Characters Riddle, Ace, Deuce, Trey, Cater, Leona, Malleus
Synopsis Inspired by r/TwoSentenceHorror, except I made it (mostly) angst. Vote for your fave at the bottom :3c which one made you go Oof
Author's Note Drop your own two-sentence tales under this post, consider it an open challenge 👀
⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ Little Riddle looks out the window, alerted by kids shouting in front of his yard; he waves to his mother after she tosses back their ball. The very next morning, his window is boarded shut.
⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ Little Riddle sits at his desk every morning to practice right-handed handwriting. The pencil wood snaps between his fingers; sighing heavily, he opens a box with a dozen new ones.
˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀ One more chapter, Riddle promises himself, one more hour of study to earn his treat; his stomach growls with a singular craving. In the dorm’s kitchen fridge, a cake box sits open, with a scattering of crumbs and an overturned note that reads, “Do not eat.”
⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪Ace has gone missing, ever since the day Crowley found you a way home. He didn’t show up to your farewell party.
⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ Six eggs lay cracked on the campus pavement. Never hatched.
˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀ Deuce is grateful for his new school uniform; it made his mother proud. The black gloves easily hid his bruised and bloodied knuckles.
⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ Trey unveils his latest confectionary creation at Heartslabyul’s Unbirthday party. No one expects the curled-up Grim inside, caramel dripping down the side of his maw.
⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ Cater taps open his Magicam feed; at the top it reads: 99+ friend requests. With a single swipe it disappears, and he carries on scrolling.
˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀ Leona can’t tell which he dreads more—his brother’s funeral or his nephew’s coronation. He can’t skip both.
⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ Malleus sits in the frigid silence of a decorated dining hall. In front of him is a cake that reads, “Happy Birthday.”
The morning light filtered through the ancient stained glass windows of Diasomnia dormitory, casting fractured rainbows across the ornate stone floors. Among these shifting colors walked Lilia Vanrouge, his black hair swaying with each deliberate step, the darker ends brushing against the small of his back. His red eyes, which had witnessed centuries of history unfold, sparkled with a particular mischief today—a gleam that his dormmates had learned to associate with either wonderful adventures or catastrophic pranks.
Today, it would be neither. Today, it would be something far more personal.
Lilia paused before a full-length mirror in the corridor, adjusting the collar of his Diasomnia uniform. The purple fabric fitted his petite frame perfectly, the silver embroidery catching the light. He turned slightly, examining his reflection with the critical eye of someone who had spent centuries understanding the power of appearance. To the casual observer, he looked exactly as expected: the ancient fae general, the mysterious vice dorm leader's advisor, the eccentric but powerful magic user.
No one would suspect what lay hidden beneath his bed in a locked chest enchanted with seven different protection spells.
No one would guess that Lilia Vanrouge, the fearsome warrior who had once commanded armies, had spent the previous night carefully cataloging his collection of lace handkerchiefs by shade of pink.
"Good morning, Lilia!"
The voice belonged to Sebek Zigvolt, the green-haired freshman who served Malleus with fierce devotion. Sebek's boots clicked against the stone as he approached, his expression its usual configuration of stern determination mixed with barely concealed irritation—irritation that seemed permanently directed at Lilia himself.
"Sebek," Lilia greeted pleasantly, turning from the mirror with a smile that only seemed to irritate the half-fae further. "You're up early. Troubled dreams?"
"I do not experience such human frailties!" Sebek declared, though his cheeks flushed slightly pink. "I simply wished to ensure Young Master Malleus's morning tea is prepared to perfection. Unlike some people, I take my duties seriously."
"Ah, but taking things seriously is so exhausting," Lilia said, beginning to walk again, his shorter stature requiring him to look up to meet Sebek's eyes. "Sometimes, the most important duties are the ones we do while smiling."
"Your riddles make no sense."
"They're not meant to make sense. They're meant to make you think."
Sebek opened his mouth—no doubt to deliver another scathing critique—but was interrupted by a yawn from the nearby doorway. Silver leaned against the frame, his silver hair disheveled from sleep, gray eyes still heavy with the drowsiness that perpetually followed him.
"Father... good morning," Silver mumbled, then blinked and straightened slightly. "And Sebek. You're both loud."
"I am not loud! I am appropriately vocal!" Sebek protested.
Lilia smiled at his adopted son—the boy he had raised from infancy, found in a forest clearing surrounded by a protective circle of flowers that had mysteriously bloomed out of season. Silver's perpetually sleepy demeanor hid a skilled swordsman, but Lilia saw beyond the surface. He always had.
"Did you sleep well, Silver?" Lilia asked softly, the teasing edge gone from his voice.
"Well enough. I dreamed of butterflies again." Silver rubbed his eyes. "There were so many of them. Pink ones."
