filled, as if he were letting the space between words speak for him.

“You came back.”

The words struck so gently that they almost didn’t register at first.

You felt your chest go tight, your shoulders still. Your mind flashed unbidden to the morning to the hallway, the scholars, the way your voice had failed you under the weight of doubt. The way you’d stared at the ground, too afraid to look him in the eye.

You opened your mouth then closed it again.

“I thought,” he said softly, “that you might not.”

You looked down, suddenly unsure of what to do with your hands. “I almost didn’t.”

“I know.”

His voice wasn’t smug now. It wasn’t proud.

It was relieved.

You bit your lip, staring hard at the glyphs again. “You’re still smiling.”

“I know,” he said again. “I think I will be for a while.” You stared at him for a long moment, the weight of his words still echoing softly in your chest. “You came back.” And maybe that alone was enough for him.

But still your thoughts wandered. To the hallway. To the memory of those voices dripping with veiled cruelty. To the way his own voice, when it rose, had trembled not with uncertainty, but with controlled fury.

He hadn’t just reprimanded them. That much you knew.

You remembered the tone. That barely leashed steel, the subtle poison woven into his words. You remembered how they went with him no hesitation, no argument. Just obedient silence and the faint stench of fear trailing after them.

And now he was here. Smiling. Soft. Pleased in a way that made your skin tingle with uncertainty.

You narrowed your eyes, thoughts circling.

“…You’re not just smiling because I came back, are you?”

He raised a brow, entirely unbothered. “Am I not allowed to find joy in your presence?”

“That’s not what I meant.” You leaned forward slightly, suspicious. “You’re looking really… pleased with yourself. Like someone who’s either won a very long argument, or buried a body in the faculty archives.”

He hummed, the sound lilting and amused. “A curious set of options.”

“You know what I mean.”

His eyes gleamed faintly beneath the lamplight mismatched and unreadable. He didn't respond, not right away. Just tilted his head slightly, as if letting your question hang in the air to see what shape it might take.

“I only did what was necessary,” he said, eventually.

That should’ve comforted you. But the way he said it so calm, so sugared with finality it made your spine straighten.

“…Define ‘necessary.’”

He gave you a look so sweet, so gentle, so maddeningly fond, it sent a shiver down your back.

“I don’t think you’d like the answer.”

You squinted at him, unsure if you were more concerned or impressed. “Do I want to know?”

“That,” he said delicately, “is entirely up to you.”

You stared at him for another second, then sat back in your chair with a groan. “You’re impossible.”

“On the contrary,” he replied, taking up his quill again, “I am perfectly within reach.”

You covered your face with both hands, muffling a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a slow descent into madness. “This is definitely worse than burying a body.”

He said nothing.

But the smile that lingered on his face was as soft as the light between stars. You dropped your hands from your face, staring across the desk at him, your curiosity gnawing at your insides like a worm wriggling through parchment.

You tried to focus on your notes tried but your eyes kept darting back to him. To the way he seemed suspiciously at ease. Not smug, not gloating… just quietly content. And that was somehow worse.

The Sage of Truth was never loud about anything. But when he was this calm, this serene?

It meant something had already been decided. Handled.

Concluded.

You narrowed your eyes. “Okay, seriously… what did you do?”

He didn’t look up from the scroll he was annotating. “Nothing that wasn’t already overdue.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He dipped his quill, continued writing. “That is precisely the point.”

You exhaled sharply, shifting in your seat. “Because I keep thinking about it. About what you said. About what I heard. That wasn’t just a lecture in the corridor.”

He glanced up at that briefly but didn’t deny it.

“I know you wouldn’t hurt them,” you added, brow furrowed, “but… what did you do? I’m not asking for every detail, just… something. Anything.”

A beat passed.

Then, slowly, he set the quill down. Folded his hands. Looked at you.

“Let us say,” he began carefully, “that a few names will no longer hold the weight they once did within the Academy.”

Your breath caught.

“You… you didn’t get them expelled, did you?”

“I didn’t need to,” he said, calm as ever. “They merely reminded the Dean why favor and power are not the same thing. The former can be revoked. The latter must be earned.”

You blinked. “So you… humiliated them?”

“I corrected a misperception,” he replied, almost gently. “They believed they could harm something precious to me without consequence. I allowed them the opportunity to discover they were wrong.”

Your heart stuttered at the word precious, but you pushed past it, still too caught on everything else.

“And they just… took it?”

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “No one takes a lesson willingly. But I made sure it would last.”

You stared.

A mix of horror and awe welled in your chest. You weren’t sure if it was good that he didn’t raise his voice. That he didn’t need to.

“What did you say to them?” you whispered.

He leaned forward, just enough for his voice to fall into something softer, something meant only for you.

“I told them they had overstepped,” he said, “and that I was not nearly as patient as they believed me to be. I told them that reputation means very little when standing before truth. And then I reminded them what it feels like to be seen truly seen not as they wish to be, but as they are.”

A long, quiet breath left your lungs.

And then, in a voice just above a whisper, you said, “Stars above.”

He tilted his head. “Do you regret asking?”

You swallowed hard.

“No,” you said. “But I don’t think I’ll ever ask again.”

You reached across the desk before you could think better of it fingers brushing lightly over his hand, just enough to anchor yourself to something real. His skin was warm, steady, the weight of him calm as the stars he so often invoked.

He stilled at the contact, but didn’t pull away.

“I don’t think you’re lying,” you said softly, your voice steadier than you expected. “I really don’t.”

His eyes met yours soft, unreadable, and ever watchful.

“But I do think,” you added gently, “that you’re excluding some truths.”

He was quiet.

Not surprised. Not guilty.

Just… pleased.

His lips curled, faint and indulgent. “Perhaps,” he allowed. “But only because some truths do not need to burden you.”

You stared at him.

He smiled a little more smug and satisfied in a way that was far too elegant to be smug at all.

“I promise,” he said, voice rich with certainty, “it was nothing they didn’t deserve.”

You opened your mouth to respond but didn’t.

Because in that moment, something changed in his gaze. He was still looking at you. Still listening. Still here.

But his thoughts… Drifted.

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺

The room was cold.

Not in temperature, but in tone too clean, too polished, too politically precise. The walls were lined with curated paintings and golden-framed certifications of magical tenure, each artifact placed with such careful intent that they betrayed the very nature of their owner.

Dean White Sorrel Cookie sat behind their curved desk, fingers laced. Silent. Patient.

The three stood across from him, still composed, still dignified, but no longer confident.

Camellia’s jaw was tight. Serrano's hands were folded neatly, like they didn’t dare fidget. Fennel Drizzle was pretending to look at the bookshelf behind him, as though ignoring the moment would excuse it.

Shadow Milk Cookie did not sit. He loomed not by raising his voice, but by refusing to lower it.

“I am not here to protect my name,” he said, each word precise. “I am here to protect what I have chosen to nurture.”

The Dean shifted, speaking only when the silence had stretched thin. “Your words carry weight, Sage. But this… this cannot be handled solely on sentiment.”

“Sentiment?” His voice did not rise. But something underneath it sharpened. “I spoke not from emotion, but from observation. They saw something unguarded and tried to destroy it. They wielded status like a weapon. I am only returning the blow.”

He turned toward the three students, and when his eyes found them, they no longer stood with pride they stood with tension. With fear.

“You call yourselves scholars,” he said, tone like frost beneath velvet. “Yet you act as children. Petty. Jealous. Cruel. You believed I would look the other way because you’ve studied the same texts I once did. Because your mentors once walked beside mine. But I assure you lineage does not impress me. And your names will not shield you from consequence.”

He stepped closer. Calm. Exact. Like every syllable was carved in marble.

“I will not call for your expulsion. I have no need to.”

Camellia’s breath caught.

Serrano’s composure cracked, just barely.

Fennel swallowed hard.

“Because by the time your names are reviewed for research approval, for mentorship under any tenured scholar they will remember this. Every conversation, every panel, every recommendation… will be colored by what you’ve done.”

He turned to the Dean. “That is all I request.”

The Dean said nothing at first. Then nodded slowly. “Noted.”

Shadow Milk Cookie bowed just slightly. Not in deference, but closure.

And when he left the room, not one of them dared look him in the eye.

He hadn’t spoken for a while.

He was still holding your hand, his thumb gently brushing along the ridge of your knuckles in an absentminded motion. Present. Thoughtful.

But his expression had gone distant like he’d wandered somewhere, just for a moment, to remember something that didn’t belong to this space.

Then his eyes returned to you clear again, anchored in now.

You tilted your head slightly. “You drifted.”

He hummed. “Only for a moment.”

You squeezed his hand lightly. “Was it one of the truths you didn’t want to tell me?”

He smiled again sweet, unreadable, still so pleased with himself.

“I think,” he murmured, “you’d rather not know.”

You opened your mouth then hesitated.

And for now, just for now…You let it go.

Because some truths, even from him, could wait. The warmth of his hand lingered against yours, steady and deliberate, but his gaze was no longer distant. And when he finally spoke, his voice had shifted.

It was no longer teasing. No longer full of quiet triumph or veiled mischief. It was something slower. Heavier.

“I was… angry.”

The words settled between you like soft thunder.

You blinked, caught off guard by the confession. He rarely if ever admitted to emotion so plainly. Not without cloaking it in metaphor, or in distant philosophical tangents. But not this time.

“I saw your face,” he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “After they said what they did. That expression… you looked like someone who had forgotten how to stand tall.”

You looked down, eyes burning at the edges. You hadn’t realized he’d seen it so clearly.

“I would’ve burned them,” he said, voice still low but sharp with restraint. “In another life, in another time, I would have used every tool at my disposal to dismantle the pedestal they so proudly stood upon.”

You looked up sharply, eyes wide. He met your gaze calmly.

“But I didn’t,” he went on, gentler now. “Because I must choose logic. I must remember who I am not only for the Academy’s sake, but for yours. Because I will not shame you by being reckless in your name.”

Your breath caught.

He took a moment. Looked at you like you were something he was still learning to fully understand. Still memorizing, as if the shape of your heart was something he needed time to master.

“I hope,” he said carefully, “I have made it clear how much I care for you. That it is not obligation. It is not pity. It is not anything so hollow.”

You stared at him, your heart thudding so loudly it felt like it echoed in your ears.

“I heard what they said to you,” he added softly. “Every word. And I hated myself for not intervening sooner. For not standing between them and you before their poison reached you.”

He reached up, thumb brushing the back of your hand.

“But I was too late.”

You didn’t mean to cry.

Not again.

But the tears welled anyway slow, silent, and sharp as glass. His words didn’t hurt. That wasn’t what made them fall.

It was because someone saw it all. Not just your struggle. Not just your effort. But the weight of what it cost to carry it. And he cared. Enough to be angry. Enough to show it, even when it fractured the mask he wore so well.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to”

“Don’t,” he said gently. “Don’t apologize.”

You lowered your head, shoulders trembling.

And then, in the only way he seemed to know how, he comforted you.

Not with grand gestures.

Not with poetic promises or borrowed stardust.

But by reaching forward quietly and sliding your chair next to his. He turned his palm up, letting yours rest in it fully. No tension. No demand. Just presence.

“I cannot fix what was said,” he murmured. “But I will make sure they never dare again.”

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak.

He tilted his head. “And if you ever forget how to stand tall,” he added softly, “then I will stand with you, until you remember.”

The tears fell harder at that but you didn’t hide them this time.

Because you were already seen.

And you were already held.

You let your weight shift slowly, carefully, until your shoulder rested against his. He didn’t move away.

If anything, he adjusted just slightly so your head could lean more comfortably against the layered fabric of his clothes. Warmth radiated from him, steady and unshifting, like the calm pulse of a lantern flame untouched by wind.

You closed your eyes.

There were no more tears left, but your body still trembled with the exhaustion of having held everything in for so long. Here, against him, it felt easier. Softer. Like the ache in your chest could fade if you were quiet enough, still enough, close enough.

You breathed in, slow. His scent, as always, was something unplaceable: clean parchment, moonlight through old stone, and the faintest trace of starlit citrus. You could never quite describe it. But it was his.

“…Hey,” you mumbled, voice sleep-heavy, barely more than a whisper.

He hummed in response, low and quiet.

“Would you… just this once…” your words slowed, the question already beginning to blur, “...would you become a woman?”

There was a pause. You didn’t open your eyes. Your cheek was too warm against his shoulder, and it was nice there. Too nice.

“I just think it’d be cool,” you continued, more dream than thought now. “Like. What would you look like? Would your voice still sound like truth but, like, softer truth? Maybe lilac truth. Or… velvet truth? That sounds fake. But like… could you do long hair? I feel like you’d be elegant. You’d be like... beautiful but terrifying. Like a goddess who lectures you for mispronouncing runes…”

He said nothing.

“Or wait. What if you were really short. No taller? Would you still wear robes? Oh no, wait, wait what if it was, like, a cloak but with... with earrings. You seem like you’d wear earrings. Ones with little enchanted…”

Your voice trailed off, your sentence never quite finished.

And he watched as your breathing began to slow, your lashes still damp but fluttering just once before stilling.

You were asleep.

Not gently, not gracefully. You had slipped into slumber like a feather dropping through water slow, unsteady, but sure.

Of course, what you didn’t know, what you wouldn’t feel was the faint shimmer of light that passed beneath your cheek, where it pressed against his shoulder. A near-invisible pulse of white magic, drawn with care and cast with precision. Not coercion, never that. Just comfort.

A spell laced with peace.

A spell that whispered you are safe.

He let you rest.

Your questions faded into the hush of the room, unanswered but heard.

And even though he had said not today, his gaze lingered on the crown of your head, and something fond something almost wistful glimmered quietly in his eyes.

He would not show you now.

But perhaps… one day.

When the weight in your heart was lighter. When your hands no longer trembled. When you no longer asked as a way to stay close.

Then maybe he would become the truth you imagined. Just once. The dream took shape like mist weaving into something solid, slow, seamless, sweet.

You didn’t realize you were dreaming at first. It felt real. As real as sunlight on your face and the weight of a leather-bound tome in your arms.

You stood at the Sage of Truth’s side as his equal. Your name etched beneath his on the grand research plaque that glowed in opalescent script above your shared workspace. The Spire of Knowledge, as you imagined it, was impossibly tall, stretching far past the clouds, with halls of crystal and gold, runes etched into every surface, the air humming with possibility.

The sky outside its arched windows shifted with the stars. Time had no meaning here. Only discovery did.

You wore robes now long, refined, detailed with the colors you always liked best, enchanted thread glinting at the seams. A scholar’s seal marked your shoulder. Your seal.

And he was beside you, pouring over texts you had helped uncover, his hands ink-stained from hours of study.

He looked at you not like a student. Not like someone learning. But as a partner. A companion. A mind that walked beside his. And you turned to him, heart full of a strange, wild joy, and said

“I found it.”

He looked up. “Found what?”

You grinned. “A way to stay.”

His eyes narrowed faintly, curious, gentle. “Stay?”

You nodded, breath catching. “To be immortal. With you. I found a way.”

The light behind him flickered like starlight. “Truly?”

“Yes,” you whispered. “I’ll never have to leave. Not even time can take me from you now.”

And in your dream, he smiled radiantly, impossibly full of pride and wonder and warmth. His hands reached for yours, steady and sure.

“Then we will have forever,” he said, voice echoing like music, like truth made whole.

Your friends were there too, in the background Chai Latte spinning through the archives, teasing you about proper citation formatting, Hazelnut Biscotti muttering over a spell scroll that wouldn’t align, Earl Grey calmly sipping tea while writing an unnecessarily dramatic thesis title.

And everything was perfect.

There was no fear. No doubt. Only happiness, and the feeling of belonging so deeply that it left no room for insecurity.

Forever was yours.

Until-

A gentle touch on your shoulder, warm and grounding, stirred the edges of that perfect vision.

“…Time to wake, little star.”

You stirred, breath catching as the light of the Spire faded.

And when your eyes opened, you were no longer in robes of woven light, no longer immortal or infinite. You were in his office, head still resting against his shoulder, the soft paper scent of his robes filling your senses.

His voice was quiet, close. “Dinner. Your friends will be waiting.”

The dream clung to your skin like dew, sweet and slow to vanish.

You looked up at him, and he was watching you with a rare tenderness one that said he knew. Maybe not the contents of your dream, but the peace it had brought you.

You sat up slowly, blinking away sleep, your heart still full of stars.

“…Thanks,” you murmured, voice hoarse but genuine.

He gave the faintest nod. “You looked content.”

You didn’t say what you’d seen.

But a small part of you still held onto the dream tucked away behind your ribs like a secret.

Because even if it wasn’t real…

It could be.

You nodded slowly, the last traces of the dream still curling gently at the corners of your mind like lingering starlight. Your voice came out soft, still touched with sleep.

“It was a good dream.”

His gaze didn’t shift, but something in the air around him seemed to pause like he was giving space to the words, honoring them in his quiet way.

You offered a faint, sheepish smile as you sat up fully, stretching the stiffness from your shoulders. “As much as I want to stay asleep forever,” you murmured, “I can’t risk Chai Latte launching a search party.”

That earned you the smallest tilt of his head, the barest amusement rising in his eyes. “You believe she would?”

You gave him a knowing look. “She once tracked me across three buildings and two restricted stairwells when I missed one dinner. She would not hesitate.”

“Formidable,” he mused.

“She would drag Earl Grey and Hazelnut into it, too,” you said, rubbing your eyes. “Hazelnut would complain the whole way, and Earl would pretend he wasn’t involved while definitely being involved.”

He said nothing, but the curve at the corner of his mouth deepened, pleased, not amused. Like seeing you like this tired but smiling was its own reward.

You gathered your things slowly, lingering a beat longer than you needed to. The dream still hummed somewhere under your skin, gentle and golden.

He stood as you did, ever the scholar, but his movements slower now. Intentional.

As you reached the door, you paused and glanced back at him over your shoulder. “Thanks… for letting me rest.”

“Always.”

And with that, you stepped into the hall, the warm light of evening spilling across the stone, ready to return to the friends who would be waiting… and the quiet dream you’d carry, still nestled somewhere in your chest, just for you.

It was well into dinner by the time Chai Latte Cookie finally dropped the question right in the middle of you recounting a story about your nap-turned-fake-shapeshifting-plea with the Sage.

You had been laughing truly laughing for the first time since this morning. The soft clinking of utensils, the steady buzz of the dining hall, the flicker of enchanted lanterns warming the air around your small table… for a moment, everything felt light again.

And then Chai leaned forward, lowering her voice but not her intensity.

“Okay, but what happened today?”

You blinked, the shift in tone pulling you out of your haze.

Chai glanced around to make sure no one was listening too closely then looked directly at you. “I heard something happened earlier. Something big.”

Your breath caught just slightly but before you could respond, she barreled on.

“I wasn’t going to say anything at first, but… people are talking. Like, serious whispers going around. Stuff about the Sage. Something he said in the halls? I don’t even know if I trust the sources, but apparently, it was loud.”

Hazelnut Biscotti raised a brow. “The Sage? Loud?”

“That’s what makes it so unbelievable!” Chai hissed. “You know how he never raises his voice? Well, someone said they were in the stairwell above the Scholar’s Wing and they heard him say something that made their knees go weak. Like, not even magical, just pure ‘I-am-a-force-of-the-cosmos’ kind of power.”

