The classroom buzzed with the low hum of scratching quills and restless shifting, the air thick with the tension of an exam day.

Lor sat at his desk, his pen moving just enough to keep up appearances, his eyes scanning the room with a practiced nonchalance.

Viora was rubbing the side of her temple with the heel of her hand, her green eyes flicking between questions on her paper, frustration creasing her brow as if willing the answers to shift into something she could grasp.

Myra's quill had gone still, her lips caught between her teeth, her whispers a soft rhythm of panic—neither math nor spell theory, just a quiet chant of desperation.

Lor sighed, his breath barely audible.

Toren prowled the aisles like a hound sniffing for guilt, his heavy boots thudding softly against the wooden floor.

Every few minutes, he paused, peering over a student's shoulder with a smirk that promised trouble, his sharp eyes gleaming with the joy of catching someone off guard.

The man wasn't dumb—he thrived on control, on the flicker of panic in a student's face.

Lor kept his pen moving, his strokes real but meaningless, his gaze flicking to the questions on his own paper.

He flipped to the last page, his pen scratching quick, neat shorthand—formula cues, trigger words, rune patterns abbreviated into single letters.

A cheat sheet disguised as rough work, tailored for Viora and Myra, written in the code they'd recognize.

When he finished, he folded the page twice, then again, his fingers deft under the desk, hidden from Toren's prowling gaze.

The paper took the shape of a small dart—too sharp to be a ball, too neat to be a scrap, its edges precise as if cut by magic.

Wind magic was simple when you treated it like breathing, not a performance.

Lor exhaled once, a slow, invisible current pulsing from his fingers, stirring the air just enough.

The dart trembled, lifted slightly, hovering between his knees like a curious insect, waiting for his command.

Toren's boots scraped closer, his shadow looming over the desks.

Lor lowered his hand, pretending to adjust his sleeve, his movements casual but calculated.

The dart stilled, drifting back to the floor just as Toren's shadow crossed his desk, the man's presence heavy with scrutiny.

"Done already, Vayne?" Toren asked, his voice laced with that fake amusement that hid a hunger for weakness.

"Thinking," Lor said, looking up with blank hazel eyes that promised nothing, his face a mask of bored compliance.

Toren's gaze lingered a moment longer, his lips twitching as if disappointed by the lack of panic.

He muttered something about "hopeless dreamers" and moved on, his boots thudding toward the next row.

As soon as Toren's back turned, Lor tapped the side of his boot twice—a rhythm he used for precision, a signal to himself.

The paper dart floated up again, caught in the faintest push of air from the open window, gliding with uncanny grace.

It wove between desks, spinning once as if teasing gravity, unnoticed by the room's focused students.

Even Toren, stationed at the far end now, was too busy scowling at Olivia's page to catch the small, dancing shape in the corner of his vision.

The dart sailed past Nellie's braid, skimmed the top of Myra's shoulder, and landed perfectly in the empty space between Myra and Viora, settling on their shared desk with no sound at all.

With a whisper of Lor's breath from across the room, the dart unfolded, flattening itself smooth as if pressed by invisible hands.

Neat rows of writing shimmered briefly in the sunlight, the ink settling as if it had been written there all along.

Both girls froze, their quills pausing mid-stroke.

Myra blinked, her eyes flicking to Lor, a flicker of surprise in her gaze.

Viora followed, slower, her expression a mix of suspicion and confusion, her green eyes narrowing as she processed the paper's sudden appearance.

Lor didn't move.

His head stayed down, his pen tapping absently against his own paper, his face a careful mask of boredom.

Only his eyes changed—hazel shifting, faintly luminous for half a heartbeat, a subtle glow that only they would catch.

To them, he wasn't Lor in that moment—not the classmate they teased or ignored.

He was the Guiding Light they whispered about, the mysterious force.

It wasn't him handing them the answers—it was 'It'. Helping them?

Myra swallowed, nodding once as if to no one, her quill moving again, faster now, copying the shorthand with a quiet determination.