Something flickered in Lilia's expression—a warmth, a longing—but it was gone before either boy could notice.
"Pink butterflies," Lilia repeated. "How lovely."
"Hardly lovely," Sebek interjected. "Butterflies are insignificant creatures. Now, if you had dreamed of dragons—"
"Dreams don't require significance to be beautiful, Sebek." Lilia's voice carried a gentle firmness that made even Sebek pause. "Sometimes the smallest, most delicate things hold the most meaning."
With that cryptic statement, Lilia continued down the corridor, leaving Sebek sputtering and Silver blinking slowly in confusion.
The truth was, Lilia had not always hidden his preferences. There had been a time—centuries ago—when he had walked openly through the fae courts wearing ribbons in his hair, when he had collected pressed flowers in books whose pages he had enchanted to preserve their colors forever, when he had unabashedly declared that the frillier something was, the better.
But centuries changed people. War changed them more.
The wars between fae and humans had demanded a different Lilia—a general, a strategist, someone whose appearance inspired fear rather than fondness. He had learned to conceal the soft parts of himself behind layers of irony and eccentricity. People could accept an eccentric ancient fae who said strange things. They might not accept one who cooed over lace doilies.
And so the collection had become a secret. A private joy that no one else needed to understand.
Until today.
Chapter Two: The Accidental Discovery
The announcement had come during breakfast: a special market would be held in the town near Night Raven College, featuring vendors from various realms including the fae lands. Malleus had expressed mild interest, which meant Silver and Sebek would of course accompany him. Lilia had planned to join them, as he usually did, but with a specific destination in mind.
There was a vendor—a fae woman named Thornapple—who specialized in what she called "whimsical wearables." Lace gloves with tiny pearl buttons. Ribbons woven with enchantments that made them shimmer. Handkerchiefs embroidered with flowers that actually bloomed when touched by sunlight.
Lilia had been buying from her for decades. She was one of the few people alive who knew his secret.
The market was crowded when they arrived, booths and tents sprawling across the town square. The air smelled of spices and magic, of fried foods and flowering trees. Malleus walked slightly ahead, his tall form and horns drawing awed glances from passersby. Sebek stalked beside him like a guard dog, while Silver drifted a few steps behind, occasionally pausing to examine something with sleepy curiosity.
"Lilia, stay close to Young Master," Sebek ordered, glancing back.
"I'm perfectly capable of—"
But Sebek had already turned away, and Lilia found himself momentarily alone as Silver wandered toward a booth selling flavored nuts.
This was his chance.
Thornapple's booth was in the far corner of the market, partially hidden by a display of enchanted parasols. Lilia quickened his step, his heart—which had beat for over seven hundred years—somehow accelerating with childlike excitement.
"Thornapple," he called softly as he approached.
The vendor looked up. She was ancient even by fae standards, her skin like birch bark, her hair a tumble of white and green. But her eyes were sharp and knowing.
"My favorite customer," she said, her voice like leaves rustling. "I saved something special for you."
From beneath her booth, she drew out a box. Inside, nestled in tissue paper that seemed to glow faintly, was a handkerchief of such extraordinary beauty that Lilia actually caught his breath.
The fabric was the palest pink, almost white, edged with lace so fine it looked like frost patterns. In one corner, embroidered in silver thread, was a pattern of roses that Lilia recognized as the rare moon-bloom variety—flowers that only opened under the light of a full moon. And woven through the lace were tiny enchantments: when the handkerchief caught light, it would shimmer with iridescence; when it was held to the face, it would carry the scent of night-blooming jasmine.
"It's..." Lilia couldn't find words.
"I know," Thornapple said simply. "It took me three months to complete. The lace alone required thread spun from moonlight."
"How much?"
"For you? A favor, nothing more."
Lilia looked up sharply. "Thornapple..."
"Someday, when you're ready, you'll stop hiding." Her ancient eyes held no judgment, only understanding. "And when that day comes, remember that I never thought less of you for loving beautiful things."
Before Lilia could respond, a familiar voice shattered the moment.
"Lilia? What are you doing over here?"
Sebek stood at the edge of the booth, his yellow eyes narrowed with suspicion. Behind him, Malleus and Silver had caught up, the former looking curious and the latter looking like he might fall asleep standing up.
Lilia's hand closed over the handkerchief, concealing it in his palm. "Just browsing," he said lightly. "Thornapple sells interesting magical artifacts."
"Artifacts?" Sebek peered at the display of parasols and ribbons with obvious disdain. "These are trinkets. Frivolous things."
"Frivolous things have their place," Malleus said unexpectedly. His green eyes, surveyed the booth with genuine interest. "The fae have always understood that beauty itself is a form of magic."