Earl Grey glanced up from his plate, utterly composed. “I heard something too. Supposedly, he told them something like ‘truth does not tremble beneath your legacy.’”

Hazelnut let out a low whistle. “If he did say that, I kind of want it printed on a banner.”

“I know, right?” Chai whispered excitedly. “And another person swears and I mean swears they saw him looking furious. Like, visibly furious. Not yelling. Just… cold. Eyes narrowed, mouth tight. Like he was disappointed on a level that could shift tectonic plates.”

Earl Grey added with a slight nod, “There’s a rumor that he made them apologize to the Dean personally. Not just in writing. In person.”

Chai’s eyes widened. “See, that’s what makes me think something really happened. I’ve never even seen him speak to someone like Camellia Pith Cookie, let alone get involved in whatever drama those three pull. And if he stepped in? It must’ve been serious.”

You stared at your food, not touching it, your fingers tightening ever so slightly around your fork.

“What did they do?” Chai asked suddenly, turning to you. “Do you know? Because I have no idea. No one does. The rumors are all about him, but nobody knows what they did. Not a word of it.”

You hesitated.

Her voice softened. “They didn’t do something to you… did they?”

You shook your head, too quickly. “No. I mean I don’t think so.”

Which wasn’t exactly a lie. You weren’t ready to say what happened. Not yet.

Chai didn’t press, but she still looked deeply curious. “It just… it’s so weird. No one’s defending them. Even the Scholars’ Circle’s being quiet. It’s like everyone’s too scared to ask.”

Earl Grey tilted his head. “Perhaps we should be,” he said plainly. “Whatever they did, it earned something most scholars never see the Sage of Truth setting aside diplomacy.”

Hazelnut Biscotti, who had been silent until now, crossed his arms. “Look, I’m not one to gossip. And I don’t like wishing ill on anyone.”

You glanced at him, grateful for his usual steadiness.

“But after what they’ve said to you before,” he continued deliberately avoiding specifics, “they probably deserved it.”

Chai nodded solemnly. “Absolutely.”

She leaned her chin on her hand, looking thoughtful. “Still… I want to know. I need to know what they did. Someone has to find out. They must’ve done something really awful. That’s the only reason I can think of that would make him” she waved her hand in the air dramatically “unleash cosmic disappointment.”

You forced a small smile, heart still tender, mind still echoing with the memory of him saying “I hated myself for not arriving sooner.”

If only they knew.

But for now… you let them theorize. And you said nothing.

The theories began flying faster than spoons scraping empty dessert bowls.

Chai Latte Cookie leaned forward over the table, hands animated as she recounted every dramatic line she’d collected like shiny gems in the past few hours. “Okay so someone definitely heard him say, ‘You are not worthy of the legacy you inherited.’ Isn’t that the coldest thing you’ve ever heard?”

Earl Grey Cookie nodded, adjusting his cuffs calmly. “It’s circulating in the Scholar’s Wing. There’s also that other one ‘I do not suffer liars, and I do not suffer fools.’ Apparently, someone dropped their satchel when he said it.”

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie frowned thoughtfully. “I heard something too, walking past the eastern study corridor. Didn’t catch the whole thing, but it was quiet. Too quiet. Like… unnatural. Everyone said it felt like the air got heavier. You could hear a pin drop.”

Chai gasped. “That’s what Meringue Whip said! That it felt like the magic around him paused. Like it was listening. Like even the runes on the walls were scared.”

Earl Grey folded his hands with precise grace. “It’s rare. But I’ve seen it once before, during a symposium when someone tried to publicly challenge one of his older texts. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t move. He just… looked at them. And that look was enough to make the entire room fall silent.”

“That’s exactly what people are saying,” Chai said, voice breathless. “He didn’t yell. He didn’t need to. He just… stood there. And spoke so calmly.”

Hazelnut added, “Someone said it wasn’t even what he said it was how he said it. Like it wasn’t anger. It was disappointment. The kind that makes your bones rattle.”

You sat silently, listening to all of it, every whispered secondhand quote and magical theory spun around your quiet presence.

“Anyway,” Chai continued, visibly buzzing with energy, “some people think they tampered with research. Others say they stole theory work from someone else. Someone even said they misrepresented their citation matrix in a journal draft.”

“They’d be expelled for that,” Earl Grey noted.

“Exactly,” Chai said, eyes gleaming. “But none of that’s been confirmed.”

Hazelnut shrugged. “They’ve been too quiet. Like, eerily quiet. For people that loud? That’s never a good sign.”

Chai folded her arms on the table, still glancing between you and the others. “Whatever they did… it must’ve been horrible. Something really personal. Because I’ve never heard of the Sage of Truth being like that. Ever.”

There was a silence, all three of them turning over their own theories, the last echoes of his supposed words still hanging in the air between them.

You poked at your food, quiet but listening, heart a little heavier despite the warm hum of voices around you.

They didn’t know the truth.

They didn’t know it had been about you.

And still, a small, stubborn part of you clung to the dream from earlier where you were beside him in the Spire, where everything was safe and forever and whole.

You swallowed gently and said nothing.

Because they might never guess. And a part of you… wasn’t ready for them to.

You felt the weight of their speculation pressing closer to each whispered rumor, each lingering gaze pulling the truth closer to the surface. Your fingers tensed slightly around your fork, your throat tightening in that telltale way it did whenever something felt too close.

So you did what you always did when things turned too sharp, too serious.

You pivoted.

“He was really happy this afternoon, though,” you said suddenly, lifting your gaze with practiced brightness, your tone light and easy. “Like, weirdly happy.”

Chai blinked at the change in direction. “Wait what?”

You shrugged, stabbing a piece of fruit with your fork. “Yeah. Just… smiling. A lot. Way more than usual.”

Earl Grey tilted his head slightly. “The Sage?”

Hazelnut Biscotti looked skeptical. “You sure it wasn’t an illusion spell?”

You laughed. “No illusion. Trust me. He looked… genuinely happy.”

Chai leaned in again, eyes wide. “Okay, that’s almost creepier than the rumors.”

“I know, right?” you teased. “But in a good way. Like... soft. Like if starlight could give you a blanket and a cup of tea.”

Hazelnut groaned. “Please don’t start romanticizing starlight.”

“But also,” you went on, barely holding back a grin, “you know he can shapeshift?”

That got a pause. All three of them stared at you.

“…What?” Chai asked slowly.

You nodded eagerly, taking full advantage of the sudden attention shift. “Yeah. He totally can. He hasn’t shown me, obviously, but it came up.”

Earl Grey raised a brow. “That… does make sense. The level of magic required would be advanced, but certainly within his range.”

Chai’s mouth dropped open. “Are you kidding me? Why didn’t you lead with that? That’s so cool! He could turn into anyone.”

“I know!” you said, leaning into the energy. “Can you imagine? Just deciding to wake up one day and be, like, three inches taller or have different eyes or oh my stars, what if he gave himself a beauty mark?”

“Why would you want a beauty mark?” Hazelnut asked, baffled.

“I’m just saying! The possibilities!”

Chai rested her chin on her hands, dreamy-eyed now. “He’d be such a beautiful woman, wouldn’t he?”

You waved a hand vaguely. “Longer sparkling hair, silver earrings, a cloak made of light. Something dramatic.”

Earl Grey hummed. “I suppose it would be an ideal tool for blending in… if he ever wanted to not be recognized.”

“Yeah, well,” you muttered, smiling to yourself, “good luck with that. He practically glows.”

The conversation moved on from there, scattering like dandelion fluff caught in the wind. They tossed around ideas of magical disguises and wild illusions, delighting in the absurd, the impossible.

And just like that, the whispers from earlier about cold glares and academic disgrace drifted quietly into the background.

You leaned back in your seat and let yourself breathe.

Not because you’d forgotten.

But because, for now, you'd bought yourself a little more time. You leaned forward again, resting your elbows on the table and clasping your hands like you were about to propose a classified magical expedition.

“Alright,” you said, eyes gleaming with quiet determination. “New mission.”

Hazelnut Biscotti looked up from his drink, already wary. “Oh no.”

Chai Latte leaned in, immediately intrigued. “Yes?”

You grinned. “Help me come up with a convincing, airtight, irrefutable argument like an essay to get the Sage of Truth to shapeshift. Just once.”

Earl Grey blinked slowly. “…You’re seriously making this academic?”

“I am a scholar,” you said, holding back a smile. “And this is a question of both magical theory and practical curiosity. I’m just saying he can shapeshift. I know he can. And I’ve already asked once, but he deflected.”

Chai tapped her fingers excitedly against the table. “You’re right he has long hair already. And that face? Easily elegant in either direction.”

“Exactly!” you pointed at her. “He’d be stunning. But! I’m not trying to flatter him into it. I want to reason with him. Use logic. Like he always does with me.”

Hazelnut frowned. “But… why?”

“Because imagination,” you said, utterly serious, “is not the same thing as reality. And I need to know.”

Chai leaned back dramatically, hands in the air. “Alright. Let’s build the case.”

Earl Grey cleared his throat and steepled his fingers. “Begin with a thesis,” he said flatly. “State your intention and scope. Why you’re requesting this demonstration.”

“Okay,” you nodded, tapping your fork against the edge of your plate like a pen. “How about…”This paper will demonstrate the theoretical and interpersonal significance of voluntary magical shapeshifting as performed by one’s academic mentor.”

“Terrible,” Hazelnut muttered.

Chai beamed. “Perfect.”

“Next,” Earl Grey continued, “you’ll need supporting points. Emphasize magical benefit. Public interest. Scholarly bonding.”

“Also,” Chai chimed in, “the emotional resonance of curiosity fulfilled! The human longing for transformation and self-expression!”

You stared at her. “Did you take a rhetoric course without me?”

She shrugged innocently. “Just a lot of poetry.”

Hazelnut sighed. “You’re all insane. But fine. Say it’s for ‘research purposes.’ That always gets approved.”

You scribbled in your head. “Right. ‘This request is rooted in a desire to better understand the limits of advanced transformation magic through direct observational study.’ That sounds good, right?”

Earl Grey nodded. “Add that you’re in a state of elevated emotional trust, which increases the integrity of the result.”

Chai gasped. “Ohhh, and don’t forget to include seeing is believing.”

You grinned, tapping your temple. “Yes. Empirical verification of theoretical potential.”

Hazelnut shook his head. “Stars above.”

You turned to him with a sweet smile. “Come on, Biscotti. Don’t you want to know what he’d look like?”

He stared at you for a beat. Then looked away, mumbling, “…A little.”

“I knew it!”

Chai laughed, reaching across the table to high-five you. “I can’t believe we’re helping you peer-review an essay on how to beg the sage of truth to be stunning in a different font.”

You smirked. “This is science.”

Earl Grey lifted his teacup. “To academic excellence.”

And somewhere deep in your mind, already, the essay was forming.

You had a goal. You had a thesis. And now, you had witnesses. You stared at Chai Latte Cookie, deadpan. “I wouldn’t say he’s stunning.”

The table went quiet for half a beat.

Then you added dryly, “But… each to their own, I suppose.”

Chai, utterly unbothered, raised an eyebrow and sipped her juice with a knowing smirk. “Oh please. I didn’t say I liked him.”

You blinked. “You literally just helped me draft an argument to get him to shapeshift, in high detail.”

“Exactly,” she said, pointing a finger at you. “Because I, like any educated observer, can appreciate aesthetic excellence.”

Hazelnut Biscotti choked on his drink.

Earl Grey didn’t even look up. “She’s not wrong.”

Chai turned to you again, her voice laced with amusement. “These aren’t new thoughts, you know. Most scholars even the bitter ones agree he’s got that ethereal beauty thing going for him. It’s not about attraction. It’s about… artistic reverence.”

You stared at her.

She smiled sweetly. “Would you look at a stained glass window and call it hot? No. But you can still acknowledge it’s stunning.”

Earl Grey nodded, sipping his tea. “He’s like the embodiment of a forgotten prophecy.”

Hazelnut muttered, “He looks like a secret that has its own moon phase.”

You gaped at him. “You too?”

Hazelnut frowned. “I didn’t say I like him. I said he looks like that. I stand by it.”

“I thought I was the only one going insane,” you muttered.

Chai nudged you. “Oh, sweetheart. You’re not insane. You’re just late to the club.”

You sighed, slouching slightly in your seat. “I hate it here.”

But your smile tugged at the edges of your mouth anyway, helpless beneath the laughter rippling around the table.

Maybe he was a little ethereal. Maybe.

By the time the dinner plates had been cleared and the glow of the lanterns above had shifted into that soft golden hue signaling the late evening study hour, your “essay” had turned into something dangerously close to an actual academic proposal.

A/N HAPPY PRIDE <3

anyways...

Remember to follow and reblog for more bangers 😎😎😎🔥🔥🔥 <<<Previous Next>>>

280 notes · View notes

0zozone · 2 months ago

Text

In the Presence of Truth {"Sage of Truth" (SMC) x Reader} PT 28

<<<Previous Next>>>

Eventually, when your notes had been corrected, your diagrams redrawn, and your mind stretched to capacity, he quietly closed the tome between you.

“You are improving,” he said, voice soft. “Even if you measure your progress only by your questions.”

You glanced at him, lips twitching. “Was that a compliment or a warning?”

He stood, gathering his materials with practiced ease. “It was an observation.”

You stood too, stretching a little, the weight of the session leaving your shoulders with each slow breath.

“Same time next week?” you asked.

He nodded once. “Unless you plan to challenge another academic principle of morality.”

You grinned. “No promises.”

And with that, you stepped out of his office, the quiet click of the door behind you echoing like the closing of a spell.

But instead of heading straight toward the dining hall, where you knew your friends would be waiting, your steps took a familiar turn.

A detour.

It always started this way just a shift in direction, like your feet remembered something before your mind did. Past the outer lecture halls, under ivy-covered arches that led away from the main halls of the Academy, you followed the path until the air began to change. Softer. Cooler. Quieter.

Until it brought you to your favorite place.

The Academy Gardens.

They welcomed you like an old friend, glowing softly in the early evening light. The blossoms swayed with the breeze, catching the faint shimmer of the fading sun as they pulsed with color and warmth. Your feet moved along the winding cobblestone path, passing under the whispering boughs of glowing Willow Trees until you reached your bench the one tucked near the reflecting pool, where the surface of the water mirrored the sky so clearly it felt like falling upward just to look at it.

You sat, slowly.

For a moment, you just breathed. Inhale. Exhale. The scent of jasmine hung in the air, mingling with moss and stone, a perfume more grounding than any potion.

Your mind wandered drifting not to the lecture, nor the tutoring session, but further. Past pages and spellwork. Past theories and footnotes.

To him.

To what he had said. What you had said.

You tilted your head back, staring at the sky mirrored in the still pool at your feet.

He’ll live for centuries.

And you wouldn’t.

Not unless something changed.

The thought arrived uninvited but once it was there, it rooted deep, fast. Like a seed that had been waiting for the right moment.

He will outlive generations. You might be one more name in the long, long list of things he gently lets go.

Your chest tightened.

Unless “Immortality…” you murmured aloud, not quite meaning to.

You toyed with the edge of your notebook, mind racing now. Was it possible? Could someone like you even reach for something like that? Surely it existed arcane preservation, Soul Jam extension, transcendence magic if he had it, then maybe…

Maybe you could find it too.

You’d make sure your friends had it, of course, you thought quickly, irrationally. You’d bring them with you. Chai Latte. Earl Grey. Hazelnut Biscotti. You wouldn’t leave anyone behind.

You stared into the pool, watching the surface ripple as a koi-like shimmer passed beneath.

The world here was still. Ageless. You could almost pretend you had time.

But you knew better.

You stood slowly, brushing off your robes.

The light from the lanterns had shifted dinner hour.

And right on time, your stomach grumbled in quiet protest.

You turned toward the exit, the cool air brushing your skin as you walked back into the evening-lit halls. The chatter of the Academy began to return faint, familiar. You could already hear Chai Latte’s laugh in your head, feel Hazelnut’s casual shoulder bump, see the way Earl Grey would raise a brow and mutter “You’re late.” And still, as you walked toward them, one thought clung to you like the sweet scent of jasmine…There has to be a way.

The dining hall buzzed faintly with the end-of-day chatter. The sun had dipped low behind the towered arches of the Academy, casting amber light through the tall stained glass windows and bathing the room in a warm, lazy glow.

You passed clusters of students still in uniform robes, satchels abandoned on the floor, half-finished plates of enchanted bread and shimmering fruit pushed to the side in favor of late-night gossip and laughter.

Your table your usual one, tucked in the corner beneath the drifting lanterns was already occupied.

Hazelnut Biscotti sat with one leg propped up on the bench beside him, arms crossed, picking at something on his plate without really eating it. Earl Grey leaned forward slightly, nose buried in a thick book, though his eyes flicked up the moment he heard your steps. And Chai Latte-

“There you are,” she said brightly, turning in her seat with a flourish, curls bouncing around her shoulders. “I was beginning to worry the good Sage had whisked you away for some kind of stargazer’s cult initiation.”

You rolled your eyes as you slid into your seat. “It wasn’t that serious.”

“Mm-hm.” Chai Latte leaned her chin into her hand, smiling far too knowingly. “I’m sure the two of you were in deep intellectual discussion for hours. Poor thing. I can’t imagine the strain.”

“I mostly asked him if his clothes are sentient,” you said flatly, reaching for the bread basket.

Hazelnut Biscotti barked out a laugh. “You what?”

Chai gasped, delighted. “Please tell me you did it with a straight face.”

“Of course I did. I even asked if he sleeps in them. He refused to confirm or deny.”

“That’s practically an admission,” Chai said, reaching over to nudge your arm.

Earl Grey didn’t look up from his book, but his tone was dry. “So I take it today’s session was a productive one.”

“Oh, incredibly productive,” you said, tearing off a piece of bread. “He now knows that if he does own secret silk pajamas, I will one day find out.”

Hazelnut shook his head, grinning. “You’re going to be the end of him.”

“I think I already am,” you muttered into your cup.

But then your mind drifted again back to the gardens, the koi, the impossible ache that had bloomed in your chest. You hesitated for only a moment before looking up at your friends.

“Hey… can I ask you something?”

Chai tilted her head immediately. “Of course.”

“Have you ever… thought about immortality?”

That earned a silence not heavy, but thoughtful.

“Like,” you continued before they could say anything, “actually thought about it. Wondered if it was possible. If there was a way. If someone like us could ever… reach it.”

Hazelnut Biscotti leaned back in his seat. “Huh.”

“That’s a leap,” Earl Grey said quietly.

You shrugged. “I was just thinking. It’s not like the Academy doesn’t have secret archives and forbidden texts and Soul Jam lore buried under half the campus.” You weren’t sure about the soul jam bit but surely you couldn’t be too far off.

“Maybe the Spire has something,” Hazelnut offered, tapping his knuckles lightly against the edge of the table. “If anywhere would, it’d be there. We’ve never been, but they say it houses knowledge older than the Academy itself, right?”

“They say it’s less a library and more a being,” Chai added, her voice more curious than teasing now. “You don’t find books. They find you.” You looked at her skeptically and all their words seemed outlandish.

You nodded slowly. “Then maybe… if I made it that far, there’d be something. A way.”

There was another pause.

