I woke up with Jules’ foot in my face. Again.
Not that I minded, exactly. He had surprisingly soft skin for someone who spent half the day causing chaos. But there’s something humbling about opening your eyes to the scent of lavender lotion and a toe dangerously close to your mouth. Maybe I needed my own bed. Or maybe I just needed to stop recruiting such clingy femboys.
I stretched, yawning theatrically as I kicked him off me.
"You drool in your sleep," I muttered.
Jules blinked up at me. "You snore. Like a haunted church bell."
The townhouse was unusually quiet. No Roderick polishing his boots. No Miko cooking in silence like a domestic serial killer. And no Elian flirting with the furniture.
I padded down the narrow hallway, the wood creaking beneath my feet, and peeked into the common room.
I scratched my head, hair sticking out in a thousand directions. Then I noticed the note pinned to the fireplace with a butter knife.
Gone to scout. Roderick thinks someone’s onto us. Stay inside. Don’t do anything weird. —Miko.
I stared at the last line.
Don’t do anything weird?
That was like asking a fish not to be moist.
I had a plan, of course. A grand plan. I wasn’t just turning people into femboys for the hell of it, well, not just. As I explained before, I was building a nation. A community. A divine pantheon of soft thighs and piercing gazes, bound not by blood, but by affection and impeccable grooming standards.
The world had kings and tyrants. I would give them something better: a kingdom of kindness, seduction, and strategic moaning.
Of course, that also meant I had enemies.
Like the Grand Inquisitor and his subjects. The Capital’s favorite torturer. Rumor said he once turned a man’s spine into a wind instrument just to play funeral dirges at parties.
Real dramatic bastard. Cloak like black smoke, eyes like burnt silver. He ran the Church’s anti-sorcery division, and from the way Miko’s note read, he was sniffing around Greywatch.
And if there’s one thing I hate more than nobles with superiority complexes, it’s religious men who think they can’t be seduced.
The problem was, Hollow didn’t qualify for my gift. He hadn’t wronged me. Yet. Which meant I had to be patient.
I grabbed my coat, tucked my pen into its holster, and locked the townhouse behind me. If Roderick could go scouting, so could I. Preferably while loitering around sweaty sparring fields or watching upperclassmen duel in unnecessarily tight trousers.
All in the name of research of course.
Greywatch Academy was buzzing.
Students darted between classes like wasps with scrolls. Professors floated on rune-discs. One girl was crying into a statue of the Archmage who invented magical contraception.
And there, at the center of the courtyard, stood a boy I’d never seen before.
He had fire-orange hair that curled at the tips, skin the color of soft sand, and a jacket made of stitched-together silken house crests—each one cut from a different noble. Either he was a collector, or he had a very specific kink.
I approached slowly, calculating my angles. Not every student here was turn-worthy, but I had a feeling about this one.
He tilted his head. "You’re Cecil, aren’t you?"
My lips curled. "That depends. Are you planning to challenge me, seduce me, or monologue at me?"
He grinned. "I like to keep my options open."
Definitely a candidate.
"I’m Salem," he said. "I just transferred. My old school exploded. Long story."
We shook hands. His palm was warm. Slightly calloused. A fighter. A flirt.
A possible ally—or rival.
We sat by the fountain. Water gurgled behind us like a drunk monk gargling holy wine.
Salem leaned in. "There are rumors about you, you know."
"Only half are true," I said. "And the other half are true but exaggerated."
He laughed. "They say you turned Pharren Vaunte into a—well. You know."
He raised an eyebrow.
I leaned forward, whispering. "Pharren used to throw first-years down stairwells for fun. He got a makeover. Sue me."
Salem’s eyes glinted. "You’re building something, aren’t you?"
"You’re not like the rest of these maniacs," I said. "You didn’t even try to slap me with a dueling glove."
He shrugged. "Violence is overrated. I prefer insinuation. And cinnamon rolls."
We might be friends after all.
He was watching me too closely. I felt it under my skin. The way he tracked my expressions, my posture, the faint twitch when my pen brushed my thigh. He wasn’t just flirtatious—he was assessing me. Like a mirror I hadn’t asked for.
So I gave him a test.
"Wanna see something cool?" I asked.
He nodded. I pulled out the pen.
It shimmered in the sunlight, elegant and unassuming. I drew a symbol in the air—a heart, broken at the center, stitched shut with delicate Xs.
Salem’s pupils dilated.
"Blood magic?" he whispered.
"No," I said. "Something older. And way cooler."
His hand brushed mine.
I pulled back with a grin. "Careful. You flirt any harder and I might think you’re ready to join the club."
He laughed again. "What club?" But something flickered in his expression.
Or maybe recognition. Like he knew what the pen could do. Like he’d seen it before. That would be inconvenient. And also, oddly exciting.
Either way, I liked it.
By the time I returned to the townhouse, the others were home.
Roderick sat on the windowsill like a gargoyle in silk. "You were followed. At least for a little while. We diverted them away from your trail before you reached the townhouse."
"Church agent. White gloves. Hollow’s pet apprentice, probably. Didn’t get a name."
Miko handed me tea. "He was sniffing around the tavern you like."
"I hate being popular," I muttered.
Elian smirked from the couch. "Liar."
Jules sprawled over my lap without warning. "So. What’s next?"
I ran my fingers through his hair, absentmindedly. "We find out what Hollow wants. We stay hidden. And if anyone threatens us..."
Roderick finished for me. "They get pretty."