"Y-Young Master is of course correct!" Sebek immediately backpedaled. "I merely meant that such things are not typically of strategic importance—"
"Not everything must be of strategic importance, Sebek," Malleus said mildly.
Lilia felt a warmth in his chest. Malleus had always had wisdom beyond his years—or perhaps it was simply that Lilia had raised him to value things beyond power.
But the moment passed, and Lilia realized his hand was still closed tightly around the handkerchief. He needed to put it somewhere safe before—
"Is that silk?" Silver had somehow appeared beside him, peering at Lilia's fist with more alertness than usual. "It's shining."
"It's nothing," Lilia said quickly.
But Silver had already reached out, his knight's reflexes too fast for Lilia to prevent. Gentle fingers pried open Lilia's hand—and there, in the middle of the crowded market, the handkerchief was revealed in all its pink, lacy, shimmering glory.
There was a moment of absolute silence.
Silver blinked at it. Then looked at Lilia. Then back at the handkerchief.
"It's pretty," Silver said simply.
Sebek, however, had also seen. His expression cycled through confusion, recognition, and then settled on something that looked almost like horror.
"Is that... lace?" Sebek's voice came out strangled. "Pink lace?"
"Sebek—" Lilia began.
"Why do you have pink lace, Lilia?" The question was demanded at full volume, drawing the attention of nearby shoppers. "Are you—did you purchase this for someone? A lady friend? Surely not—you wouldn't—"
"Sebek." Malleus's voice cut through the incipient panic. "Lower your voice. You're causing a scene."
"But Young Master—"
"I said enough."
The authority in Malleus's tone made Sebek snap his mouth shut, though his eyes continued to dart between Lilia and the handkerchief with barely contained agitation.
Lilia stood very still, the handkerchief now visible to all of them, his ancient heart pounding. This was exactly what he had always feared—the exposure, the judgment, the inevitable questions.
But then Malleus did something unexpected. He reached out and gently took the handkerchief from Lilia's trembling hand, holding it up to examine it properly.
"The embroidery is exquisite," Malleus said, his tone one of genuine appreciation. "Moon-bloom roses. And this lace—this must be Thornapple's work. I've heard of her skill with moonlight thread."
"You... you know about moonlight thread?" Lilia asked, surprised.
"My grandmother told me about it." Malleus returned the handkerchief to Lilia with care. "She said that the old fae artisans could weave light itself into fabric. I didn't think such crafts still existed."
"They're rare," Thornapple spoke up from behind her booth, watching the exchange with interest. "And appreciated by few."
"I appreciate fine craftsmanship in any form," Malleus said. Then, with a slight smile that transformed his formidable features: "Lilia, you have excellent taste."
And he walked away, leaving Sebek gaping and Silver nodding off again and Lilia standing in a state of shocked relief.
Chapter Three: Cracks in the Facade
They returned to Diasomnia that evening in an unusual configuration. Malleus had gone ahead with Silver, leaving Lilia to walk back with Sebek—who had been uncharacteristically silent since the market.
The silence was not comfortable.
Lilia could feel the questions radiating off the half-fae like heat from a furnace. Sebek was many things, but subtle was not among them. He was clearly struggling to reconcile what he had seen with his image of Lilia as a powerful, serious (if eccentric) warrior.
Finally, just as they entered the dormitory grounds, Sebek exploded.
"It doesn't make sense!"
Lilia paused, turning to face him calmly. "What doesn't make sense, Sebek?"
"You! That—" Sebek gestured vaguely. "That pink thing! The lace! You're a general! You've fought in wars! You've killed humans and fae alike with your bare hands! And you're buying... frilly handkerchiefs?"
"Is there a law against it?"
"There should be!" Sebek's face had gone an interesting shade of red. "It's—it's undignified! It's inappropriate for someone of your standing! What would people think if they knew?"
"What people? And why should their opinions matter?"
"Because—" Sebek floundered. "Because you're supposed to be—"
"Supposed to be what, Sebek?" Lilia's voice hardened slightly. "Tell me. What am I supposed to be?"
Sebek opened his mouth, then closed it. The truth was, he didn't know how to articulate the image he had of Lilia—the ancient fae warrior, the wise advisor, the somewhat irritating but ultimately respectable figure who had helped raise the young master he so devotedly served. That image didn't include pink lace.
"You don't have an answer," Lilia said quietly. "That's because there is no answer. There's no single way I'm 'supposed to be.' I've lived for over seven centuries, Sebek. I've been a soldier and a scholar, a general and a gardener, a killer and a caretaker. And through all of it, I have liked pretty things. Frilly things. Soft, delicate, beautiful things."
"But why?" The word came out almost plaintive.