And then Chai, ever perceptive, leaned forward with a knowing gleam in her eyes. “Is this about him?”

You blinked. She didn’t need to clarify. “I mean, you’ve clearly been thinking about this since you left his office,” she added gently. “I’m not judging. I’m just wondering if maybe… that’s why the idea won’t let you go.”

You stared at your plate. And before you could say anything, Earl Grey closed his book with a soft thump.

“You should be careful,” he said. “That kind of thinking it gets into your dough. Starts out as curiosity. Then it becomes obsession.”

You glanced up. “But,” he added, gaze steady, “if you’re going to do something stupid, we’d rather you not do it alone.”

“Speak for yourself,” Hazelnut muttered. “I’m only going if it’s a cool kind of stupid.”

Chai laughed under her breath, brushing her hair back. “I’m in either way.”

You looked at the three of them your friends, your anchor and for a moment, you didn’t know what to say. But the warmth of their presence, their unwavering closeness, said enough. Even if you did chase something impossible one day…

You wouldn’t be chasing it alone. You picked at the edge of your napkin, thoughts still tangled somewhere between possibility and pure fiction. The Spire. Immortality. A future that reached further than your years were supposed to stretch. It all felt… too large. Too new. And yet

“Wait,” you said, brows furrowing suddenly, “if the Spire was just built this year, how can it already have ancient knowledge? Like, how does something new hold information that’s older than the Academy itself?”

Across the table, Earl Grey didn’t even look up from his bowl of soup. “They’re transferring it.”

You blinked. “Transferring what?”

“The records,” he said, deadpan. “Archives. Living manuscripts. Curated dimensional memory vaults. You know. Knowledge.”

Hazelnut Biscotti raised a brow. “Didn’t they start the move right after Winter Term ended?”

Earl Grey finally looked up. “Probably. Explains why the application process was so specific this year. They needed students who could handle it.”

Chai Latte leaned her cheek against her hand. “Well, I for one am just glad we all got in. I was half-convinced they were going to change their minds at the last second.”

“I still don’t know how I passed the GPA requirement,” Hazelnut muttered. “I thought it was 3.5 minimum?”

“You had exactly a 3.52,” Earl Grey said without missing a beat.

“Okay, rude that you know that.”

You chuckled, but the question still lingered in your mind. “I mean, we’ve never even seen the place. Not really. Just diagrams. Talk. Rumors. And now we’re going to be inside it.”

“They call it the Spire of Knowledge for a reason,” Earl Grey said, returning to his notes. “Even if it’s new, the Spire was built to house everything the Academy couldn’t hold anymore. It’s more than a building. It’s the future of magical research.”

You leaned back in your chair. “There wasn’t even an interview.”

“There didn’t need to be,” he said, tone clipped. “The application requirements were the interview.”

You nodded slowly, recalling the process.

Minimum GPA: 3.5. A completed research project. A faculty letter of recommendation. A 750-word proposal about your research goals and their relevance to magical study. Optional: a portfolio. (You’d submitted yours with fingers crossed, unsure if it had helped or hurt.)

It had all felt so… clinical. Serious. Like being invited into something far bigger than you could name at the time.

Chai broke the brief silence. “So, what are you thinking, exactly?” she asked you, eyes gentle but curious. “About immortality, I mean.”

You shrugged, a little unsure now. “Just… wondering. If there’s anywhere in the world that might have the answer, I figured it’d be the Spire.”

Hazelnut leaned forward, chin in his hand. “Well, if you do find anything, just don’t go turning into some all-knowing floating orb of light and forget about us.”

“No promises,” you said, cracking a smile.

Earl Grey didn’t look up again, but his voice was steady. “Just make sure you read the fine print before you start rewriting your lifespan.”

You looked around the table Chai’s soft smile, Hazelnut’s half-teasing squint, Earl Grey’s deadpan calm and felt something settle in your chest. The future was big. Unknown. Brimming with magic that could unmake the rules you’d grown up believing in. But you weren’t going in alone. And that made all the difference.

You toyed with the edge of your fork, watching it catch the glow of the enchanted lanterns overhead. The warm clatter of the dining hall filled the air distant laughter, the scrape of plates, the low thrum of magic woven into the stones beneath your feet. Around you, your friends had returned to their food, their banter, their usual comfort.

But the thought hadn’t left you.

And finally, you spoke.

“…The reason I really brought it up,” you said, voice a little softer now, “is because I’ve been thinking about him.”

That got their attention. Chai Latte looked up first, gently setting her cup down. Earl Grey paused mid-sentence as he reached for his book again. Hazelnut leaned in slightly, elbows on the table.

You exhaled. “Shadow Milk. I just… if I did find a way-if immortality was even possible-I’d want to bring you all with me, of course. But the truth is, he’s already there.” Your words were jumbled, you weren’t even sure you knew what you were trying to convey.

They said nothing, waiting.

You gave a crooked smile, a poor disguise for the ache in your chest. “He’s… already immortal. Or close to it. No one says it directly, but we all know what the Soul Jams do. There’s only five Cookies who have them, and none of them have aged a single crumb.”

You glanced down, fiddling with a corner of your napkin. “So if I don’t figure something out, I’m going to grow old. I’ll wrinkle and crack and slow down, and one day I’ll be” you gave a soft laugh, shaking your head, “a crumbly little grandma, and he’ll still be sitting there looking like the embodiment of an astral library.”

Hazelnut snorted. You looked up at them with mock gravity. “Can you imagine me as a granny? Bent over a cane, waving at him from across the hall like ‘Sweetie, I packed your books for you.’ Meanwhile, he’s glowing and still giving lectures that bend time.”

Chai burst into laughter, nearly spilling her tea. “You’d have to wear those half-moon spectacles that fall down your nose.”

“And a knitted shawl,” Hazelnut added, grinning. “With constellations stitched in.”

Earl Grey, however, only looked at you for a long moment. “You’re laughing,” he said evenly, “but that hurt.” You blinked. “I can tell,” he added, quieter.

You looked away, smile fading. Chai reached across the table, fingers brushing yours. “It’s okay to think about these things,” she said gently. “To be scared of them.”

You shrugged. “I guess I just wondered… if he ever thought about it too. What it’s like to stay crisp forever. To watch everyone else fade. I mean… do you think that’s a curse?”

Hazelnut leaned back in his chair, letting out a breath. “I think… yeah. Maybe. Imagine watching the world change over and over, knowing you’re still the same. It probably messes with you.”

“But it’s also survival,” Earl Grey said, calm. “There’s power in continuity. In memory. Maybe that’s what he values most preserving what others can’t. Maybe it’s not a curse to him.”

Chai tilted her head. “I don’t think it’s that simple. I think it’s lonely. Even if he doesn’t say it. I mean… when you live that long, how do you not start pulling away from people? How do you keep letting yourself love someone, knowing you’ll outlive them?”

That thought struck deep. You swallowed, staring into your cup. “I wouldn’t want to leave him behind,” you admitted. “Not if I could help it.”

They were quiet. Then Chai smiled, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “If anyone could find a way to stay,” she said, “it’d be you.”

Hazelnut nodded. “And if you don’t? You’ll haunt him. Obviously.” You laughed, finally.

Earl Grey shook his head. “Just make sure your ghost doesn’t leave footnotes on his research.”

“I make no promises.” And the ache in your chest though still there felt just a little lighter.

Because no matter how long your path stretched ahead…You knew who would be walking beside you.

Dinner ended the way it always should with laughter.

Hazelnut nearly choked on his drink trying to imitate your future grandma voice. Chai Latte had to wipe tears from her eyes. Earl Grey, in a rare moment of comedic timing, deadpanned that even as a ghost you’d still find a way to interrupt lectures with questions like “Do shadows dream?”

The table glowed with warmth. The kind that wasn’t enchanted, that couldn’t be conjured with a flick of the wrist or traced in a runic circle. It was friendship, plain and simple. Something sacred in its own right.

By the time you stood, the dining hall had emptied halfway. Chai squeezed your hand before parting ways, something unspoken in her eyes that lingered longer than her touch. Hazelnut gave you a lazy wave, already deep in some playful argument with Earl Grey about whose dorm would survive better if they both accidentally summoned a fire elemental. Their voices faded behind you as you stepped out into the evening.

The air was cool now, the stone beneath your shoes holding the last of the sun’s warmth.

Your path back to the dormitory was familiar past the arched corridors, the quiet halls that shimmered faintly under floating lanterns. But tonight, it felt longer. Like the walk had stretched to give your thoughts room to wander.

You let them.

You didn’t even try to stop them.

You hadn’t really processed everything, had you?

The Sage of Truth, Shadow Milk Cookie.He’d touched your hand. He'd looked at you like you mattered. Like you weren’t just a struggling student fumbling your way through spell theory, but someone whose questions even the absurd ones deserved answers.

And now… what were you to him?

Something more than a pupil. Something not yet defined. A partner.

And the Spire.

The future. The unknown. A towering monument of knowledge where answers might live but also where you might lose yourself trying to find them. Immortality. Longevity. The ache that had grown in your chest when you thought of outliving your friends or worse, being outlived.

You reached the upper garden path near the dorms, where the moonlight silvered the tops of the old ivy walls. You paused there, letting your fingers brush the stone as if it could steady you.

Had you always thought this much?

You weren’t sure.

But lately, the thoughts didn’t wait to be invited. They spilled in without knocking, pooling in your chest with questions that no one could answer. Not even him. Not yet.

You exhaled.

It wasn’t bad, this feeling. It was just big. Bigger than you. Bigger than tonight.

Maybe you’d find answers in the Spire. Maybe you’d find more questions. Maybe, just maybe, you’d find yourself.

For now, you walked on, the night quiet and thoughtful around you.

Your dorm light waited ahead, a warm little glow against the dark.

You weren’t ready to sleep.

But you were ready to rest. The next morning arrived too fast, too loud, and entirely unforgiving.

You bolted upright in bed, a jolt of panic racing down your spine before your eyes had even fully adjusted to the sunlight streaming through your dorm window. The soft chime of the hourglass bell echoed faintly across campus late. You were late.

No breakfast. No time.

You scrambled into your uniform robes, snatched your satchel…still half-open from the night before, and flung yourself out the door with one shoe barely secured and ink-stained fingers tugging at a lopsided collar.

The halls were already thinning of students, most having long since settled into their morning lecture seats. You practically flew down the familiar marble staircases, through ivy-wrapped arches, past enchanted lampposts dimming themselves in the morning light, until at last you skidded into the lecture hall just as Professor Almond Custard Cookie cleared his throat at the front.

You tried to look casual as you slipped into your seat.

You failed.

“There you are,” Chai Latte whispered fiercely, her eyes wide as she leaned toward you. “We were literally about to send a search party.”

Hazelnut Biscotti, one row behind, leaned forward. “You missed the honey-drizzled waffles.”

You blinked, still catching your breath. “Wait. What?”

“They made the good kind,” Chai hissed, feigning offense. “You know the ones with the crispy edges and the golden sugar glaze? They were warm. I saved you one but Earl Grey ate it when you didn’t show.”

Earl Grey didn’t look up from his notes. “I assumed they wouldn’t want cold waffles.”

You slumped into your seat, betrayed. “I risked a leg and a lung getting here and this is the thanks I get?”

“You’re lucky Almond Custard didn’t see you come in,” Chai murmured, turning her attention back toward the front as the professor’s voice grew louder.

Professor Almond Custard Cookie was already deep into his lecture, his tone perfectly dry as he scribbled out a multi-step magical theorem across the floating chalkboard with the efficiency of a spell-crafter who hadn’t missed a night’s sleep in decades.

You tried to focus. You really did.

But between your empty stomach, the ache in your legs from running across campus, and the words from last night still echoing softly in the back of your mind, your thoughts felt foggy. Untethered. Everything was moving faster now your life, your questions, the strange ache blooming deeper the more you thought about him.

But for now, all you could do was open your notebook, grip your quill, and try to keep up.

After all…The day had only just begun. You’d only just caught up in your notes inking in the final stabilizing glyph to Professor Almond Custard’s sprawling chalkwork when he turned from the board and, in a tone as casual as a sip of tea, called your name.

It happened so suddenly that you barely had time to react. The sound of your name, spoken in front of the whole lecture hall for the first time in ages, struck you like a startled spell misfiring in your hands.

You froze. Your quill paused mid-stroke. Dozens of eyes shifted your way.

The old reflex stirred panic rising in your chest, a rapid-fire response honed by weeks, months, of getting it wrong or not knowing what to say at all. That familiar hollow flinch where your thoughts would scatter like frightened paper birds.

But this time, it was different. There was no blank page in your mind. No rising heat of shame, no helpless grasping for something anything to say.

Just anxiety.

Not of the answer…But of the speaking.

You had the answer.

Your voice came out softer than you'd intended, but steady. “The mana instability resolves at the third iteration, right before the tether can invert. So a null-sigil binding wouldn’t be necessary unless the cycle breaks before calibration.”

A pause.

Professor Almond Custard’s brows lifted slightly in surprise and then he smiled.

“Precisely,” he said, nodding. “A well-crafted answer. Thank you.”

You blinked.

That was it?

No hesitation? No stammered “maybe” or “sorry that’s wrong”?

Just… thank you?

The professor turned back to the board without fanfare, continuing the lecture as if nothing monumental had happened like the stars hadn’t just shifted quietly inside your chest.

Around you, no one gasped. No one stared. Chai Latte gave you a small, proud nudge with her elbow, and Hazelnut made a vague thumbs-up gesture over his shoulder without turning around. Earl Grey didn't move, but the corners of his mouth twitched up almost imperceptibly.

And just like that, the world kept turning.

The rest of the lecture passed in relative ease a review session, mostly, looping through older material and theoretical applications you’d struggled with only weeks ago. But today, it wasn’t foreign. It didn’t feel like swimming upstream through runes and terminology.

Today, it made sense.

Not perfectly, not effortlessly but enough.

You could follow the rhythm. You could answer the questions in your head before the professor reached the board.

Tutoring really had helped. Not just the hours spent staring at diagrams or arguing over logic. But the presence. The patience. The truth spoken not just in words, but in how he’d looked at you and said, you are not a burden.

You sat a little straighter in your seat.

Maybe you weren’t all the way there yet.

But today, for the first time in a long time, you felt like you were close.

The lecture let out into a slow rush of noise, students shuffling their notes, voices rising in lazy conversation, robes brushing past each other as they exited the hall and filtered into the late morning light.

Your friends were already gathering their things.

“We’ll catch you later?” Chai asked, brushing her curls behind her ear.

“Yeah,” you nodded, slinging your satchel over your shoulder. “I’ll probably study for a bit before lunch.”

Hazelnut clapped you on the shoulder. “Don’t skip eating this time. You already missed the waffles. I’m still mourning that.”

“We have lab reports to finish,” Earl Grey added with a glance to Chai and Hazelnut. “But if you’re not at lunch, we will come looking for you again.”

You gave a small smile. “Got it.”

With a parting wave, they vanished down the east wing corridor, voices fading with each step.

You lingered a moment longer in the sunlit hall, the air still holding the soft hum of residual enchantments from the morning lecture. Then, slowly, you turned and wandered not toward the library, not toward your usual corners of study, but somewhere quieter. Somewhere you could be alone with your thoughts.

But peace never lasted long in a place like this.

You felt it before you saw them.

A flicker of tension in your shoulders. The faint shift in the air. And then “Ah,” came a smooth, familiar voice. “There you are.”

Your breath caught.

You turned sharply, already knowing who it would be.

Camellia Pith Cookie stood at the head of the trio, her pale robes immaculate, golden pins catching the light like carefully placed constellations. Her smile was soft too soft. Serrano Bark Cookie lingered beside her, arms folded, expression unreadable. And Fennel Drizzle Cookie brought up the rear, a casual lean in his posture and something unreadably smug in his eyes.

“Relax,” Camellia said smoothly, raising both hands in a show of peace. “We’re not here to cause trouble.”

“That’s new,” you said flatly before you could stop yourself.

She only laughed, the sound light and practiced. “Fair. But no, really. We’re just here to talk.”

“And,” Fennel added, “maybe to clear up some… misunderstanding.”

You eyed them warily. You weren’t near the Scholar’s Wing. You had gone out of your way not to be near the Scholar’s Wing. So why were they here?

Serrano took a step forward, their tone even. “You’ve been quiet since last time. We figured we owed you some civility.”

You blinked. That was… unexpected.

“I’m still waiting for the catch,” you muttered.

Camellia gave a graceful shrug. “No catch. Just a conversation. And maybe… an opportunity.”

There it is.

You narrowed your eyes. “What kind of opportunity?”

She smiled again. “You’re close to the Sage of Truth. We’re not denying that. But surely you’ve noticed the burden that comes with that. The pressure. The scrutiny.”

“Which we understand,” Serrano cut in. “More than most.”

“And,” Fennel added, “it’s not wrong to wonder why someone so important spends so much time on someone who-”

“Says the wrong thing in front of the wrong ears,” you interrupted, your voice suddenly sharper. “I remember what you said. I remember all of it.”

They paused, briefly. Camellia’s expression didn’t shift.

“That’s fair,” she said finally, her tone still graceful. “We may have been… harsher than we intended. But things get said when reputations are on the line.”

“Reputations,” you repeated, incredulous.

“Everyone wants a future here,” Serrano said coolly. “We’re not your enemies. But it’s in your interest to understand the game being played. The Sage isn’t just a person he’s a position. A power. And power is watched.”

You stared at them for a long moment, letting the silence stretch between you.

Then you asked, voice even “…What do you want from me?”

For the first time, they didn’t immediately answer.

Fennel shrugged. “Nothing concrete.”

Camellia tilted her head. “Yet.”

And Serrano, eyes unreadable, added quietly, “We just want to understand where you stand.”

You felt your jaw tighten.

Because underneath their civility under the carefully chosen words and the softened smiles you could feel it.

They weren’t here for kindness.

They were here for control. For information. For leverage.

And you weren’t sure yet which one they wanted most. You should’ve walked away.

You knew you should’ve. Every instinct in your body was urging you to turn on your heel, to disappear down the corridor before they could get another word in. But instead, you stayed rooted to the spot, your fingers curling a little tighter around the strap of your satchel as your stomach gave a slow, uneasy twist.

You looked at Serrano, your voice quiet but not weak.

“…What do you mean,” you asked, “by where I stand?”

They met your gaze evenly. Not cruelly. Not kindly. Just… calculated.

“Exactly what it sounds like,” they said. “You’ve placed yourself close to the Sage intentionally or not. That kind of proximity doesn’t go unnoticed.”

You frowned. “I didn’t ‘place myself’ anywhere.”

Serrano’s lips twitched, just slightly. “You didn’t have to. He brought you in. Which means you have something the rest of us don’t.”

“Or he just… believes in me,” you said, trying to sound steadier than you felt.

“Maybe,” they allowed. “Or maybe you’re a piece on the board, and you don’t even realize it.”

That struck something in you, a cold ripple of doubt laced beneath your ribs.

Camellia’s voice cut in, silky smooth. “We’re not accusing you of anything. But when someone becomes relevant in a place like this, it’s wise to be aware of the ripples they’re making.”

Fennel added lazily, “People talk. People watch. So we’re just… wondering where your allegiance lies. Is it personal? Strategic? Or are you just playing it day by day and hoping no one notices how high you’ve climbed?”