Viora leaned closer, reading quickly, her jaw setting as she joined her, her pen scratching with renewed purpose.

Lor leaned back just slightly, a faint satisfaction warming his chest.

He blew the tiniest puff of air across his desk, and the scrap folded itself again, fluttering down into the narrow gap between floorboards like a leaf sinking into water.

Gone, as if it had never been.

Toren's footsteps came again, heavier this time, pausing near Myra's desk.

His eyes flicked down, scanning her paper with a critical squint.

"Working hard?" he asked, his voice dripping with skepticism.

"Yes, sir," Myra said without hesitation, her pen still moving, her voice steady and unshaken.

Lor almost smiled, his lips twitching before he caught himself.

Her composure was perfect, a result of the trust he'd woven into their dynamic.

Toren grunted, moving on, the tension in the room thinning by a thread as he found no fault to latch onto.

Lor turned his paper over, idly sketching a meaningless diagram on the back—a ruse to keep up appearances—his eyes flicking once more across the room.

Myra's pen danced faster now, her movements confident, while Viora's lips moved silently, whispering formulas like prayers, her earlier frustration replaced by focus.

They'd be fine.

He leaned back, letting the sunlight from the high windows slide across his desk, warming his hands.

The faint hum of wind magic still tickled at the edge of his senses, invisible and harmless now, a quiet reminder of the control he wielded.

But then he felt it—Kiara's gaze, sharp and unmistakable, cutting through the room like a blade.

She'd seen had he did, or thought she had, her icy-blue eyes burning into him from across the rows of desks.

Lor didn't look up.

He just tapped his pen once against the desk, a slow beat that matched his steady heartbeat, and smiled to himself.

.

.

The bell's clang echoed through the academy halls like a long exhale, signaling the end of the exam.

Chairs scraped against the stone floor, papers rustled as they were stacked, and a low murmur of relief rippled through Class D as students spilled into the corridor, their voices a mix of complaints and nervous laughter.

Half an hour later, Mira and Viora took Lor to an abandoned classroom, tucked away in a forgotten corner of the academy.

The room was a relic—dusty benches, cracked windows letting in a damp whiff of chalk and rain, a single bar of pale gold sunlight slanting through a broken pane near the ceiling.

It was the same room where he'd performed the "Guiding Light" ritual with them, as they spanked each other under his guidance, a memory that sent a low heat through him now.

Myra closed the door with a soft click, her movements careful, her brunette curls catching the light as she turned.

Viora stood by a bench, arms crossed, her green ponytail messy, her sharp green eyes studying Lor like he was a riddle she couldn't quite crack.

"What was that?" Viora asked first, her voice low, edged with suspicion. "During the exam."

Lor leaned against a desk, the old wood creaking under his lean frame, his hazel eyes glinting with practiced innocence. "What was what?"

"Don't play dumb," Myra said, stepping closer, her brown eyes narrowing but soft with confusion rather than anger.

Her shirt clung to her breasts, "The paper—the notes. How'd you do it?"

He glanced toward the cracked window, the sunlight dusting his tousled black hair with gold.

"Let's just say the Light heard me," he said smoothly, the lie as polished as a river stone. "I asked it to help you two out."

Myra's frown deepened, her freckled cheeks flushing slightly. "You pleaded for us?"

Lor shrugged, his lazy grin sliding into place, the one that made him look younger, harmless.

"Felt guilty. I didn't visit, didn't teach you like you asked. It was the least I could do." The words were soft, almost sincere, but his mind was already calculating, weighing their reactions.

Viora's arms stayed crossed, but her sharp gaze softened, her curvy thighs shifting under her tight skirt, the red lace of her panties peeking as she leaned against a bench.

"Well… it worked. That exam was brutal. I know I got a few answers right because of whatever you did."

Myra nodded, her curls bouncing.

"Yeah, it was like my memory just… clicked. Helped more than you think, Lor." Her voice was warmer now, gratitude mixing with curiosity.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.