Lilia considered the question. In all his centuries, few people had ever asked him why—not because they accepted his preferences, but because they never knew about them. And those who did know had never questioned it.
"Because," Lilia said slowly, "when you've seen as much ugliness as I have—the battlefields littered with bodies, the villages burning, the look in a dying soldier's eyes—you learn to cherish beauty wherever you can find it. And the most fragile beauties are the most precious, because they remind you that not everything in this world is hard and sharp and cruel."
Sebek stared at him, mouth slightly open.
"Also," Lilia added, his tone lightening, "they're just really cute."
That seemed to break the spell. Sebek's expression shifted from shocked to exasperated. "You're impossible."
"So I've been told." Lilia smiled. "Many times. By many people. Over many centuries."
He walked away, leaving Sebek standing in the twilight, struggling to process a revelation that challenged everything he thought he knew.
That night, Lilia sat in his room with the handkerchief spread across his lap, running his fingers over the moonlight lace. The fabric shimmered in the candlelight, and when he lifted it to his face, the scent of night-blooming jasmine filled his senses.
He thought about Malleus's easy acceptance, about Silver's simple "it's pretty," about Sebek's confused outrage. He thought about Thornapple's words—someday, when you're ready, you'll stop hiding.
Was he ready?
A soft knock interrupted his thoughts.
"Come in," he called, quickly folding the handkerchief and setting it aside.
The door opened to reveal Silver, still in his day clothes, looking more awake than usual.
"Father, can I talk to you?"
"Of course." Lilia gestured to the chair near his desk, and Silver sat—straight-backed despite his perpetual drowsiness, a remnant of his training as a knight.
"I saw your face today," Silver said. "When Sebek found the handkerchief. You looked scared."
Lilia's expression flickered. "Did I?"
"I know what fear looks like. You trained me to recognize it." Silver's gray eyes were steady. "Why would a handkerchief make you afraid?"
Ah, his perceptive boy. Lilia had always known that Silver's sleepiness masked a keen mind—it was simply that the mind in question rarely chose to exert itself.
"Not the handkerchief itself," Lilia said carefully. "What it represents."
"Which is?"
"Something I've hidden for a very long time."
Silver was quiet for a moment. Then: "The collection under your bed. I've known about it for years."
Lilia's heart stopped. "You—what?"
"I used to fall asleep in your room sometimes, when I was small. I'd wake up in the night and see you looking at things. Ribbons. Lace. Once, a very pink pillow." Silver's mouth curved slightly. "I thought maybe you were collecting them for a secret girlfriend."
Despite everything, Lilia laughed. "No, not a girlfriend."
"Then why hide them?"
The question was so simple, so direct, that it cut through all the complicated rationalizations Lilia had built over centuries.
"Because people don't understand," Lilia said quietly. "They see someone who looks like me—small, delicate-featured, seemingly young—and they make assumptions. If I like feminine things, they think I'm weak. Or strange. Or worse." He paused. "I've learned that it's easier to be eccentric in accepted ways than to be genuine in unconventional ones."
"But Malleus didn't mind."
"No. He didn't."
"Sebek did."
"Sebek is young. He'll learn."
Silver nodded slowly, then stood. At the door, he paused. "Father? I don't think you're weak."
"Thank you, Silver."
"And for what it's worth... pink suits you."
He left before Lilia could respond, which was probably for the best, because the ancient fae general—the fearsome warrior of legend—found himself with tears in his eyes and no idea how to make them stop.
Chapter Four: Unwanted Attention
Word traveled fast at Night Raven College. By the next morning, Lilia knew that the incident at the market had somehow become gossip. He didn't know how—perhaps Thornapple had mentioned it, perhaps someone had overheard Sebek's outburst—but by the time he entered the main building for classes, he could feel eyes following him.
Whispers. Glances. The particular quality of silence that fell when he approached a group of students.
Lilia had faced armies. He had faced down dragons in their prime. He had stared into the eyes of death itself and laughed.
This was worse.
"Did you hear? Vanrouge likes lace."
"Pink lace. The really frilly kind."
"I always knew he was weird, but this is..."
"I mean, look at him. He practically looks like a girl anyway."
That last comment came from a Savanaclaw student—tall, muscular, built like a brick wall—and it was said just loudly enough that Lilia was clearly meant to hear.
Lilia paused. Turned. Smiled.
"Yes," he said pleasantly. "I do look delicate, don't I? It's amazing how deceptive appearances can be. Would you like a demonstration?"
The Savanaclaw student paled. Whatever he had expected—embarrassment, denial, anger—it wasn't this calm, cheerful threat from someone half his size.
"N-no, that's—"
"Wise choice." Lilia continued walking, his smile never wavering.