You stared at them.

And for a moment, you didn’t know what to say.

Not because you believed them. Not really. But because part of you had wondered the same thing.

Hadn’t you?

How long before people started asking why you were chosen?

Why you were worth the Sage’s time?

You swallowed, pulse thudding in your ears.

“…I don’t owe you an answer,” you said finally, your voice low.

“No,” Serrano agreed, tone infuriatingly gentle. “But one way or another, you’ll give one. Even silence says something.”

You didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Just let the chill of their words settle around you like fog.

They weren’t trying to help you. They were circling you.

Waiting to see if you’d crack.

And still… you stayed.

Even though a part of you already regretted it. Your grip on your satchel tightened, leather creaking softly beneath your fingers. Your heartbeat was uneven now no longer from fear, exactly, but from something closer to disorientation. Like the ground you’d been walking had shifted underfoot without warning, and no one had told you the rules had changed.

You turned your eyes to Camellia Pith Cookie, her perfect posture and calm, glassy smile like a portrait painted to disarm.

“…What did you mean,” you asked, “by how high I’ve climbed?”

Camellia tilted her head at you, almost as if she were admiring a curious little artifact. “Just that you’ve become… relevant. Visible. You weren’t before, and now you are. That kind of shift doesn’t happen in silence.”

You swallowed. “It’s just tutoring. That’s all it’s ever been.” Serrano hummed. Fennel didn’t bother hiding his smirk.

You shook your head, more to yourself than to them. “There were no ripples. He agreed to help me because I was struggling. That’s it. That’s all.”

Camellia’s gaze sharpened not cruelly, but like she’d caught the thread she’d been looking for.

“Struggling,” she echoed softly. “Yes, we’ve heard that.”

You felt your cheeks burn.

“That’s what people are saying, isn’t it?” you pressed, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “That I don’t belong? That I’m wasting his time? That I what? Got lucky?”

Camellia didn’t confirm. She didn’t have to.

“You misunderstand,” she said instead. “We’re not questioning whether you deserve help. We’re questioning what your presence means. What it signals to others. You’re closer to him than any scholar outside the upper division has been in years.”

“It’s not like I planned that,” you shot back.

“I know,” she said. “But people don’t care about intentions. They care about implications. The closer you stand to power, the more people wonder what you’re doing there.”

A quiet settled in the hallway then, a stillness filled only by the distant sound of wind rustling the banners hanging from the corridor’s arches. You didn’t look at them now. Your gaze drifted past their shoulders, to the tall windows overlooking the distant towers of the Academy. The sun hung high, but its warmth didn’t reach you.

You spoke softly. “I didn’t mean to make waves.”

Serrano’s voice followed measured, almost pitying. “You didn’t have to. Just being there is enough.”

And for a moment, you weren’t sure whether they meant it as a warning… or a fact. Your throat felt tight, but your voice came out steady.

“Well,” you said, folding your arms tightly across your chest, “since you’re all being so vague why don’t you enlighten me?”

The air between you crackled, tension slipping into the silence like a thread being pulled taut.

You stared directly at them now Camellia, Serrano, Fennel. The three of them standing so calmly, so precisely, as if they hadn’t just cornered you with a thousand unspoken accusations. You didn’t raise your voice, didn’t let them see how deeply your stomach twisted.

“If I’m making ripples just by existing, then tell me what do people think I’m doing?”

Serrano opened their mouth, but Camellia raised a hand first graceful, patient.

She regarded you with an expression that was almost sympathetic, like a teacher preparing to correct a child who had gotten the answer so close to right, yet still wrong enough to be disappointing.

“They think,” she said gently, “that you’ve positioned yourself very carefully. That you’re not just being tutored that you’ve become his favored student. Perhaps more.”

You froze.

“There’s talk,” Camellia continued, tone maddeningly calm, “about how frequently you’re seen together. About how quickly you’ve improved. About the way he looks at you, listens to you, gives you the kind of attention most of us only get in passing.”

“It’s not hard,” Fennel added, “for people to start asking why.”

Serrano crossed their arms. “Some think you’re charming your way upward. Others say he pities you, and this is his… charity project. But most? Most just want to know what you’re really after.”

“I’m not after anything,” you snapped, voice sharper than you intended. “I’m trying to learn. That’s all it ever was.”

Camellia’s gaze didn’t waver. “Intentions don’t matter as much as perceptions,” she said quietly. “You might be telling the truth. But when enough people start doubting you, their truth wins.”

A chill pressed against your spine.

“And if you want to survive here,” Serrano added, “you better learn how to control what people think you’re doing. Before someone else does it for you.”

You said nothing.

Because there was nothing to say.

Not in that moment.

Because all of it all the fears you’d buried, the whispered questions you’d tried to ignore had just been repeated back to you.

This time, from smiling lips. Calm voices. Cold eyes.

And that made it worse. You let the silence stretch.

Their words lingered like smoke thick, cloying, impossible to ignore. You looked at each of them, your jaw clenched, your hands curled tight at your sides.

Then you exhaled, slow and shaky, and said flatly

“…Why do you even care this much?” Camellia’s expression didn’t change.

You took a step back, shoulders tight with unease. “Honestly? I liked it better when you were just bullying me the normal way. At least then I knew what you were doing.”

Serrano’s brow twitched.

“But this?” you continued. “This weird, fake-concern, smile-while-you’re-poking-holes-in-me routine? It’s worse. You think I don’t know it’s not out of kindness?”

You looked straight at Camellia.

“What is it you want?” Your voice dropped, cold now. “Do you want me to run to the Sage and tattle? Warn him about you? Is that what this is? Because I don’t have that kind of power. Not the way you seem to think I do.”

For a moment, none of them spoke.

Then Fennel gave a quiet little laugh, the kind that made your skin crawl not mocking, just amused, like you’d said something so naïve it had to be pitied.

Serrano opened their mouth, but this time Fennel cut in first, his voice light, too casual:

“Seen holding hands the other day, weren’t you?”

The words hit like ice water. You stared at him.

“Just outside the dining hall,” he added, smiling lazily. “Not exactly subtle, are you?”

“I-it wasn’t-” you started, but he raised a hand in mock surrender.

“Hey. You say it’s nothing, it’s nothing.” His grin widened. “Just… might want to be more careful, yeah? People notice things.”

Your chest tightened.

They knew. Or at least they thought they did. And even if you knew the truth, even if it wasn’t like that… they weren’t interested in truth. Only in suggestion.

Camellia gave a graceful shrug. “Perception, remember? If it looks like something, it becomes something. Doesn’t matter if it’s innocent.”

Serrano nodded once. “You might not have much power now, but you’re close to someone who does. That makes you relevant. Dangerous, even…if you’re not careful.”

You said nothing.

Because the truth was, your throat had closed up. Because the truth was, part of you had replayed that moment when your fingers had lingered in his palm far longer than they should have and wondered. And now they’d seen it too.

Even if it had meant nothing. Even if you weren’t sure what it had meant at all.

You didn’t respond. Not yet. But whatever warmth had clung to your morning, whatever peace you’d found in the quiet hours of that lecture it was gone. They didn’t leave.

You had already said everything, told them they were wrong, told them you didn’t have power, told them that this wasn’t anything. And yet they stayed, circling you like wolves that smelled blood beneath your resolve.

You backed up a step. And that was when Camellia leaned in guiding you towards the wall surrounding the hall, the stone wall cool against your back, her voice low, gentle in the worst way like silk drawn over a blade.

“You know,” she murmured, “I admire you.”

You blinked, wary, caught off guard by the softness in her tone.

“It must take such… courage,” she continued, smile still poised, “to cling to someone like that. To pretend that proximity equals value.” You opened your mouth but nothing came out.

“And when not if, but when he finds someone better,” she whispered, “someone with real potential, real presence… what will you do then?”

Serrano added, voice a breath beside your other ear, “You’ll still be here. Alone. And ordinary.”

“You’re so desperate to prove you belong,” Fennel said with mock fondness, his tone almost playful, “but you’re still holding on to someone else’s light, hoping it reflects enough to make you visible.”

Camellia tilted her head, eyes soft with something like pity. “You’re not a threat. You’re a placeholder. A momentary indulgence. You’ll fade, and someone more… deserving will take your place.”

The breath caught in your throat. Your heart was pounding so hard it made your fingers tremble.

“And the worst part?” Camellia whispered, stepping just close enough for the scent of parchment and lavender ink to cling to the air between you. “You’ll still be here. Watching. Remembering what it felt like to be chosen. Even if it wasn’t real.”

That was what did it.

Not the volume of their voices, not the threat. But the truth buried inside the lie. That seed of fear you had long since tried to starve suddenly watered with such cruel precision, it bloomed wild, poisonous, and real.

You didn’t cry. But your eyes stung. Your throat was too tight to speak. You clenched your jaw hard enough it ached, forcing the tears back before they could fall.

And then a voice cut through the corridor like a snapped wire, sharp and unmistakable.

“That’s enough.” Professor Almond Custard Cookie’s tone was not loud. It didn’t need to be.

The authority in his voice shattered the moment. Every head turned. The upper scholars immediately straightened, their masks slipping back on, the softness reassembling like well-rehearsed lines in a play.

But it was too late.

The damage was done. The poison had taken root.

Behind him, the Sage of Truth emerged not with flourish, not with any great show but with that still, commanding presence that always felt heavier than the space it occupied. His coattails trailed silently behind him, the subtle glow of his Soul Jam dimmed beneath the high collar of his mantle. His mismatched eyes found yours almost instantly.

You looked away.

Almond Custard stepped forward. “I’ve tolerated quite a bit of posturing between departments this year. But this?” His eyes moved slowly over Camellia, Serrano, and Fennel. “This is something else.”

Camellia opened her mouth too calmly, too ready but Almond Custard raised a hand and she fell silent.

“You think I don’t hear the whispers?” he asked, voice still mild. “You think the faculty doesn't know what you’ve been doing?”

Fennel’s expression flickered just slightly.

“The arrogance of assuming your behavior wouldn’t catch up with you…” He shook his head slowly. “Perhaps you’ve been too long in wings that have shielded you.”

Serrano stepped back, posture still poised but mouth tight. Then, after a moment, the Sage of Truth spoke.

“I believed,” he said, voice cool and level, “that our last conversation had been understood.”

Camellia’s mask didn’t falter, but her fingers twitched ever so slightly at her side.

“I made myself clear,” the Sage continued. “This kind of behavior does not reflect the Academy. Nor me.”

You flinched at that me but he didn’t look at you. His gaze remained fixed on the scholars before him. Detached. Impartial. Indifferent, for your sake.

“I had hoped my words would be enough,” he said. “It appears I was mistaken.”

Almond Custard folded his arms, letting out a breath through his nose. “Perhaps we should stop hoping. And start documenting.”

The implication was crystal clear. Camellia’s composure cracked for just a heartbeat.

“I think,” Almond Custard said smoothly, “it’s time we spoke with the Dean of Students.” None of them argued. None of them looked back.

They just turned, robes rustling in perfect silence, and disappeared around the corner with their perfect posture and perfect breeding and their venom still nestled deep in your chest.

The corridor was quiet again. The silence that followed was too heavy. Too wide.

And still, you didn’t look up. Not right away. Not even when you felt his presence close now, near enough to touch. You blinked quickly, fighting the heat behind your eyes. But it was already too late. Of course he had to go with them.

You knew that. Anyone would’ve known that. The Dean of Students didn’t wait on personal matters especially not when three of the Academy’s most carefully groomed prodigies had just been caught red-handed. Publicly.

It was protocol. It was necessary. But it still felt like abandonment.

Because even though you weren’t alone-

Professor Almond Custard was still there, quiet and composed at your side it wasn’t him. It wasn’t the voice that steadied your pulse just by existing in the same room. It wasn’t the presence that made your worst mistakes feel worth working through, made your failures feel seen but never condemned.

And right now, after everything they’d said, after the way they peeled open your insecurities like they knew exactly where the fault lines in your soul were…

You needed him.

But he had turned with slow, deliberate precision and walked with Camellia, Serrano, and Fennel down the corridor toward the administrative wing, their robes trailing behind him like a shadow stitched to authority.

And as he walked, you heard him speak.

His voice was not soft not the gentle cadence you were used to. It had hardened, like iron that had been waiting too long in the fire.

“You speak of perception,” he said. “Of implication. And yet you fail to perceive the implications of your own actions.”

Camellia’s voice still poised, but thinned at the edges tried to interject, “We weren’t accusing anyone, Sage. We only-”

“You implied,” he cut in, “with surgical precision. With the full knowledge of how words wound in places even magic cannot reach. Do not insult me by pretending otherwise.”

His words were composed, but the cadence was fractured warped at the edges by something that trembled beneath control.

You’d never heard him like that.

“You think you understand how power works,” he continued. “That because you wear a name stitched into your robes and walk with entitlement, you have the right to define someone else’s place.”

He stopped walking. You could hear the echo of his boots on the polished stone.

“But tell me when did cruelty become a mark of scholarship?”

None of them answered. You stood there frozen, barely breathing, your back pressed against the cold wall as their voices faded down the hall.

And then the silence hit.

And in it, your own breath shook.

You had been trying so hard to steady yourself. To take deep, silent inhales, to ground your thoughts in something real something academic, maybe, something measurable, like how long it took to inscribe a protective circle or how many steps were required to stabilize an aetheric tether.

But the first tear slipped loose anyway.

And when it did, it didn’t stop.

You weren’t sobbing. You weren’t crumpling. You weren’t drawing attention. You didn’t want to.

But you were crying and it hurt. Not the tears, not the shame of being caught in them, but the reason.

Because you’d been working so hard. Not just to be better at magic, or to keep up in class, or to hold your own in front of others but to be worthy.

Worthy of sitting beside him.

Worthy of his time.

Worthy of the way he looked at you calm, steady, believing, even when you didn’t believe in yourself.

You thought if you worked hard enough, maybe one day… maybe you wouldn’t feel so far beneath him. Maybe you could walk beside him without feeling like a shadow trying to keep up with the sun.

But those words, Camellia's whisper, Serrano’s smile, Fennel’s laughter, they had cracked something open that you tried so hard to keep sealed. And now it was bleeding out in the middle of an open corridor, under the eyes of your professor.

Professor Almond Custard hadn’t spoken since they left. He stood beside you, arms crossed loosely, his gaze focused on nothing in particular, like giving you privacy in the only way he could.

You wiped your cheek quickly with the edge of your sleeve, already ashamed. “I’m sorry,” you said softly, voice thick.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” he said calmly, without looking.

“It’s humiliating.”

“It’s human.”

You pressed your lips together, throat tightening all over again. “I just- I want to be better.”

He turned his head just slightly. “You are better.”

You shook your head.

“I don’t want to be someone he pities.”

That was the rawest truth. The ugliest one. It came out like a splinter you’d finally worked loose, soaked in everything you were too afraid to say before.

Professor Almond Custard was silent for a long moment.

Then, he said, very quietly, “I’ve known him a long time.”

You looked up, startled.

“I’ve seen him deal with scholars, colleagues, rivals, protégés,” he continued. “He doesn't waste time.”

You swallowed, not trusting your voice.

“If he continues to give you his time,” Almond Custard said, turning to look at you fully, “then it’s not out of pity. It’s because he sees something you haven’t yet learned to trust in yourself.”

Your breath hitched again.

“And when you’re ready to see it,” he added, “you’ll understand why what they said doesn’t matter.”

You didn’t believe it. Not fully. Not yet.

But… a part of you wanted to.

And maybe that was enough for now.

The corridor remained quiet around you, the chill of the stone wall behind you starting to fade as the distant echo of the Sage’s voice disappeared down the hallway.

You wiped your face again slowly this time and straightened your shoulders, however slightly.

There was still so much you didn’t know. Professor Almond Custard Cookie glanced toward the corridor where the Sage and the others had disappeared, his expression unreadable. The weight of everything that had happened still hung heavy in the air, like fog that refused to clear.

You sniffled quietly, brushing at your face again. The sleeve of your robe was already damp at the cuff, and the sting of your own embarrassment still hadn’t fully dulled.

Then, wordlessly, he reached into his inner pocket and extended a neatly folded handkerchief.

You hesitated before taking it.

It was crisp, white, embroidered at the corner with a subtle alchemical emblem faint gold thread, delicate but precise.

“Thank you,” you murmured, barely managing to meet his gaze.

“I do have another place to be,” he said, his voice as even and measured as always. “A lecture to deliver, students to wrangle.” He paused. “But I wasn’t about to leave you alone like that.”

You nodded, still quiet.

Then, softly so softly you almost thought you imagined it he added

“The moment the Sage of Truth took you under his wing… I knew…I knew you could become something great.”

You looked up at him, startled.

His expression was calm, still professional, but his eyes, those sharp, observant eyes that had once watched you fumble through every answer in his office hours were gentler now.

“I know you struggled,” he said. “I remember our sessions. You were… all over the place. Thought spiraling. Questions with no clear structure. Never quite on the same track I was trying to lead you down.”

You swallowed, guilt prickling. “Yeah. I remember too.”

“But it wasn’t your fault.”

Your head lifted.

“I didn’t know how to reach you,” he said, quietly. “Not in the way you needed. I tried. Stars know I tried. But my method, my rhythm, it wasn't yours. You needed a different kind of guide.”

He paused again.

“I’m glad,” he continued, “that someone else could be that for you. That he saw what I couldn’t articulate. That he’s done for you what I could only hope to do.”

You didn’t know what to say. Words fluttered in your chest but none of them felt big enough, honest enough, to match the enormity of what he’d just offered you.

Not pity. Not reassurance.

Belief.

He turned slightly, adjusting the strap of his satchel.

“When you’re ready,” he said, already beginning to walk, “you’ll see it too.”

And with that, he disappeared into the next corridor composed, quiet, and gone.

You stood there alone, his handkerchief clutched in your hand, eyes still stinging but breath slowly steadying. Of course you didn’t go back to your dorm.

You didn’t go to the library, or the dining hall, or anywhere someone might ask how you were feeling with soft concern that would only break you more. You didn’t want kindness right now not the kind that you’d have to respond to. Not when your throat was still tight, not when your chest felt like it had been stepped on, cracked just slightly open where their words had slipped in and rooted themselves deep.

So instead, your feet took you where they always did when you didn’t know where else to go.

To the gardens.

The walk was automatic down corridors kissed with old light, past softly glowing glyphs on the walls, under quiet archways of carved stone. The further you went, the thinner the noise of the Academy became, until you slipped into the stillness of the greenery like a breath long held and finally released.

The Academy Gardens were just waking into early afternoon.

Magic hummed faintly beneath the cobblestone paths, guiding your steps past the glimmering lanterns and drifting petals. The light filtered through the hanging willows above like silver thread. The air smelled of damp earth and sun-warmed blossoms. And yet, even here especially here it was hard to breathe without shaking.

You found your usual place without thinking.

That bench beneath the largest willow, tucked beside the reflecting pool. The one with the koi-like creatures that shimmered just beneath the surface, slipping through water like ghosts through silk.

You sat down, and for a moment, you tried to hold it together. You were already exhausted from trying to hold it together. The belief that the Sage had in you. The rare softness of Almond Custard’s words. Even your friends, loyal and steadfast in their quiet fury whenever someone tried to hurt you.

It should have been enough.

It almost was.

But words their words had struck too precisely.