But inside, something that had been carefully maintained for centuries was beginning to crack.
The trouble really started during lunch.
Lilia had taken his tray to a quiet corner of the cafeteria, hoping to eat in peace. But peace was not to be had. A group of students from various dorms had gathered nearby, and their conversation carried clearly in the acoustics of the large room.
"I'm just saying, it's weird, right?" That was Azul Ashengrotto from Octavinelle, his voice smooth and reasonable. "There's nothing wrong with having... unusual interests, of course. But for someone in his position? It seems rather inappropriate."
"Since when do you care about appropriate, Azul?" That was Jade Leech, sounding amused. "You run a contract-based lounge that essentially extorts students."
"Extort is such an ugly word. I prefer 'leverage opportunities.' But that's different. That's business. This is... personal."
"Personal?" A new voice—Floyd Leech, Azul's other twin. "You mean like how you collect those weird pearl things? Or how Jade has his mushroom obsession?"
"Mushrooms are fascinating," Jade said mildly. "Their biological complexity—"
"My point," Floyd continued, ignoring his brother, "is that everyone's got their thing. Shrimpy's thing is overworking. Riddle's thing is rules. Your thing is being a sneaky octopus. Vanrouge's thing is lace. So what?"
"There's a difference between a collection of pearls and..." Azul lowered his voice, but not enough. "Frilly pink handkerchiefs."
"Why? Because one is manly and the other isn't?" Floyd laughed. "That's dumb, Azul. Really dumb."
The conversation moved on, but Lilia had heard enough. He pushed his food around his plate, appetite gone.
The problem wasn't Azul's opinion—it was that Azul's opinion represented the majority. Most people at this school, in this world, would find his preferences strange at best, disgusting at worst. Malleus's acceptance was rare. Silver's understanding was rarer still.
Perhaps he should have stayed hidden.
"Hey."
Lilia looked up to find a tray being set down across from him. The person who had placed it there was Yuu—the magicless human who had somehow ended up at Night Raven College, the prefect with no dorm, the anomaly that the Great Seven themselves had deemed worthy of attention.
Yuu was... difficult to read, sometimes. They had a stillness about them that reminded Lilia of very old things—mountains, perhaps, or the spaces between stars.
"May I help you?" Lilia asked.
"You look like you need company." Yuu sat. "And I need someone to eat with. Grim abandoned me for tuna sandwiches."
Across the cafeteria, the mentioned cat-monster hybrid was indeed attacking a sandwich with enthusiasm that suggested tuna was involved.
"Bold of you to sit with me," Lilia said. "Haven't you heard? I'm the school scandal today."
"I heard." Yuu unfolded their napkin with precise movements. "Something about pink lace?"
"Among other things."
"And you're upset because... people are talking about it?"
Lilia laughed, but there was no humor in it. "I'm upset because I spent centuries building a particular image, and it's crumbling around me in a single day. I'm upset because I knew this would happen if anyone found out. I'm upset because—" He stopped.
"Because?" Yuu prompted.
"Because I'm tired of hiding," Lilia said quietly. "And I'm terrified of what happens if I stop."
Yuu was silent for a moment, considering this. Then they said something unexpected: "In my world, there's a saying. 'Those who mind don't matter, and those who matter don't mind.'"
"Your world sounds wise."
"It has its moments." Yuu took a bite of their food. "Also, for what it's worth? I don't think there's anything wrong with liking pretty things. Some of the strongest people I've ever known had the softest hobbies."
Lilia stared at them. "You say that so easily."
"Because it is easy." Yuu shrugged. "You like what you like. Other people's opinions are their problem."
Such simple words. Such a simple philosophy. And yet Lilia, with all his centuries of experience, had never managed to achieve such simplicity.
"Who are you?" he asked, not entirely joking.
Yuu smiled slightly. "Nobody special. Just someone who's learned that pretending to be something you're not is more exhausting than dealing with people's judgments."
The bell rang, signaling the end of lunch. Yuu stood, collecting their tray.
"For what it's worth," they added, "I think it's kind of cool. That you have this whole secret life. It's like you're a spy, but instead of state secrets, you're protecting lace handkerchiefs."
Lilia laughed—genuinely this time. "I've never thought of it that way."
"Sometimes a different perspective helps." Yuu waved and walked away.
Lilia watched them go, something in his chest feeling slightly lighter than it had before.
Chapter Five: The Collection Revealed
The incident at the market should have been the end of it. Lilia should have been more careful, should have hidden the handkerchief better, should have—
But the universe, it seemed, had decided that Lilia Vanrouge's secret was going to come out whether he wanted it to or not.
It happened three days later.
Silver had come down with a cold—not unusual for someone who fell asleep in inconvenient places—and Lilia had gone to his room to bring him medicine. He'd knocked, received a muffled invitation to enter, and found Silver buried under blankets, looking miserable.
"Here," Lilia said, setting the medicine on the nightstand. "And I made soup, though I'll understand if you'd rather risk starvation—"
"Father." Silver's voice was hoarse, but there was an unusual urgency in it. "Someone's been in your room."
Lilia went still. "What?"
"I can smell it. Someone who doesn't belong there." Silver sneezed. "They came while we were at class. The window's been opened—your protection spells would have stopped anyone with ill intent, so they must have had a key..."
Lilia was already moving, his short legs carrying him faster than one might expect. He burst into his own room and stopped.
The chest was open.
His chest—the one with seven protection spells, the one hidden beneath his bed, the one that contained his entire collection accumulated over centuries—was sitting in the middle of the floor, lid thrown back, contents spilled across the carpet.
Lace handkerchiefs, dozens of them, in every shade of pink and white and lavender. Ribbons of silk and satin, some embroidered, some enchanted. A collection of porcelain figurines in frilly dresses. Several pairs of gloves with pearl buttons. A pink pillow with flower embroidery. Three corsets that he'd never actually worn but had found too beautiful to leave behind. Stockings with lace garters. A tiara with paste gems that sparkled like real ones. Hair combs and pins and clips, many decorated with roses or butterflies.
Everything. Everything was exposed.
And standing in the corner of the room, frozen with a mixture of horror and fascination, was a first-year student Lilia vaguely recognized from Heartslabyul.
"Oh," the student said faintly. "Oh no."
Lilia didn't move. Couldn't move. seven centuries of careful concealment, undone in a single moment by a curious first-year who had apparently found a way past his protections.
"I—the door was unlocked—and I heard noises—and I thought maybe something was wrong—and then I found this chest—and I opened it—and—" The student was babbling, face going redder by the second. "I didn't mean to—please, I won't tell anyone, I swear, I—"
"It's rather too late for that," Lilia said, and was proud that his voice came out steady. "I assume the entire dormitory will know by dinner."
The student looked like they might cry. Or faint. Possibly both.
"Please," they whispered. "Please don't be angry. I didn't—"
"I'm not angry." And strangely, Lilia found this was true. The shock was fading, replaced by something else—something that felt almost like relief. "I'm not angry at all."
The student blinked. "You're... not?"
"No." Lilia walked over to the spilled collection and knelt, beginning to gather the items with hands that were only slightly trembling. "I've been keeping this secret for a very long time. Perhaps too long."
"Are you going to... punish me?"
"Why would I punish you? You didn't do anything malicious. You were curious." Lilia picked up a lace glove, smoothing it out carefully. "Curiosity is not a crime."
The student looked like they were waiting for the other shoe to drop. "But... everyone says you're scary when you're angry. That you've killed people."
"I have," Lilia said simply. "But that was a long time ago, and they were trying to kill me first. You, I suspect, are not an assassin."
"N-no."
"Then we're fine." Lilia looked up, meeting the student's eyes. "What's your name?"
"Flora. Flora Thornwood."
"Well, Flora, you've now seen something that very few people have ever seen. I'm going to ask you not to spread it around, but I suspect that request is futile."
Flora shook her head quickly. "No! I won't tell anyone, I promise, I—"
"Flora." Lilia's voice was gentle. "It's alright. Truly. I think... I think I'm tired of hiding."
He continued gathering his collection, and after a moment's hesitation, Flora knelt to help him. They worked in silence for a few minutes, folding lace and coiling ribbons and carefully packing everything back into the chest.
"This is really beautiful," Flora said quietly, holding up a handkerchief similar to the one Lilia had bought at the market. "The embroidery is incredible."
"Thank you. That one took me three months to complete myself."
Flora looked at him with new eyes. "You made these?"
"Some of them. Others I've collected from artisans over the years." Lilia took the handkerchief from her, running his fingers over the familiar pattern. "Lace work is meditative. It requires focus but also allows the mind to wander. I find it soothing."
"That's... actually really cool."
Lilia smiled. "Most people wouldn't use that word."
"Most people are dumb." Flora flushed as soon as the words left her mouth. "Sorry, I didn't mean to—"
"Don't apologize. I agree with you."
They finished packing the chest. Lilia closed it but didn't bother resealing the protection spells. It seemed pointless now.
"Flora," he said as she turned to leave. "If anyone gives you trouble for being in my room, send them to me."
She nodded and fled.
Lilia sat on the floor next to the chest, one hand resting on its lid. The secret was out. There was no putting it back.
The question now was what to do next.
Chapter Six: The Dormitory Reacts
As predicted, news spread through Diasomnia dormitory with remarkable speed. By evening, everyone knew about Lilia's collection—the lace, the ribbons, the frankly astonishing amount of pink.