They hadn’t just questioned your ability. They had reached into the one thing you were still struggling to believe in that maybe, you were worthy of the Sage of Truth’s attention.

Not because you were convenient. Not because you were fragile. Not because you were amusing or a project or a name he could tuck between tomes and then forget.

But because you were you. And yet… how could you not doubt?

When your hands still trembled in class. When you still struggled to follow the complex theories. When you still couldn’t look him in the eye without wondering why you?

You leaned forward, pressing your hands to your face as the tears came quieter now, slower, less a storm and more a letting go.

You cried because it hurt.

Because you hated that it hurt.

Because somewhere deep down, a small, relentless voice still whispered that maybe they were right.

That maybe you’d always be chasing him.

That maybe the space beside him was never meant for someone like you.

And still you didn’t want to let go of him. Or the chance. Or the hope. Or the memory of his voice saying, “You don’t have to pretend.”

You stayed there a long time.

Not hiding. Not healing.

Just… being.

Letting the emotions rise and fall like the ripples in the reflecting pool, until they faded to something softer, something you could carry.

Because even with all the belief in the world even when they tell you you’re enough you still have to fight to believe it yourself.

And sometimes, crying under a willow tree is the only way to start. You cried quietly.

Not in gasps. Not in sobs. Just… silent, steady tears that slipped down your cheeks and fell soundlessly into your lap, onto the sleeves of your robes, onto the stone beneath your feet.

The kind of crying that doesn’t ask for anyone to notice. The kind that comes from a place so deep, so private, that even you weren’t sure what you were mourning anymore. Was it the things they said? Or the fact that you had already thought those things long before they ever spoke them aloud?

The worst part wasn’t what they said, it was how easily the words slipped into the places you already doubted.

It was like they'd known where to aim.

You kept crying until the tears slowed. Until they weren’t sharp anymore, just tired. Your breathing was still uneven, but the weight in your chest had shifted heavier now, duller. The kind of ache that lingers after.

Your head began to throb a low, pulsing ache behind your temples, the kind that always followed crying for too long. You sniffled, pulling the handkerchief Almond Custard had given you from your pocket and pressing it gently to your face.

The sun had shifted slightly in the sky.

You could hear the soft breeze through the willow leaves, the gentle hush of water lapping against the pool’s edge. A koi slipped beneath the surface and vanished, silver and gold like a flicker of a forgotten dream.

You didn’t move.

You didn’t need to.

You just sat there on the bench; your bench beneath the sheltering willow, too wrung out to do anything else. The crying had emptied you. Now there was just the soft hum of the gardens around you, the ache behind your eyes, and the faint shimmer of leftover pain pressing gently behind your ribs.

You waited.

Not for clarity. Not for comfort.

Just for the next thing.

Lunch would come soon. The dining hall would open. Your friends would wander down the path like they always did, voices familiar and warm, shoes tapping softly against the cobblestones.

Eventually, one of them would see you first probably Chai Latte, sharp-eyed as ever even through her gentle smile. Hazelnut Biscotti would say something light to ease the tension. Earl Grey would sit quietly beside you like he always did when he didn’t know how to help, but still wanted you to know he was there.

You didn’t need to look forward to it. You didn’t need to anticipate how they'd fill the space beside you.

You just needed to sit in it for now.

Let the silence exist. Let the sun move. Let the world go on turning.

Because even if today had taken more than you’d thought you had to give…

You were still here.

And they would be, too. Eventually, you picked yourself up.

It wasn’t dramatic. There was no triumphant surge of will, no burst of new resolve rising like some mythic fire inside your chest. Just a quiet decision, born of knowing the sun had shifted far enough to mean lunch and that if you didn’t move now, one of your friends would find you here, puffy-eyed and fragile, and ask you gently if you were okay.

You weren’t ready for that.

So you moved first.

You rose slowly from the bench, your body stiff from sitting too long, your limbs weighted by the kind of tiredness that comes not from walking, but from feeling. You wiped your face with the soft edge of Almond Custard’s handkerchief one last time, folding it neatly like it hadn’t just caught the storm that had come out of you.

The koi beneath the surface flicked their tails lazily, unbothered by your silence.

You didn’t say goodbye.

You didn’t need to.

The gardens would wait for you. They always did.

You walked back through the winding paths, under the shadow of ivy-cloaked archways, past the golden lanterns that now glowed a little warmer in the high afternoon light. The air smelled faintly of citrus blossoms from the hedges near the fountain. Somewhere, a student’s laughter echoed down a corridor.

You passed them all.

And when you reached the dining hall, you did what you always did.

You straightened your shoulders. Pulled your sleeves down. Fixed your expression in the polished glass by the door not smiling, not closed off, just… neutral. Acceptable.

Like nothing had happened.

Like your heart hadn’t cracked open under someone else’s hands just hours ago.

Because pretending, pretending was easy.

Not painless, not effortless, but familiar. You had always been able to keep walking. To sit down across from your friends and say “Hey, sorry I’m late” with just enough lightness to pass.

And sure enough, there they were.

Chai Latte’s face lit up the moment she saw you, already scooting over to make room beside her at the table. Hazelnut Biscotti gave you a brief nod, mouth full, holding up a plate offering your favorite, no less. Earl Grey’s gaze flicked toward you, quietly scanning your expression for something deeper, but saying nothing as he shifted his book to give you space.

You walked over as if nothing had happened. Sat down in the middle of them like you belonged there, because you did.

You knew they were there for you.

You also knew they wouldn’t press. Not if you didn’t want them to.

So you let their chatter fill the air.

Let the warmth of their presence soak into your skin.

Let yourself pretend, just a little longer, that you were fine. You sat at the lunch table, surrounded by the warm hum of student chatter and the clatter of dishes echoing through the high-ceilinged hall.

The air smelled faintly of roasted fruit and something sweet berry tart, maybe. The headache still pulsed behind your eyes, dull but persistent, a lingering ache from everything you’d cried out in the gardens.

But you were sitting here. You were breathing. And pretending…pretending was easier now with your friends beside you.

A/N Please forgive me if there are any errors LOL I looked over it briefly cause I wanted to get 2 chapters out today B) so I'll look at my messages tomorrow <3

just had an excellent day of work and will be seeing Halsey Tomorrow yipppeee!!!!

Summer is finally here let's enjoy it y'all

AND HAPPY PRIDE MONTH YALLL

anyways...

Remember to follow and reblog for more bangers 😎😎😎🔥🔥🔥

<<<Previous Next>>>

214 notes · View notes

0zozone · 2 months ago

Text

SHADOW MILK MY BELOVED

“Look of love”

Warnings : None, fluff, bad writing.

Characters ; Burning Spice, Pure Vanilla, Shadow Milk, Wind Archer.

Synopsis : They lived beneath the weight of every gaze, flashes of awe, shadows of disdain, the hush of judgment.. But never had they met the eyes of love. Until yours. What would they do, when faced with such gentle gaze?

Author note : My bad if I didn’t really catch the character right in the personality or lore!! I don’t read it at all tbh. The Shadow Milk and Wind archer part are the best one, more accurate!!🫶

Burning Spice

He knows what it is to be admired. Revered, even. His name was spoken with awe, with fear, with reverence. A name carved into legend by fire and fury. Crowds didn’t love him, they worshipped his strength, his power to reduce anything to ashes. But love? No. That was something else entirely.

And nothing he’s known before feels anything like what you give him.

Your love doesn’t come with fireworks or fanfare. It arrives quietly, like embers on a cold night. It lingers in your gaze when you look at him, not with fear, not pity, not with worship, but with something much gentler. Something warmer. Something he doesn’t know what to do with.

He doesn’t understand it. Doesn’t want to. Because understanding means thinking, and thinking means remembering. And memory is dangerous for someone like him. It means facing what he’s done, the lives turned to cinders in his wake, the silence after the storm. It means standing in the ruins of the past and admitting that somewhere, a part of him is still burning.

He has lived a life forged in heat and destruction. He’s been a weapon, a wildfire. It’s easier not to think. Easier to keep moving, to keep burning.

But you, you're a different kind of flame.

You're the softness he was never meant for someone like him to touch. You speak gently, as if your voice might soothe the parts of him that scream. You look at him like he's someone worth loving. You see him, not the destroyer, not the legend, but the Cookie underneath. And that shakes him.

Why? Why do you look at him like that? Why do you stay, when you know what he’s capable of? He’s scorched entire landscapes, left nothing but ruin behind. You know this. You’ve heard the stories, maybe even stood in the smoke of what he left behind. And still… you stay.

At first, he resented you. Hated you, even. Because you made him feel. Made him remember. You forced open doors he had slammed shut long ago. You planted something in him he didn't ask for, hope. Longing. And worse, need.

But that bitterness has melted into something else, something deeper, something terrifying.

Because now, he would do anything to protect this fragile peace you’ve given him. He would scorch the skies, split the earth, ignite every battlefield again, if it meant keeping you safe. Keep that sweet peace that lies in the rest of the crumbles.

Pure Vanilla

There are many who love Pure Vanilla.

They love the idea of him, the monarch, the healer, the forgiving heart. A symbol of hope wrapped in warmth, glowing with the soft brilliance of truth. They gather around him like moths to a lantern, asking for guidance, comfort, absolution. And he gives it, always. Without hesitation. Without resentment.

That’s what it means to be him.

He listens. He forgives. He heals.

He shines, even when the light sometimes loses its brilliance.

And yet, with every wound he mends, he forgets a little more what it feels like to be tended to. With every soul he lifts, his own sinks a little deeper into quiet sorrow. No one sees it, not really. Not behind the ever present smile, the soft voice, the unwavering calm.

No one sees, until you.

You don’t come to him with prayers or praise. You don’t speak to him like a saint or a symbol. You don’t ask him for miracles. Instead, you ask how he’s doing.

And when he tries to answer with the same gentle, polished words he offers to everyone, “I’m well. Thank you for asking.”, you simply blink, tilt your head, and say :

“...Are you sure?”

He doesn’t know how to respond.

Because you mean it. He can tell. Your eyes hold no awe, no worship. Only honesty. Concern. That quiet softness he gives to everyone else, you’re giving it to him. And it feels… foreign. Strange.

And yet, he can’t look away.

He finds in your gaze a kind of light that is not his own. A light that doesn’t ask him to be anything, not perfect, not powerful, not even good. Just present. Just himself.

He doesn’t know what to do with that.

He tries to keep his distance at first. Not because he dislikes you, but because he’s afraid. Afraid that if he lets himself be seen too closely, the cracks in him will show. That the perfect image everyone believes in will begin to fall apart under your gaze.

And then what would be left?

But you never asked him to be perfect.

You sit beside him during quiet evenings outside, never pressing. You speak of simple things, flowers, dreams, stories from your day. And little by little, he begins to speak back about himself. Just softly. Just enough. Until one day, he says something he never thought he would.

“I… don’t always know how to carry it.”

You don’t ask what “it” means.

You just reach out, gently, and take his hand in yours. When his hands tremble just slightly. You never mention it. You never ask why his smile sometimes falters when you reach for him. But you notice. And that's what makes it real. You see his grief, his weariness, his regrets, and still, you choose to stay.

And he thinks, this is what it must feel like.

To be held. Not because he is needed. Not because he is useful. But just because he exists.

You never try to fix him. Never try to tell him to stop carrying the burdens he’s chosen. You simply remind him that he doesn’t have to carry them alone. That even light needs rest. That even kindness needs to be met, not just given.

And over time, the weight in his chest begins to shift.

He still shines. He still heals. But now, when he looks at you, there is something new in his eyes. Not just gratitude, but longing. Safety. Love. A quiet promise he’s never made before, not to the kingdom, not to his friends, not even to himself.

Only to you.

That if he must carry hope for the world, maybe he could allow himself to be carried for once?

Shadow Milk

“Seriously… what is wrong with you?”

That’s what he always says, sharp, mocking, laced with that smirk he wears like armor. His voice cuts like the shadow of a blade, playful but biting, every word dripping with disbelief. He leans in close, just enough to unsettle you, eyes narrowed in suspicion and something far more dangerous, curiosity.

“What’s going on in that silly little head of yours, hmm?” he murmurs. “What are you really trying to do?”

Because surely, surely, you’re trying to trick him.

You must be. Everyone lies. Everyone wants something. And you, you, with your soft eyes and steady voice, with the way you look at him like he’s something more than just a clever mask and a whisper in the dark, you must be playing a game. Right?

You must be lying.

Trying to trap him with affection, lure him with kindness. Pretending to care, just to see if the beast will bare his teeth or show you something broken beneath them. That’s what this is. It has to be.

Because no one, no one, looks at Shadow Milk Cookie like that and tells the truth.

But then your gaze meets his.

And something in him falters.

Just for a second.

There’s no deceit in your eyes. No hidden agenda, no gleam of manipulation or shadowed intent. There’s just… sincerity. So soft it hurts. So warm it disorients. You look at him like you see past every trick, every cruel smile, every little lie he’s ever told, and still choose him.

And that?

That’s the most terrifying thing of all.

Because he knows lies. He lives in lies. He is the lie. He’s twisted truths into knots so tight they choke. He’s laughed while pulling strings, smiled while watching others fall for illusions he crafted just for fun. Deceit is his nature. His playground. His weapon.

But you…

You don’t play.

You don’t twist.

You don’t pretend.

You look at him like he’s real.

And now? He’s the one who doesn’t know what’s real anymore.

He tries to shake it off. Scoffs. Rolls his eyes. Throws his usual venom into the air like smoke. “Tch. You really think I’m going to fall for that?” he hisses, always with the same sharp. “You think you can fool me? The beast of deceit himself?”

But the truth is, it’s already too late.

Because you’re not fooling him.

You’re undoing him.

You’re dragging light into corners of him that haven’t seen it in ages. You’re whispering kindness into a soul that only knows how to echo back lies. You’re seeing him, and for the first time in forever, he doesn’t want to run. Doesn’t want to hide behind smoke and shadow.

He wants to believe.

But belief is dangerous. It’s soft. Fragile. Exposed.

And Shadow Milk is not fragile.

At least, he thought. Until now.

So he stares at you longer than he should. Quiet. Still. His grin doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His usual retorts hang silent in his throat.

Because deep down, where the lies go quiet and the mask begins to slip, he knows.

You’re not trying to trick him.

You love him. Honestly. Genuinely. Without condition.

And he doesn't know how to survive that.

So he’ll laugh. He’ll taunt. He’ll spin another web, play another game. But something in his voice will shake. Something in his gaze will soften. Because now, your truth lives in him like a splinter of light.

And no matter how many shadows he casts, it won’t stop glowing.

Wind Archer

He has known many silences.

The hush of a forest at dawn. The sacred stillness before rainfall. The sigh of leaves in the wake of a passing breeze. These were once his companions, soft, wordless things. He did not need voices when the world spoke to him through petals and branches, through the rustle of trees and the kiss of the wind.

Once, he was the wind. Light and unburdened. Wild and aimless. He danced through the forest, carrying fragrance and joy wherever he passed. That was before.

Before the darkness came.

Before the stillness he loved turned brittle and heavy with dread.

Before he was given form.

Now, he walks not as a whisper, but as a warrior.

Wind Archer Cookie, the protector of the forest. A title. A duty. A weight he bears not with bitterness, but with quiet solemnity. He knows what he was given. He knows what he must do. He carries hope like a flame in his chest, shielding it from every gust that threatens to snuff it out.

But hope, even in the purest heart, can falter when it has no place to rest.

Then came you.

You, with eyes like spring and a presence like sunlight through the canopy. A soul not forged in battle, not wrapped in the vines of destiny, but open. Kind. Alive.

He found, in the depths of your gaze, the same quiet he once found in the forest, but warmer. Where the forest asks nothing, you invite. You offer. You welcome.

You are not a duty. You are not a purpose. You are simply there.

And somehow, that undoes him.

He has stood against storms, faced down corruption, whispered prayers to ancient trees. But he is helpless before the softness in your eyes. Before the way you smile at him not as a guardian, not as a legend, but simply... as a Cookie. As if he’s not some sacred sentinel, just someone you care about.

At first, he did not know how to be near you.

He kept his distance, watched you in silence, like one might observe a sunrise, too beautiful to touch. You reminded him of what he had once been. Free. Unburdened. He told himself that was enough.

But he lingered.

Every time your laughter echoed through the trees, he paused. Every time your hand brushed against the bark of an ancient tree with reverence, he watched. Every time you looked at him, truly looked, he felt something stir beneath the wind and leaves and purpose.

A longing.

Not to run. Not to hide.

But to rest.

You speak to him not with grand declarations, but in the way you exist. Peaceful. Steady. Real. You do not pull him from his duty, but you give him something he has never had.

A place where the wind can stop moving.

A place where it can simply be.

He doesn’t know how to ask for it. He doesn’t even know if he should. The forest still needs him. The darkness still creeps. Hope is still a fire he must carry.

But sometimes, when your hand brushes his, and you meet his gaze with that quiet warmth that says stay, he wonders.

If maybe... just maybe... he’s allowed to be more than the wind.

————————————————————————

Hope you guys liked!!🫶🍊 Give feedback y’all, and maybe I would do a part two?? Say who you would like to see!!

Coems🤑 I don’t know SHIT about the deep lore of the characters except smc, so probably not accurate at all!! And the burning spice part was terrible, I know.

569 notes · View notes

0zozone · 2 months ago

Text

In the Presence of Truth {"Sage of Truth" (SMC) x Reader} PT 27

<<<Previous Next>>>

Shadow Milk Cookie still held your hand under the table, his fingers a calm, steady presence against your palm as conversation shifted toward the end of semester ceremony.

The buzz of it filled every corridor of the Academy. Students whispering about formalities and changes, about what would become of the Spire now that it had accepted its first cohort. And about him, of course.

You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes at him with something bordering on suspicion. “So… the ceremony,” you began, your tone casual perhaps too casual. “Are the rumors true?”

Shadow Milk Cookie turned his head ever so slightly, golden eyes meeting yours with the faintest glint of amusement. “Which rumors are we entertaining now?”

You raised a brow. “The ones about you getting a new outfit. Some kind of ceremonial uniform for your new title.”

There was a moment of pause. Then, smoothly, “Yes. I’ve been informed that I will be receiving ‘adjusted ceremonial robes’ to signify my new role as the Fount of Knowledge.”

Chai Latte Cookie perked up immediately. “Adjusted? Does that mean no more” she made a vague gesture toward her own head, “hat?”

You glanced sideways at him again, mischief flickering in your eyes. “Please tell me you’re not wearing that hat again.”

Shadow Milk Cookie let out a faint exhale close to a sigh, closer still to a laugh. “There will be no hat,” he said dryly. “It has been… retired.” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie snorted into his cup. “A moment of silence for the tragic end of academia’s strangest fashion choice.”

Chai Latte giggled. “Oh, thank the stars.” You tapped your fingers against your knee, trying not to grin too openly. “So what’s replacing it? A golden scroll? A floating quill? A philosophical aura of superiority?”

He lifted a brow, perfectly composed. “A crown.”

That made you blink. “A crown?”

“A modest one,” he clarified. “After… negotiation.” Earl Grey Cookie looked vaguely impressed. “You negotiated the dimensions of a crown?”

Shadow Milk inclined his head. “They were insistent on something ostentatious. I insisted on functionality.”