The reactions varied.
The upperclassmen, who had known Lilia longest, mostly shrugged it off. They'd seen him do stranger things over the years. A few exchanged knowing glances—perhaps they'd suspected all along.
The younger students were more vocal in their surprise, but a sharp look from Malleus at dinner kept any outright mockery from occurring.
Sebek, notably, said nothing at all. He ate his dinner in silence, eyes fixed on his plate, occasionally shooting glances at Lilia that were difficult to interpret.
It was Silver who finally broke the tension.
"Father," he said, his voice still slightly congested from his cold. "Your soup was actually good today."
Lilia blinked. "It was?"
"The potatoes weren't undercooked, and I think you finally figured out the right amount of salt." Silver took another spoonful. "It's almost as if you were distracted while cooking and accidentally did it right."
Despite everything, Lilia laughed. The sound seemed to release some invisible tension in the room. A few other students chuckled. Even Malleus's mouth curved slightly.
"Well," Lilia said, "I'll have to be distracted more often."
"DON'T!" This from multiple students at once, causing another round of laughter.
Sebek remained silent, but his shoulders relaxed slightly.
After dinner, Lilia retreated to the dormitory's garden—a wild, overgrown space that he had cultivated over the years, filled with plants that didn't grow anywhere else on campus. It was his sanctuary, the one place where he could breathe without feeling watched.
Or so he thought.
"The roses are blooming well this year."
Lilia turned to find Malleus standing at the garden's entrance, his tall form backlit by the dormitory's lights.
"Malleus. I didn't hear you approach."
"I've had centuries of practice moving quietly." Malleus walked into the garden, his long robes brushing against the flowers. "May I join you?"
"Of course."
They walked in companionable silence for a few minutes, Malleus occasionally pausing to examine a flower or a particularly interesting leaf. Finally, they reached a stone bench at the garden's center, and Malleus sat with a sigh that seemed to come from somewhere deep.
"You're not troubled by what happened today?" Lilia asked carefully.
"Should I be?"
"The others—the gossip—my collection—"
"Lilia." Malleus turned to face him, green eyes steady in the moonlight. "You raised me. You taught me magic, and history, and how to be a person worthy of respect. In all that time, did you ever teach me that someone's worth is determined by what they find beautiful?"
Lilia opened his mouth, then closed it.
"I am the heir to the Draconia line," Malleus continued. "One day, I will rule. And when I do, I will remember that you taught me that strength and softness are not opposites. That a true leader can appreciate both the sword and the silk." He paused. "I will not be ashamed of my mentor because he likes pink lace. To do so would be to reject everything you've taught me."
Lilia felt something crack open in his chest—something that had been locked away for so long he'd forgotten it existed.
"Malleus—"
"I will admit, however, that I was surprised by the corsets."
Despite everything, Lilia laughed. "I've never actually worn them. They were simply too beautiful to leave behind."
"One day, you should try one. I imagine they're quite restrictive."
"How would you know?"
Malleus's smile was faint but mischievous. "I've read books, Lilia. Many, many books."
Lilia stared at him, then burst into genuine laughter—the kind that shook his whole body and brought tears to his eyes. Malleus watched him with something like satisfaction.
"It's good to hear you laugh like that," Malleus said when Lilia had calmed. "You don't do it often enough."
"Perhaps I haven't had reason to."
"Then we'll have to give you more reasons." Malleus stood, offering a hand to help Lilia up. "Come. I believe Silver mentioned wanting to watch one of those magical girl programs tonight. You should join us."
Lilia let himself be pulled to his feet. "You watch magical girl shows?"
"Silver introduced me to them. They're surprisingly strategic—the transformations alone involve complex magical theory." Malleus paused. "Also, the costumes are quite elaborate. I thought you might appreciate them."
Lilia felt warmth flood through him—not the warmth of embarrassment or shame, but something else entirely. Something that felt like acceptance.
"Lead the way," he said.
Chapter Seven: Unexpected Allies
The common room of Diasomnia was unusually full that evening. Word had spread that Lilia would be joining the normal movie night, and curiosity had drawn students who usually kept to their rooms.
Lilia noticed the stares as he entered. Noticed the whispers that cut off abruptly when he looked in their direction. Noticed how a space had been left open on the largest sofa—a space clearly intended for him, clearly surrounded by enough distance to suggest that no one wanted to sit too close.
He could have been hurt by this. Three hundred years ago, he would have been. But something had shifted in him over the past few days—some wall had started to crumble, and behind it was something that felt dangerously like hope.
So instead of sitting in the isolated spot, Lilia looked around the room until he found who he was looking for.