Hazelnut Biscotti leaned in, grinning. “Admit it, you just didn’t want someone making fun of it.” A pause.

Shadow Milk’s gaze slid toward you for half a heartbeat, then back to his cup. “Perhaps I was… persuaded.”

You choked slightly on your drink. Chai Latte gasped, scandalized. “Wait, regardless of the new outfit you got him to give up the giant ornate hat, negotiating for a smaller crown?!”

“I didn’t mean to!” you sputtered. “I mean regarding the hat I just said it looked like something an alchemist would wear to hide their shame!”

Earl Grey looked over the rim of his cup, serene. “That sounds very much like something you’d say.”

“I didn’t think he’d listen!” But he had. You realized that now he had listened. Not just to the teasing jabs or the complaints about the hat, but to you.

Always, in quiet ways you hadn’t realized until now. You looked at him again, and for a split second, your thoughts veered wondering not just what the crown would look like, but if he actually had more than one set of his usual clothes.

If there was some enchanted closet filled with identical outfits or if… he really wore the same one every day. You didn’t ask. It felt too personal. Besides, some mysteries were better left unsolved.

Instead, you leaned back and smiled faintly, resting your chin on your hand. “Well. I hope you know, whatever they dress you in, I’m still going to recognize you the same.”

He glanced at you, and though his expression didn’t shift much, there was something softer behind his eyes. “Good,” he said simply. “Because I have no intention of changing.” And beneath the table, his fingers gave yours a gentle squeeze an unspoken truth, shared just between you.

You squeezed his hand slightly, teasing, voice low and laced with mischief. “But what if one day you do change?” you asked, letting the question hang. “How would I recognize you then?”

His cup touched the saucer with a soft, decisive clink. Across the table, Chai Latte Cookie glanced up, sensing the shift in tone.

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie, midway through stealing another pastry, froze. Earl Grey Cookie didn’t move, but you caught the way he watched the two of you with subtle curiosity always reading the air.

Shadow Milk tilted his head just a little, enough for a strand of starlit hair to fall across his cheek. His gaze met yours directly, something slow and deep flickering in his eyes like the calm before a tide changed. “If I were to change,” he said quietly, “I imagine you’d still find me.”

You blinked. “Even if the outfit vanished,” he continued, “if the titles faded, and the stars refused to answer me… I suspect you’d know.” You stared, not quite breathing. “And if not by sight,” he added, more gently now, “then by the way I still look for you first when the room gets loud. By the way I never quite know peace until I hear you laugh.”

Your lips parted, unsure whether to grin or cry or melt into the stone floor altogether. Somewhere to your left, Chai Latte made a sound like a choked squeal and buried her face in her hands.

Hazelnut Biscotti leaned across the table, whispering to Earl Grey Cookie, “This is so unfair. My standards are ruined. Forever.”

Earl Grey merely sipped his tea and murmured, “It’s about time they spoke plainly.” You meanwhile were busy short-circuiting.

“I was joking,” you finally managed to say, voice breathy and not at all convincing.

“I know,” Shadow Milk said softly, his smile almost secretive. “But I wasn’t.”

You turned slightly in your seat, knees angled toward him, elbow propped lazily on the table though your expression was anything but casual. You were close shoulders nearly touching. The soft hum of conversation in the dining hall had dulled into white noise around you, your focus narrowed entirely to the way Shadow Milk Cookie’s hand curled around his teacup and the thoughtful set of his mouth.

“But really,” you murmured, nudging his arm gently with yours. “What if everything changes? What if one day I see someone who looks nothing like you? No title, no theatrical riddles…”

His brow arched faintly at that. “…How would I know?” you pressed, voice softer now.

“Just give me one sure way. Something only you would do. So that no matter what, I’d recognize you.” He didn’t answer right away. The request landed with more weight than you’d anticipated.

You watched it settle into him and watched his eyes drift slightly downward, not in avoidance but in concentration. He didn’t rush.

Shadow Milk Cookie never rushed when it came to truths. His fingers stilled against his teacup, and the furrow in his brow deepened just a fraction. Then, after a long moment, he exhaled.

“If I were to vanish into another face,” he began slowly, voice like velvet pressed into thought, “into another name, another shape, if memory, time, or circumstance ever pulled me too far from you…” You held your breath. “…I would leave behind a question.”

You blinked. “A… question?” He nodded. “A single riddle. One no scholar would ever know but you. One that wouldn’t feel like a riddle at all, just a familiar curiosity only you would find comforting.”

You stared at him, mouth parting slightly. “Something like…” He tilted his head, eyes glinting with private knowing.

“If a star forgets the sky it once called home… where would it go looking for itself again?” You went still.

“That’s how you’d know,” he said softly. “If someone ever asked you that anywhere, in any form you’d know it was me.”

Your heart ached. Not in pain just in that strange, full way that came with being seen so clearly it almost hurt. You swallowed hard. “…That’s really unfair, you know.” He turned to face you more fully, the distance between you vanishing in an instant, his gaze locked on yours.

“How so?”

“Because now I have to remember that forever,” you said, laughing weakly, trying to keep your voice steady. “And what if I mess it up? What if I forget, or-”

“You won’t,” he said. There was no hesitation. And you believed him. Even if everything else one day changed, even if time unraveled the shape of what you were now, you’d remember that. You’d know.

Chai Latte Cookie had been pretending not to be so invested…emphasis on pretending. From across the table, where she’d been casually sipping her tea and quietly rearranging everyone’s leftover fruit slices into smiley faces, her entire demeanor changed the moment she caught wind of that line.

Her cup clattered softly onto its saucer. “Oh my gods,” she breathed.

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie, who’d been about to steal one of her grape eyes, paused mid-reach. “What now?”

She didn’t answer him. Instead, she clutched the front of his sleeve like the world had just tilted sideways. “Did you hear that?” she whispered, eyes shining with equal parts amazement and disbelief. “Did you hear what he just said?”

“I mean, I was sort of paying attention, yeah?”

“That wasn’t just poetic,” Chai continued breathlessly, practically trembling as she leaned into Hazelnut Biscotti’s side. “That was transcendent. That was celestial. That was star-level devotion!”

Hazelnut Biscotti winced as she grabbed him by the collar and shook him. “He said he’d leave a riddle just for them! A soul-coded password across realms and forms! Who even does that?!”

“Apparently he does,” Earl Grey Cookie murmured from the side, sipping his tea without comment, though even his usually stoic expression had cracked into something vaguely impressed.

Chai Latte looked at you, eyes practically misting over. “You absolute fool,” she wailed, affectionately dramatic. “How could you not see it before? How could you look at a man who speaks in cosmological riddles meant only for you and not realize he’s already carved your name into the stars?”

“Okay,” you mumbled, cheeks flushed. “It wasn’t that-”

“No,” she interrupted, pointing a grape at you as if delivering divine judgment. “No downplaying. Don’t you dare. That was the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard in my life, and I once saw two ghost-cursed lovers reunite at the gates of the Nightmare Archive.”

You blinked. “That was… weirdly specific.”

“I cried for days.” You laughed despite yourself, watching as Chai Latte curled dramatically into Hazelnut Biscotti’s side again, who despite pretending to be unfazed gently patted her shoulder with a snack still in hand.

“I mean,” she sniffed, voice still muffled, “it doesn’t even matter if he changes. Because let’s be honest…” She deadpanned “Do you really think he’s capable of not being the most ridiculously devoted version of himself? He’d probably still wear the same outfit and talk like a sentient prophecy even if he turned into a bird.”

“I’m pretty sure he’d be an annoying bird,” Hazelnut Biscotti added with a smirk. “One that judges you from a bookshelf.”

Chai wiped her eyes dramatically. “Exactly. So don’t worry, stargazer.” She beamed at you through slightly glassy eyes and emphasizing the nickname that was most given just to mess with you. “He’s already chosen you.”

You opened your mouth to argue. And then closed it again. Because… she was right. Maybe you had known all along. You just hadn’t dared to believe it. Not until recently.

You turned to Shadow Milk Cookie, heart fluttering with a softness that pulsed beneath your ribs like a slow, steady spell. His gaze met yours quiet, watchful, and filled with that ever-present patience that had come to feel like home.

You could still feel the phantom weight of his words from moments ago how he’d given you a way to find him, even in other forms, other lifetimes. As if the universe itself couldn’t hide him from you.

And you smiled. “I’m glad you chose me,” you said softly, sincerity threading every syllable. His expression barely shifted but the warmth behind his eyes, the subtle lift of his brow, the faintest flicker of something like relief that passed through him it said everything.

“Oh my god!” Chai Latte Cookie screeched, grabbing Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie by the shoulders as though she were about to ascend. “Did you hear that?! Did you hear it?! They just said they said they were glad he chose them! That’s- that’s-!”

“Romance incarnate?” Hazelnut Biscotti offered, only mildly amused as he let her shake him like a leaf in the wind.

“YES,” she wailed. “This is why I never stopped teasing you!” she cried, directing the full force of her dramatics at you now. “Because I knew! I KNEW this was real and tragic and beautiful and messy and I lived for it!”

You groaned, half-laughing, hiding your face in your hands again. “Chai”

“No, no, let me feel this!” she said, one hand over her heart, the other dramatically fanning her face. “You don’t understand. Every time I teased you, I was planting seeds of destiny. I nurtured your love with the power of mischief! You should be thanking me!”

“You’re being so normal right now,” Earl Grey Cookie deadpanned.

“Let her have this,” Hazelnut Biscotti muttered, still being clung to. Chai, utterly unbothered, turned to Shadow Milk Cookie with red-carpet-level flair. “And you, my celestial scholar, if you ever hurt them, I will cry in public and make it your problem.”

Shadow Milk Cookie didn’t blink. “Then I suppose I shall endeavor to prevent such suffering… for your sake.”

“Oh stars, he’s just as bad!” Chai wailed again, leaning so far into Hazelnut Biscotti you weren’t sure she’d recover. But you didn’t stop smiling.

Not as your friends collapsed back into familiar chatter, not as the magic of the moment settled between you and Shadow Milk Cookie like a quiet truth.

You hadn’t always known where this path would lead but standing here now, surrounded by the chaos of your friends and the steadiness of the one who chose you…You were starting to believe you didn’t need a name for it. Just this. Just now. Just him.

Chai Latte Cookie sighed dreamily, still leaning dramatically into Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie’s side, her expression flushed with the weight of imagined poetry. “As much as I desperately want to stay here and soak in this whirlwind of academic romance…”

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie gave her a look. “You mean meddle.”

“Same difference,” she chirped, waving him off. “The point is we should probably give you two some space.”

You blinked. “Wait, what?”

Chai gave you a look so knowing it bordered on scandalous. “Come on. Don’t act surprised. You think we didn’t notice the way you were looking at him just now? That little ‘I’m glad you chose me’ moment? My soul left my body.”

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie stood with a groan, brushing imaginary crumbs off his sleeves. “She’s not gonna shut up about this until graduation, is she?”

“Absolutely not,” Chai Latte Cookie said cheerfully, already taking his arm as she pulled herself up. You turned to Earl Grey Cookie, the last still seated.

He hesitated, fingers still curled lightly around his teacup. His eyes flicked between you and Shadow Milk Cookie, unreadable for a second. Then he exhaled softly, almost imperceptibly, and gave a small nod. “If you need anything… send word. To me or Hazelnut Biscotti. We’ll come.”

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie, who had taken one step away, paused and shot Earl Grey Cookie a half-glare, half-wince.

He leaned in slightly, muttering low enough that only Earl could hear, “Stop being so overprotective, you're going to ignite a fire that’s already being put out.” Earl raised an eyebrow but said nothing, his gaze lingering just long enough to show he understood.

“You two done whispering secrets?” Chai Latte Cookie sing-songed.

“We're good,” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie grumbled, straightening.

Earl Grey Cookie gave you one final nod. “Truly. Just send for us.” Then, like the coordinated chaos they always were, your friends peeled away, their laughter already echoing through the corridor as Chai poked and prodded Hazelnut about pastry betrayals and Earl Grey attempted to herd them with quiet dignity.

The space left behind was quieter but not empty. Just… yours. Shadow Milk Cookie turned toward you with a soft breath, one brow raised, gaze still warm.

“Alone at last,” he murmured, and you couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips. You leaned back slightly on the now mostly-empty bench, watching as your friends disappeared around the corner in their usual flurry of banter and bickering.

The last of their voices faded beneath the ambient murmurs of the dining hall a crowd that had most certainly not missed the way you’d sat beside the Sage of Truth like you belonged there.

“I mean…” you began, glancing sideways at him. “It wasn’t that bad. Sure, more chaotic than usual. But honestly? It was good. Really good.”

Shadow Milk Cookie let out a long sigh, one gloved hand rising to rub lightly at his temple. “Good for you, perhaps. I’m still recovering from the verbal whiplash.” You stifled a laugh.

“I had fun, however,” he added after a beat, voice softer. “If that wasn’t already clear.”

“It kind of was.”

“I am… not used to this,” he continued, gesturing vaguely toward the now-vacated seats, still warm with presence. “This… whirlwind of emotion. The overlapping dialogues. The unfiltered teasing. I understand you’re protective of them, and they of you, but” he paused, exhaling, “it is… exhausting.”

You looked at him carefully, searching for any sign that he regretted coming. But he wasn’t pulling away. He wasn’t shutting down.

He was just being honest. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful,” he added quickly, gaze flicking back to you. “It was… unfamiliar. But not unwelcome. To be included like that.”

You smiled, heart warm. “They did it for me. Not because you’re the Sage of Truth. Just because you’re… something to me.”

He didn’t answer right away, but the slight tilt of his head and the softening of his shoulders said more than words could. Still, his eyes lingered in the direction Earl Grey had gone. “And… is Earl Grey Cookie always that overprotective with you?”

he asked, the question so casual you could practically see the quotation marks around it.

You blinked. “Huh?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly too quickly, returning to rubbing slow circles at his temple like he could wipe the thought away. You grinned, leaning forward with your elbow on the table.

“Were you jealous?” He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. You watched his silence with an amused sparkle in your eye. “You were.”

“I merely observed,” he said, dignified but flat, “that his hands lingered longer than strictly necessary.”

You snorted. “It’s not a crime to find grounding in someone who’s known me since childhood,” you said, resting your chin on your palm. “Besides… you’re the one I-” You hesitated, then finished more softly, “chose to sit beside.”

He looked at you then, the tension in his brow easing into something quieter. Still, the dining hall’s buzz hadn’t quite let you go.

You could feel the stares, hear the hushes the whispers blooming like ivy along the walls. You glanced away, uneasy for the first time that day. “They’re all wondering,” you murmured.

“Let them,” Shadow Milk Cookie replied, without hesitation. “They have nothing but questions. We have… whatever this is.”

You looked at him again, and the warmth of his expression tired as he might’ve been, settled something in your chest. And for a moment, the stares didn’t matter. The whispers didn’t matter. You were simply there. With him. In the quiet left behind. You smiled. “So,” you said, nudging his elbow lightly, “how many more shared meals with my chaotic friends do you think you’ll survive?” He sighed again, but this time, there was something almost amused in it.

“…One at a time,” he muttered.

You laughed. “That’s fair.” Shadow Milk Cookie caught the slight shift in your shoulders the way your voice dipped lower, hesitant, almost too soft to hear above the quiet murmur of the dining hall.

“…Can we go somewhere else?” you asked, fingers nervously tracing the rim of your teacup. “I don’t mind staying here, I just”

You glanced around subtly, not wanting to give anyone the satisfaction of knowing they’d been noticed. “It’s a bit nerve-wracking. The eyes. Even if I can pretend for a while.”

He didn’t follow your gaze. He didn’t need to. The attention was obvious. There was no hiding the way the atmosphere had shifted once your friends had left and the seat beside the Sage of Truth remained occupied by you.

No one said anything aloud, but curiosity clung to the air like fog. For a moment, he was quiet. Then, gently, so much so it almost startled you, his hand reached across the table. Not to grab. Not to hold. Just to touch, fingers brushing yours in a way that grounded more than it startled.

“You don’t have to pretend,” he said, voice low and steady. “Not for me. Not for anyone.” You looked down at his hand, then up into his gaze calm, unwavering, certain in a way only he could be.

“I’ve withstood years of scrutiny, endless speculation, and truths that once cracked the world open,” he murmured. “But this?”

His thumb ghosted across your knuckles. “Us? I would bear tenfold the weight if it meant you could walk beside me without fear.”

Your breath caught. The din of the dining hall faded, muffled by the intimacy of the moment. He tilted his head slightly. “But if you wish to leave… we can. Say the word.” You hesitated, heart skipping just once.

“Okay,” you whispered. “Let’s go.” He rose in one graceful motion, offering his hand without a single glance toward the lingering onlookers. As if none of them mattered. As if you were the only one who did. And maybe, in that moment you were. You took his hand.

For the first time, in full view of the Academy’s whispers and wonderings, you didn’t hesitate. Your fingers found his, lacing with care, and still he didn’t look back. Not once.

He walked forward with that same quiet certainty he always carried, his coattails trailing behind him, the scent of parchment and old ink lingering faintly as you slipped through the arching halls together. The dining hall’s murmurs faded behind you, but the thrum in your chest didn’t ease. You walked in silence for a while, turning into the quieter wings of the Academy, where the stone corridors grew older and the air softer, hushed by centuries of scholars who had wandered them before.

Only then did you speak. “…You’re really not worried?”

His stride didn’t falter. “About what?”

You glanced away, voice low. “This. Us. The way people looked when we stood up back there. The things they’re probably saying now.”

He didn’t respond. You tried to laugh, but it came out thinner than intended. “I mean, you’re you. You have… a reputation. A place here. People admire you, they quote you, they rely on you to be above all this. You’re the Sage of Truth. And I’m just…”

You trailed off. The echo of your own words made your stomach twist. “I just… I don’t want people to think less of you because of me. I know how that sounds,” you added quickly, “and I know it’s not fair to assume, but it’s just if anyone started to think that you’re distracted or being careless, or if something happened that made it look like this meant less to you, or too much-” You were rambling now. The thoughts poured out faster than you could contain them, clumsy, unfiltered.

“I’m not saying I regret anything. I don’t. But you’ve spent your whole life being someone the entire Academy looks up to. And I don’t want to be the reason they start to look twice. Not because I think they matter, but because you do.”

You couldn’t meet his eyes. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he stopped walking. You stopped with him, uncertain, but he didn’t let go of your hand. His expression was calm, serious, but not heavy.

“You think I’ve lived this long,” he began, “shouldering the weight of knowledge, of scrutiny, of truth itself… only to falter at the idea that someone might talk?”

His voice wasn’t sharp. Just quiet. Unshakably certain. “I have been dissected in lecture halls, debated by minds brighter than fire, misunderstood, misquoted, dismissed, and exalted in the same breath.” He lifted your hand gently, brushing his thumb over your knuckles.

“But I have never let others decide the value of what I hold close.” You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry.

“I don’t think you understand just how much of yourself you offer,” you murmured.

“How much you mean to people here.” He looked at you fully then, the flickering lantern light catching in the gold threads of his sleeves and the soft blue of his gaze.

“And you think that offering less of myself would make me greater?” You didn’t answer.

“Let them wonder,” he said. “Let them whisper. If their truths are so fragile they fracture at the sight of mine… they were never truths at all.”

You stared at him, wide-eyed, unsure how he could say something so simple and yet leave your entire chest feeling cracked open. And then, softer, almost like a secret between you

“I will not lose myself by choosing you.” It wasn’t a performance. It wasn’t a line spoken for effect. It was just truth, spoken as he always did with unwavering conviction. You didn’t feel the need to question it.

The two of you slipped through the quiet corridors like a secret carried by dusk.

Past the celestial archways, down the scholar’s wing where the golden lanterns burned slower and quieter, where footsteps softened against the worn stone, and voices if they ever spoke knew to hush themselves. Your hand still rested in his. The gesture was steady now, your grip looser, the tension easing little by little with each step you took further from the gazes left behind in the dining hall.

By the time you reached the door, his door your nerves had circled back in full. The carved constellations on the wood shimmered faintly, like they too recognized you now. Familiar. Recurring.

Shadow Milk Cookie didn’t knock. Of course he didn’t. It was his space, ancient and deliberate. The door opened for him on its own, a faint pulse of magic rippling through the frame as if it bowed to his presence.

You stepped in after him, eyes drifting across the countless tomes, artifacts, and carefully arranged scrolls that lined the walls. The room smelled like parchment and starlight if such a thing had a scent, and something warm, like aged wood left out under moonlight. He gestured wordlessly toward your usual seat across from his. But this time, you hesitated.

“…Could I maybe sit next to you?” you asked, barely louder than the rustle of pages still drifting from somewhere in the room. His head turned toward you, just slightly, gaze unreadable. You added, quickly, “Not to be a distraction, I just… I think I might follow better if I can see what you’re doing up close.”

He said nothing. So, tentatively, you grabbed your chair, fingers curling under the edge, and started to drag it around the table toward him. The legs squeaked across the floor in protest.

Then, before you could reach halfway, your chair moved on its own. It glided soundless across the polished stone and stopped gently right beside him. Close enough that you could read the script on his notes if you leaned in. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his sleeves.

You blinked, startled. “Wait did you…?”

He hummed, opening one of the tomes with the same calm he always wore. “You seemed to be struggling.”

You turned toward him, still processing. “You could do that the whole time?” His tone remained smooth, almost amused. “Of course.”

“But last time, I practically had to carry the chair around the desk.” A flicker of amusement danced at the corner of his mouth. “You never asked.”

You narrowed your eyes. “So you let me struggle with it?”

“I was curious to see how long you’d persist,” Your mouth parted in disbelief, and you lightly smacked your hand against your forehead. “Unbelievable.”

Then, more softly, and without thinking, “What else can you do?” That made him pause. Not for long just a heartbeat but long enough that you noticed it.

“You’re the Sage of Truth,” you added, half-playful but not really joking. “You’re one of the most powerful scholars in the entire Academy. If you can move chairs without even blinking, then I can’t imagine what else you’re hiding.”

He looked at you then, at last. The glow of the desk lamp caught the reflection in his mismatched eyes, one blue, the other a beautiful gold, like knowledge and the unknown woven together.

“I have spent years studying the weave of magic, the architecture of knowledge, and the shape of reality itself,” he said.

“Yes, I can bend the elements. I can fold space if I must. I can summon starlight and silence with the same breath.” He leaned forward, voice lowering just slightly, not out of secrecy but gravity.

“But the most difficult thing I have done lately…” His gaze lingered on yours, unreadable. “…is trying to explain spell theory to someone who keeps doubting their own brilliance.”

You froze. Your heart stuttered. “…That’s not fair,” you mumbled, eyes darting down toward your notes. “No,” he agreed gently. “It isn’t.”

The silence that followed was warm. Heavy, but not oppressive like a blanket you were still adjusting to. You adjusted slightly in the chair he’d so graciously placed beside his. He made no effort to shift away, to reclaim his space. If anything, he welcomed your proximity without ever needing to say it.

You stared down at the parchment in front of you smooth, unmarred by your usual frantic ink strokes. His notes were immaculate, the diagrams elegant, precise. You caught yourself tracing one with your finger, careful not to smudge it. A sigil looped into itself like an orbit, pulling your thoughts inward along with it. “Can you shapeshift?” The question tumbled out of you before you’d fully decided to ask.

Shadow Milk Cookie’s quill paused mid-line. You glanced sideways at him, only half sheepish. “You just moved a whole chair like it was nothing. And yesterday, you corrected three different things on my page before I even showed you the page. You bend light, silence, space. So… shapeshifting? That’s not a leap, right?”

He didn't respond immediately. Instead, he rested the quill across the inkwell with quiet precision, then folded his hands atop the parchment. “You are aware,” he said slowly, “that shapeshifting is not merely a novelty.”

You shrugged, lips quirking. “You say that like you didn’t just telekinetically scoot a chair across the room because I was making too much noise.”

He exhaled through his nose something close to a laugh, if he allowed himself such undignified things. “It is a discipline,” he said, tilting his head ever so slightly. “One that requires precise attunement between one’s sense of self and the arcane framework of transformation.”

“…So you can.” His mouth twitched. “Yes.” You blinked. “Just like that?”

“There is no ‘just’ about it,” he replied, but there was no real admonishment in his tone. “The first time I attempted it, I lost my voice for three days and temporarily forgot the alphabet.” You covered your mouth, barely stifling your laughter. “You forgot the alphabet?”

“I remembered it later. Backwards.” You snorted, the sound echoing embarrassingly in the otherwise quiet room.

“That’s incredible. Horrifying, but incredible.” He turned to you then, that unreadable gaze softening if only a little. “I have not attempted it in some time. There is little need, and many… consequences, when it is done improperly.”

“Still,” you said, turning to face him fully, your expression openly curious now, “you’ve done it. I’ve only read about it in theory. Most scholars treat it like a myth impossible unless you're touched by some ancient force or bound by jam magic or something wild like that. But you…”

You trailed off, eyes still searching his. “You just can.” He regarded you for a long moment, then said quietly, “Much becomes possible when one stops telling themselves what is not.”

The words settled into your chest like weight and warmth at once. You looked down at the notes again, the symbols that had felt impossibly complex just days ago. They still were. You still didn’t understand half of what he’d written. But suddenly, that didn’t seem like a wall it felt like a path. One you might actually walk.

One you were already walking. “You’re not going to shapeshift now, are you?” you asked, a bit more lightly. “I would prefer not to transform into a desk lamp in front of you,” he said with perfectly straight delivery. You smiled quietly and reluctantly. “Fair.”

You let your fingers skim the edge of his desk, still marveling at how close you were allowed to be at how natural it felt to sit here beside him, as if the centuries of scholarly silence in this room had made space just for you.

Your thoughts spun, full of quiet wonder and a thousand unasked questions, but one in particular itched at your curiosity. Still half-draped over the parchment, you turned toward him, eyes wide with the beginnings of something dangerously close to awe.

“…Wait,” you said slowly, “can you shapeshift into a different person?” Shadow Milk Cookie did not look up from his notes. “In theory.”

“Like… a full disguise?” you pressed, voice softer now, but undeniably more alive. “Could you look completely different? Sound different?”

He finally lifted his gaze, and the look he gave you was… unreadable. As always. But there was a spark behind it, an almost imperceptible gleam of amusement at your obvious interest. You leaned in, unable to stop yourself.

“Have you done it before? You have, haven’t you?” He didn't answer. Not directly. Which was as good as a yes. You blinked, startled by the mental image forming in your head. “You could’ve walked through the Academy and no one would’ve known it was you. You could’ve sat in a lecture, or oh gone to the dining hall without people staring the whole time. That’s incredible.”

The words tumbled out before you could filter them. “Would you-could you show me?” There was a pause.

Then you caught yourself. You sat up straighter, cleared your throat, and immediately looked away. “Never mind. That’s-never mind. Forget I asked. It’s fine.”

Dignity. A fragile, flickering thing. He was still watching you, you could feel it, but he said nothing. You braved a glance. His expression was unreadable again but softer than before. A knowing sort of silence. Like he could do it, probably even without standing. Like he would, if you asked again.

But he didn’t tease. He didn’t say a word. And somehow, that was worse. You exhaled, trying to look busy, trying not to think about what it might be like to see someone else in his place to hear his voice from a stranger’s face.

“…You’re terrifying,” you muttered under your breath.

“Still,” he replied without looking up, “you remain seated beside me.” You made a strangled noise in the back of your throat and turned sharply back to the parchment. For your own dignity’s sake, you did not speak again for a full three minutes.

You stayed quiet for exactly three minutes.

Which, considering the swirl of thoughts ricocheting through your head, was an act of monumental restraint. But eventually even as your eyes flicked between the complex diagrams on the parchment and the steady movement of Shadow Milk Cookie’s quill you couldn’t help yourself. “…That would be so cool.”

He didn’t glance up, but you could feel the subtle pause in his motion. You leaned forward, chin resting lightly in your hand. “To just… change the way you look. Just because. No spells, no glamours, not an illusion but real. Tangible. That’s… amazing.”

His tone, when it came, was even. “It has its uses.” You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye. “Could you… become a woman?”

His writing stilled completely this time. “I mean-” you rushed, hands lifting as if to catch the question and stuff it back in your mouth, “not right now. I’m just curious. You said you could change your form completely. So… could you?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Just turned his gaze to you, patient and unblinking. You faltered, looking away. “That would be incredible. Like… becoming someone else entirely, even for a little while. To see how the world looks at you differently. To see what you would look like.”

You paused, biting your bottom lip. “I was going to ask if you’d show me,” you admitted, face warming, “just once. Just so I could see. But then I realized that’s probably weird. So I’m not asking. I mean I was asking. But I’m not now.” Silence. You sighed. “I’m digging a hole, aren’t I.”

“A deep one,” he said calmly. “Though I’m impressed by how quickly.”

You groaned quietly and buried your face in your hands for a moment. “Forget it. Pretend I said nothing.” But you didn’t really want to let it go. Not yet. You peeked at him between your fingers, voice quieter now.

“Is that… is that why you don’t do it often? Because it feels like lying? Pretending to be someone you’re not?” His expression didn’t shift much but it didn’t need to. There was something in his stillness that gave you pause.

“Yes,” he said finally. “Partially.”

That surprised you. He turned his gaze toward the far bookshelf, where soft blue sigils pulsed like a quiet heartbeat. “To alter form is not merely to change appearance,” he said. “It requires the reshaping of self. The adjustment of voice, movement, weight, presence. It becomes easier to forget what is real. What is yours. And what was only borrowed.”

You listened, quiet now. “I do not lie,” he said simply. “Even when I could. Especially then.”

“…Because you’re the Sage of Truth.” He stared at you with a look, as if to say exactly. You sat with that for a moment, letting it sink in.

Then, almost without thinking, you whispered, “But… if it’s not lying. Like if you’re not using it to deceive, then maybe it’s not wrong.” His gaze found yours again. Something gentler there now. Not agreement. Not argument. Just… interest.

“You are curious,” he said. You nodded. “It’s just if I had that kind of power, I’d want to know what it’s like to be… everything. Everyone. Not to fool anyone. Just… to understand.” You hesitated. “To know what else I could be.”

He watched you for a long, long moment. And then, very quietly, he said, “Perhaps… one day.” And your heart stuttered like a secret had just been offered, tucked between his words like a folded page in an ancient book, waiting to be read.

You stared at him.

Not in the way you usually did when you were trying to follow his explanations, or pretending not to notice the way his voice dipped when he got caught up in thought. Not in the way you caught glimpses of him during lectures from the back row, scribbling his theorems in sharp, fluid strokes with the same grace he used to tear your logic apart. This was different.

You tilted your head, gaze softening as you studied the arch of his cheekbones, the delicate precision of his fingers as they returned to the page.

His features were already… beautiful. Refined. Thoughtful. There was an effortless elegance to him like he was carved from the same stillness as the night sky itself. You genuinely tried to imagine what he’d look like differently.

Sharper jaw softened. Shoulders a little narrower. Hair pinned up or let loose in long, astral waves. The clothes the same…no, maybe not. A different cut, perhaps. Same celestial embroidery, but traced along a different frame.

Still poised. Still composed. Still him. You squinted slightly. “I think I can picture it.”

He glanced up at you, mildly. “Ah.” You blinked, realizing you’d said it aloud.

“I wasn’t! I mean, I wasn’t trying to picture it, I just… you know, you said it was possible, and now I can’t not wonder what you’d look like.” You paused. “That sounds weird.”

“It does,” he agreed without missing a beat. You huffed and sank a little lower in your seat, fingers fiddling with the edge of the parchment. “Well, now I’m curious and mildly horrified by my own imagination, so thank you for that.”

He didn’t respond immediately. But something in the line of his mouth hinted at quiet amusement. You dared another glance at him. “Would you still talk the same?”

His gaze slid to you steady, unreadable. “I imagine the voice would change,” he said. “Cadence, tone, presence. But the truth would remain the same.”

You blinked. “Of course it would,” you murmured. Because of course he would say that. Still, you couldn’t help it. Your eyes drifted back to his features already graceful in ways you couldn’t explain, already walking some fine line between myth and scholar and something too vast for either.

You imagined the same gaze behind longer lashes. The same smile, but curved in a slightly different shape. The same voice no, not the same, but still his saying something that left your thoughts in disarray.

You bit your lip, looking away. “I think you’d be… terrifying.” He hummed. “Only as terrifying as I am now, I hope.”

“Yeah,” you muttered. “That’s the problem.”

He didn’t press. He didn’t need to. And you didn’t stop thinking about it. Not really. You were quiet again but not the kind of quiet that meant you were done asking questions. He knew that. He always knew. You sat there beside him, still half-lost in thought, eyes on the parchment but your mind drifting far beyond it. You weren’t even pretending to read anymore. Not really.

Then, you softly spoke up. “What else can you do?” He glanced sideways at you. You didn’t meet his gaze. You were still staring at the page, as though the question wasn’t meant to land too heavily. But it did.

“I mean,” you continued, a little bolder now, “you can shapeshift. You can move furniture with a thought. You’ve probably memorized half the Nightmare Archive, and I’m pretty sure you once stopped someone’s ink from spilling mid-air and reversed the stain on their robes.”

You finally turned to him. “So what else? What else can you do that you just… don’t?” He considered you. Not in the usual way that academic, thoughtful narrowing of his eyes when weighing an idea. Like he was trying to decide how much of himself to place in your hands.

“There is much I am capable of,” he said, voice level. “But very little I find necessary.”

You blinked, unsure what you expected, but somehow that wasn’t it. “I am not interested in spectacle,” he added. “Power is not worth much if it eclipses the very people I wish to reach.”

“…Eclipses?” He turned his eyes back to the parchment. “I could levitate,” he said plainly. You blinked again. “You what?”

“Levitate,” he repeated. “Easily. Effortlessly.” Your eyes widened. “And you don’t?!”

“No.”

“Why not?! That’s so so cool! You could float into a room and everyone would just know you’re the Sage of Truth. Not that they don’t already, but-!”

He raised a brow. “Exactly.” You faltered. He continued, “I do not need to hover above the ground to make my presence known. More importantly, I do not wish to place myself so high that I no longer feel reachable.”

Your breath caught. Oh. You looked at him again and it struck you how often he chose stillness over grandeur, presence over performance.

How he walked with quiet steps, sat at eye-level, answered your scattered questions without ever making you feel foolish.

“You think… levitating would make you seem out of reach,” you said, more softly now. He nodded once. “It is not power that makes one respected. It is how one wields it.”

You were quiet again. Not because you had nothing to say this time but because something in your chest had gone very, very still. And then, almost as an afterthought:

“…So… you’re telling me you’ve been walking this whole time. When you could have been floating.”

“I will walk for centuries,” he replied, not looking up. “I can continue a while longer.” You stared at him. “…You’re ridiculous,” you said, half-laughing. He glanced at you one brow raised, not unkindly. “Again, you remain beside me.”

You smiled, helpless against it. “Yeah I suppose I do.” You leaned back slightly in your chair, the weight of his words still lingering, but already your thoughts were shifting restless, mischievous. The parchment between you lay untouched. The notes, diagrams, and spells sat waiting, but your focus had long since wandered from the ink.

Truthfully, you had no intention of revisiting spell theory today.

Not because you didn’t need to.

But because you’d been sitting through Almond Custard Cookie’s lecture earlier, caught between half-sketched notes and a mind that couldn’t seem to land anywhere useful. You already knew you’d absorbed more from that hour of droning monotony than you had the last three practice sessions combined. So why not… use your time wisely?

You glanced at the Sage beside you, who was carefully adjusting the position of a crystalline magnifier without glancing up.

“Do you think time has a taste?” you asked, casually.

He didn’t look at you. “No.”

You tapped your finger thoughtfully against the desk. “But if it did, would it be more like burnt sugar? Or something cold? Maybe iron.”

“You are not serious.”

“I might be.”

He finally lifted his gaze just a fraction, enough for you to catch the brief flicker of disbelief.

You grinned. “What about shadows? If a shadow had weight, do you think you could pick it up? Like, peel it off the wall and fold it in your pocket?”

“That would violate at least three natural laws,” he replied, “and several codes of campus conduct.”

“But could you do it?”

“No.”

“But what if you really, really wanted to?”

“No.”

You hummed, undeterred. “What’s your opinion on cursed forks?”

He paused. “That is not a real classification.”

“Okay, but should it be?”

A breath. Measured. Silent. Not quite a sigh but it teetered on the edge of one.

You smiled wider. “What if the moon is just a big eye and we’re in denial?”

“Then denial,” he said smoothly, “is the least of your problems.”

You were beaming now, delighted. Not by the answers though those were entertaining in their own dry, exacting way but by how far you could go. How long you could press before the Sage of Truth, who had debated archmages and outlasted eldritch storms of cognition, would finally crack.

“Do you think ghosts get offended if you walk through them on purpose?”

He didn’t blink. “Only the theatrical ones.”

“Are you offended when people walk through your lectures mentally?”

He turned to you fully now, expression calm, unreadable, but there was something in the set of his mouth something dangerously close to a smirk.

“That depends,” he said slowly, “on whether they come to my office hours seeking guidance… or entertainment.”

You straightened up like a child caught sneaking sweets before dinner. “Who’s to say I’m not doing both?”

“Indeed,” he murmured, returning to his notes. “Perhaps I’ll start testing for comprehension mid-riddle.”

You squinted at him. “You wouldn’t.”

“You are welcome to find out.”

The air between you held a subtle charge now like the beginning of a storm made of wit instead of thunder. You leaned closer, chin in your palm, smile curling at the edges of your lips.

Challenge accepted. You weren’t sure when exactly it happened.

One moment, you were testing his patience with questions you had no business asking questions about the philosophical implications of sentient shadows, about whether constellations could be rearranged like furniture if someone tried hard enough, about whether forbidden spells had feelings about being forbidden.

He had fielded each one with unnerving poise, answering without so much as a raised brow, every retort calmly measured, never quite giving you the satisfaction of cracking that collected facade.

And then you asked “If someone dreamt of a spell like, it came to them fully formed in a dream would that count as plagiarism if it already exists in another plane?”

There was a pause.

A longer one this time.

Shadow Milk Cookie lowered his quill. Slowly.

“You’re asking,” he said, voice unhurried, “if unconscious thought, which one cannot claim to have constructed through intention or study, has the same scholarly ownership as consciously crafted magic?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden seriousness in his tone. “Um. Yeah? I guess?”

“Then allow me to reframe.” He steepled his fingers, the light from the desklamp catching the gold edges of his sleeves. “If a spell comes to you in a dream, are you its author? Or merely the vessel through which it traveled?”

Your eyes widened, mind stumbling to catch up. “Wait, I didn’t mean”

“Does inspiration absolve one of authorship? Or is it only through understanding, through repetition and mastery, that creation becomes real?”

You straightened in your seat. “Well, if you use it without knowing why it works, that’s dangerous, right?”

“Indeed. But dangerous knowledge is still knowledge. And what of those who share the same revelation in different corners of the world? If two scholars dream the same spell, is the truth theirs equally?”

“I” You hesitated, frowning. “That depends. Were they both influenced by the same source? If it’s a shared memory from some ancestral magic, then maybe it does belong to both of them.”

“Then you admit it’s possible for truth to manifest independently through different minds.”

“Well, yeah.”

“And yet,” he said, tilting his head, “you asked if dream-born magic was plagiarism.”

You gawked at him. “You’re twisting my words!”

He arched a brow. “I am following them.”

You leaned in, now fully engaged, hands animated. “Okay, but that assumes the dreamer didn’t learn it beforehand and forget. What if they read about it once, years ago, and their subconscious is just recycling it?”

“Then intent becomes the measure,” he replied evenly. “But intention is notoriously difficult to prove especially when memory fails.”

“So you’re saying there is no answer?”

“I am saying,” he said, folding his hands once more, “that the question you posed in jest has weight. And that if you wish to treat nonsense as philosophy, you must be prepared for the responsibility of engaging with it.”

You stared at him, stunned.

Somehow, in the span of five minutes, you had been tricked guided, really into a fully fledged academic debate.

You opened your mouth. Closed it again.

“…Are you proud of this?”

He didn’t smile.

But he did say, in that maddeningly calm voice: “I find it… enlightening.”

You groaned, dropping your forehead to the desk with a quiet thump.

And from somewhere beside you, you heard the faintest breath of amusement so soft it might’ve been imagined.

But you knew better. You didn’t lift your head right away.

Not because you were embarrassed though the thump of your forehead meeting the desk echoed with more drama than you intended but because you were thinking. Hard. You couldn’t let him win this easily. Not when you’d been the one to start the game. Not when you could feel the shift in the air, the kind of quiet that happens just before something changes.

He thought he’d steered the conversation back into his realm, into his carefully ruled systems of logic and layered philosophical precision. But you had something he didn’t.

You were willing to be ridiculous.

You lifted your head slowly, brow furrowed in faux seriousness, eyes narrowing just slightly as you stared him down.

“Alright,” you said, voice calm, collected. “Let’s say a spell is born in a dream. The caster uses it, unaware it already existed. The result is identical to something written a century ago. But the caster didn’t know that.”

He tilted his head, watching.

You continued, “Now if they go on to teach it, to claim it, to build on it… are they a liar?”

His gaze sharpened, just a little. “Not if they believe it is theirs.”

“But what if their belief is rooted in a lie? Not one they told but one they were told?”

He paused.

You leaned forward. “Say someone erased the original record. Altered the texts. Buried the memory. The truth is gone, and now this new caster, completely unaware, is praised for innovation.”

You folded your arms. “So. Who holds the truth then? The one who first discovered it? Or the one who remembers it?”

He studied you quiet, calculating.

“I see your point,” he said. “But you are equating ignorance with deceit.”

“I’m equating truth with who tells the story,” you shot back, now on a roll. “You said it yourself intent is hard to prove. So how do we know a truth is true if it’s passed through a hundred uncertain mouths before it reaches us?”

His lips parted slightly, but no words came.

You seized the moment.

“What if the Sage of Truth,” you said, eyes glinting, “has built his name on truths told by liars? On conclusions passed down by biased minds? Even if you corrected the language, even if you refined the spellwork, what if the foundation is still cracked?”

He stared at you.

Not with offense.

Not even with disbelief.

But with that rare, sharpened stillness that meant you’d gotten to him. Even just a little.

You leaned back in your chair, triumphant. “Maybe truth is just a prettier form of deceit. One that sounds more palatable when spoken by someone eloquent. Someone like you.”

A long pause.

“…Interesting,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Your grin widened. “Did I just make the Sage of Truth question one of his core beliefs?”

“No,” he said calmly.

You deflated slightly.

“But,” he continued, eyes still on you, “you have demonstrated something far more dangerous.”

Your brow rose. “What?”

He leaned forward slowly, voice low.

“You have proven that you’re capable of challenging a truth by mimicking the structure of it enough to create doubt.” A pause. “Which means, were you less honest, and more invested in persuasion than clarity… you would be very difficult to argue against.”

You blinked. “Was that a compliment?”

“That,” he said, finally soft, amused, and a little too proud, “was a warning.”

And you weren’t entirely sure if that made you want to argue more…or smile like you'd won something you hadn’t meant to claim. You tilted your head, still half-smiling caught somewhere between pleased and confused. His words hung in the air, and you replayed them once. Twice.

“…A warning?” you echoed.

Your brow furrowed. “Why would that be a warning?”

Shadow Milk Cookie didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he regarded you with that maddening calm of his like he was already four steps ahead of this conversation and simply waiting for you to catch up.

You shifted in your chair, eyes narrowing slightly. “Are you saying you don’t want me to argue like that?”

“I did not say that.”

“Then what are you saying?”

He closed the tome in front of him with deliberate grace, fingers folding lightly atop its cover. “You have the mind of a scholar,” he said. “Restless. Quick. Willing to chase the shape of a question even if the ground beneath it is uncertain.”

You blinked.

“That is admirable,” he continued. “But also dangerous. Because a sharp mind that does not ground itself in intention… can unravel truth just as easily as it reveals it.”

You stared at him. The smile was gone now not out of hurt, but out of attention. He had spoken softly, but the weight of it settled into your chest like a stone dropped into still water.

He didn’t look harsh. Or disappointed. Just… honest.

“You mean I could be dangerous,” you said slowly, testing the words.

“I mean you could be persuasive,” he replied. “Persuasive enough that you might lead others without meaning to. Or worse persuade yourself.”

You didn’t answer.

He went on, voice lower now gentler.

“There is power in being able to twist an idea. Even in jest. But there is also responsibility in knowing when not to.”

You looked down at the desk, tracing a thumb along the edge of the parchment.

“…You think I wouldn’t know when to stop?”

“I think,” he said softly, “you are still learning what you are capable of.”

And there it was again that same steadiness, that same truth-speaking tone that never scolded, never shamed… only revealed.

You didn’t speak for a while. You weren’t upset not really. But something about what he’d said sat with you. Tugged at the corners of your thoughts.

Then, after a pause “So… is this the part where you tell me to stop asking dumb questions during tutoring?”

“No,” he said, without hesitation.

You blinked.

“This is the part,” he added, “where I begin writing them down for later discussion.”

He reached for a fresh page of parchment smiling looking pleased. Not the teasing smile. One you interpreted as.

I see you.

And you are worth the effort.

You watched him write.

For a moment, you let the silence settle. Not because you had nothing to say but because something about what he’d said stuck. The idea that you could be dangerous. That your questions weren’t just distractions, or games to test his patience, but sparks something he might carry with him.

You tapped your fingers lightly on the desk, thinking.

“…I don’t think you could ever lose to deceit,” you said quietly.

He didn’t look up.

You continued, “You’re you. You know too much. You’d see through it. You’d feel it before it even took root.” You looked over at him, more serious now than you intended. “You have enough truth in you to recognize a lie before it even finishes forming.”

His pen paused just slightly.

But you were already fidgeting, lips pressing together like you regretted saying something so honest out loud. The weight of it pressed down too heavily on your chest. So, like you always did when things got a little too close to real you pivoted.

“Unless,” you said suddenly, “the deceit came from a sentient muffin. Like, one that could rewrite history through crumbs.”

A beat.

He looked up at you slowly.

You met his gaze, dead serious. “How would you even prepare for that? What if it weaponized frosting?”

Silence.

His expression was unreadable.

You smiled innocently. “Just asking for research purposes.”

His eyes narrowed just slightly. Not in disapproval. In quiet recognition. Like he could see what you were doing, and maybe even deep down understood why.

He didn’t call you out.

Didn’t drag you back to the previous moment, or make you sit with the weight of your own sincerity.

He simply said, “The frosting would need to be laced with temporal magic. Otherwise, it would be too sweet to anchor historical revision.”

You gaped at him. “You’re engaging with this?”

“You brought the muffin,” he said, returning to his writing. “I’m simply considering the battlefield.”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh, the tension in your chest loosening like thread unspooling.

Maybe he did know the truth.

And maybe he knew when to let it rest.

You let the muffin debate go, for now. Mostly because he was too good at it and also because the image of him seriously counter-strategizing against a frosting-wielding pastry was starting to unravel your composure.

But your curiosity didn’t settle. In fact, now that you’d steered him off-course, it only flared brighter.

Your gaze flicked toward him again steady, focused, annoyingly unreadable as ever, like the concept of flustered had barely touched him.

You decided to change that.

“So,” you began casually, stretching your arms behind your head. “Do you wear pajamas?”

The quill didn’t stop moving.

You kept going. “Like, do you sleep in your Sage of Truth outfit? The high collar? The hat?”

Still no reaction. His expression didn’t shift.

You leaned a little closer. “Be honest. Do you have a closet full of the exact same outfit? Just five identical sets of the same dramatic outfit? Or do you enchant the same one every night to repair itself?”

He didn’t even blink.

“Okay, but do you ever wear anything else?” you asked. “Like, do you own normal clothes? Casual ones? Have you ever worn a hoodie?”

“I do not see how this is relevant to spell theory,” he said without looking up.

You grinned. Now you were getting somewhere.

“It’s not,” you replied. “But I’m invested now.”

He sighed very softly. Barely there. But there.

“So you do sleep in this.”

“I did not say that.”

“Oh, so there’s a different outfit for sleeping? What is it? A silk robe? Do you own luxurious scholar pajamas? Do they have constellations embroidered on the sleeves?”

“I refuse to dignify that with an answer.”

You gasped. “So you do have scholar pajamas!”

He paused.

That was all the confirmation you needed.

“Are they navy blue?” you pressed, delighted. “Midnight-themed? Do they shimmer when the moonlight hits them? Are there moon phases sewn into the hem?”

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. Slowly. Deliberately.

“Do you sleep with the hat on?” you added, voice rising with mock incredulity. “Or is that a daytime-only kind of Sage thing?”

“Stars above…”

“Do you ever take the outfit off at all? Are they bound to you? Is that the source of your power? If you take them off do you cease to be the Sage of Truth? Is it like a magical girl transformation but reversed?”

He turned to you, finally, with the thinnest blade of exasperation in his gaze.

You grinned like you’d just won a war.

“Are you truly this determined to derail our spontaneous study session?” he asked, voice perfectly dry.

“Oh, I’m not derailing anything,” you said brightly. “I’m investigating. You’re the most enigmatic person in the Academy and it’s honestly suspicious. I’m trying to be thorough.”

“Thorough,” he repeated.

You nodded. “A good scholar asks questions, right?”

He stared at you.

You stared right back.

Then, with utmost seriousness, you added: “…Does your coat have pockets?”

That did it.

His eyes closed for a long, steady breath, and when they opened again, he gave you a look that said, I have answered riddles from crying apprentices, debated headmasters into silence, and outlasted three hours locked in a library with insufferable scholars but you will be my undoing.

You beamed. He stared at you.

Not with anger. Not even with true frustration. Just that deep, silent, measured stillness he used when someone had challenged a principle of logic, or when a scholar misquoted an ancient theorem so badly it physically pained him.

Which only made you press further.

“So you’re not going to tell me if the hat comes off when you sleep?”

Silence.

“Because now I’m imagining you just lying there, completely still, clothes perfectly pressed, hat on, hands folded like you’re about to wake up and recite a prophecy.”

Still silence.

“And I mean that with all the respect in the world,” you added helpfully. “But also, you’d be so uncomfortable. It would explain the permanent posture. Do you even have a bed? Or do you meditate in a chair surrounded by floating scrolls?”

He blinked once. Slowly.

You clutched your hands together in faux pleading. “Do you sleep on a sugar cloud? Is it made of truth vapor? Are your dreams alphabetized by theme?”

His head tilted, just slightly. “Do you plan to ask every personal question imaginable today?”

“Obviously.”

His sigh was quieter than a breeze but more dramatic than thunder. He resumed writing but his movements were sharper now. More precise. Like he was focusing harder in protest.

You leaned your chin into your palm. “What about shoes? Are they enchanted to follow the Moonstone’s orbit? Do they come off? Have you ever worn boots?”

He didn’t answer.

“You have a favorite set of clothes, don’t you?”

No answer.

“Do you name them?”

Still no answer.

“…Are they sentient?”

He finally looked at you.

That was progress.

You blinked innocently. “If they are sentient, that would explain a lot. The way they always catch the light dramatically. The fact they never wrinkle. The suspicious timing whenever you arrive in lecture halls.”

“Do you realize,” he said very quietly, “that I could silence this room with a word?”

You sat back in mock horror. “You’d silence me?”

“You’re attempting to extract classified robe data from a national figurehead.”

You paused. “So you are a national figurehead?”

His lips pressed into a flat line.

You leaned forward, triumph blooming. “So you do have a favorite set.”

He looked heavenward for strength.

You smiled, the kind that meant you were nowhere near finished. “I just want to know you,” you said, honestly this time. “And clearly, you won’t tell me voluntarily.”

“That is correct.”

“So I’ll just keep guessing.”

He picked up his quill again, deliberately slow. “Then let me offer this: every time you ask a question like that, I will assign you an additional footnote to explain the underlying arcane theory.”

You stared at him.

He did not blink.

“…You wouldn’t.”

“I have already begun,” he said, dipping his quill in ink.

You leaned back in your chair, frowning.

“…Are the footnotes handwritten?”

“Yes.”

“…In ancient script?”

“Naturally.”

You groaned and let your head fall to the desk again.

He resumed writing quiet, calm, unbothered.

But you could see it now, just at the corner of his mouth.

The smallest hint of a smile. You lifted your head from the desk with the exaggerated slowness of someone rising from the ashes of scholarly tragedy. One hand braced dramatically against your heart.

“You wound me,” you whispered, voice thick with theatrical despair.

He didn’t look up.

You slid off the chair with a quiet thump and shuffled dramatically toward him, falling to your knees like a character in a five-act tragedy. Then, with great ceremony, you clasped his hand in both of yours.

“Please,” you begged, clutching his fingers like he held the final thread of your academic fate. “Sage. Oh wise, noble, needlessly composed Sage of Truth. Spare me from the horror of handwritten ancient script footnotes.”

He didn’t flinch. Not even a twitch of surprise. His gaze remained on his parchment, quill poised as if considering whether he should draw a very serious rune or a very petty line through your name.

You doubled down.

“I was young. Reckless. Curious.” You squeezed his hand gently. “I didn’t understand the depth of your cruelty. Of your methods. Please have mercy on a scholar who simply wished to know if your hat ever leaves your head while resting.”

Still, no reaction.

You squinted up at him. “Do you not feel my sincerity?”

“I feel many things,” he said, finally glancing down at you. “None of which resemble sympathy.”

You gasped.

“You’ve become inhuman,” you accused. “You’ve spent too long among the constellations and forgotten the touch of mortal empathy.”

He withdrew his hand calmly, setting it back on the desk. “If you’re finished attempting to avoid the assignment-”

“I surrender,” you cried, pressing your forehead to the hem of his robe like a dramatic supplicant. “Assign the footnotes. Curse my pen. Brand me with the ink of academia. But know this”

He waited.

You looked up at him with a solemn expression, utterly serious.

“one day, I will find out if your coat has embroidery on the inside, too.”

His eyes narrowed, ever so slightly.

You smiled.

The war, clearly, was not over. You slowly rose from the floor less dramatically now, your flair for theatrical groveling giving way to something quieter. Something a little more real.

You brushed your hands against your robes and returned to your seat beside him, the wood creaking softly as you settled. The joke still lingered in the air, light and teasing, but your smile faltered around the edges.

And then, without looking at him:

“…Sometimes I really wonder what it is you saw in me.”

Your voice was soft now genuine in a way that didn’t try to hide behind questions or flourishes or games.

You looked down at the desk, fingers fidgeting slightly against the parchment. “I mean, look at me. I ask if your hat sleeps with you. I derail entire sessions with nonsense. I pry and push and argue. Personally, if I met me… I’d find me a little off-putting.”

The last part came with a half-hearted smile, like it was meant to sound like a joke.

But it didn’t land like one.

Not entirely.

And beside you, Shadow Milk Cookie stilled not in that usual, unreadable silence, but in a quiet that felt aware. Present.

He didn't speak right away.

Instead, he placed his quill down with care, turning toward you fully. His gaze settled on you, unwavering, as if trying to peer through the noise of what you’d just said to reach the place it came from.

And when he spoke, it was soft.

Measured. Unshaken.

“I saw someone who asked questions no one else dared to.”

You looked at him, startled.

“I saw someone who did not pretend to understand when they didn’t, who spoke even when their voice wavered, who let their curiosity carry them past their fear.”

He tilted his head slightly. “You did not seek me out to impress me. You didn’t want to prove your worth.”

His eyes held yours.

“You only ever wanted to learn.”

A pause.

“And that,” he said, quieter now, “is what makes you remarkable.”

Your breath caught. Words gathered at the back of your throat, but none made it out.

He turned back to his parchment without another word, lifting his quill again with the same calm, steady hand.

But just before ink touched paper, he added softly, without looking at you:

“And for the record… I don’t mind the questions.”

A beat.

“They remind me that I’m still allowed to be me.”

And for a moment, you couldn’t tell if the warmth blooming in your chest was embarrassment… or something gentler. Something that made you feel like maybe you were never off-putting at all. The rest of your “tutoring” session passed in a blur though whether it was from the heat lingering in your cheeks or the sheer effort of forcing your brain to process spell theory after a pseudo-philosophical meltdown about pajamas and truth, you weren’t sure.

Shadow Milk Cookie resumed his role as tutor with little ceremony. No mention of your dramatic kneeling or the accidental soul-bearing that had happened in the span of five chaotic minutes. He simply returned to the text, referencing obscure theory with casual ease, guiding your attention when it drifted, clarifying only when you asked. His presence, as always, was calm and unwavering. Comforting in a way you still didn’t quite know how to name

A/N I'm not sure if I love this chapter but I've already written the next 3 chapters so to avoid writing anything wrong and ruining pacing I'm keeping it as is.

Also update: I'M MARRIED NOW/j but no seriously my wifi was so bad recently and it was probably because of the heavy rainstorm last week with strong winds.

I start my first day of work tomorrow so excited to get back on the grind exams went well and I've kept my good gpa <3!!!!

oh and I'll look at my inbox tomorrow there is some wonderful art I can't wait to share with everyone!!! My moots are so talented it's such a joy to see the art!!! I know I'm a little behind on my inbox so sorry about that y'all

Anyways...

Remember to follow and reblog for more bangers 😎😎😎🔥🔥🔥

<<<Previous Next>>>

287 notes · View notes