"Flora," he called.
The Heartslabyul first-year—who had apparently been invited as a guest, probably by Silver—jumped in her seat. "Y-yes?"
"Come sit with me."
"But I—"
"I insist." Lilia smiled. "You're the only person here who's seen my entire collection. It seems only fair that you should get the best viewing spot for the show."
Flora's face went red, but she stood and made her way over. Lilia settled onto the sofa and patted the spot beside him. After a moment's hesitation, she sat.
Around them, the other students exchanged glances but said nothing. Malleus took a seat nearby, and Silver—still looking slightly sniffly—settled on Lilia's other side. Sebek positioned himself standing behind Malleus's chair, as if distance would protect him from whatever contamination he feared.
"What are we watching?" Lilia asked.
"Magical Moon Crystal Rainbow," Silver said, already navigating the television. "It's the one with the transformation sequences that take three full minutes."
"Ah, yes. Excellent choice. The lace work on those costumes is superb."
"You can see the lace work?" Flora asked, surprised.
"I have very good eyes. Also, I've freeze-framed it multiple times to study the embroidery techniques."
Flora's expression shifted from nervous to genuinely interested. "You know about embroidery techniques?"
"I've been doing lace work for approximately four hundred years. I like to think I've learned a thing or two."
"Four hundred—" Flora shook her head. "Right. Fae. I keep forgetting."
The show started—bright, sparkly, and exactly as ridiculous as its title suggested. The protagonist was a normal schoolgirl who discovered she was the reincarnation of a magical princess, complete with a talking animal sidekick and a team of fellow magical girls.
Lilia watched with genuine appreciation. The transformation sequences were indeed elaborate, involving ribbons that materialized from nowhere, skirts that expanded to impossible proportions, and accessories that appeared in flashes of light.
"Look at that bow," he murmured during one transformation. "The way it ties itself—that's actually a very sophisticated application of binding magic."
"Is it?" Silver sounded half-asleep already.
"Yes. The ribbon is essentially being used as a focal point for the magical energy. Without that stabilization, the transformation would fail. It's quite clever."
On his other side, Flora was watching Lilia rather than the screen. "You're serious," she said quietly. "You actually analyze the magic in these shows."
"Of course. Why wouldn't I?"
"Most people just... watch them for the story."
"The story is fine, I suppose. But the magic is fascinating. They get some things wrong, of course, but occasionally they stumble onto something quite accurate." Lilia paused. "Also, the costumes are very pretty."
Around them, the atmosphere in the room was shifting. Other students had stopped pretending not to listen and were now watching the show with genuine interest, occasionally glancing at Lilia's running commentary with something other than judgment.
Even Sebek, still standing behind Malleus's chair, had stopped looking disgusted and was now frowning thoughtfully at the screen.
During a commercial break, Lilia stretched and happened to catch Sebek's eye.
"Something on your mind, Sebek?"
"The magical construct," Sebek said slowly, as if the words were being pulled from him against his will. "The one that assists the protagonist. Its power level seems inconsistent. In episode three, it defeated an enemy that should have been beyond its capabilities."
"Ah." Lilia smiled. "You've noticed the friendship amplifier."
"The what?"
"It's a common trope in this genre. The familiar's power scales based on the emotional bond with its partner. When the protagonist and her friends are in harmony, the familiar can access higher power levels. It's actually based on real magical theory—bond magic has been used throughout history to enhance abilities."
Sebek looked like he was having an existential crisis. "You're telling me that this... this frivolous show... has accurate magical theory?"
"Some of it. Not all. But yes, the writers clearly did their research." Lilia's smile widened. "Why do you think I watch it?"
Sebek opened his mouth, closed it, then turned away with a huff. But he didn't leave the room.
The evening ended later than usual, with students slowly drifting off to bed as the night grew late. Eventually, only Lilia, Silver, and Malleus remained in the common room, the closing credits of the final episode rolling silently on the screen.
"That was a good arc," Silver said, yawning. "The part where all the magical girls combined their powers was well done."
"The coordination required for that kind of combined spell is extraordinary," Lilia agreed. "In real life, it would take years of practice to achieve that level of synchronization."
"But it looked easy in the show."
"Magic often does, when performed by experts. The difficulty is hidden in the preparation."
Silver nodded sagely, then yawned so hard his jaw cracked. "I should sleep. Father, thank you for watching with us."
"Thank you for inviting me."
Silver left, leaving Lilia and Malleus alone.
"You handled that well," Malleus said.
"Handled what?"
"The evening. The students. Sebek." Malleus's eyes gleamed with something like pride. "You turned what could have been an uncomfortable situation into a teaching moment."
"Did I? I was just being myself."
"Exactly." Malleus stood. "That's what made it effective. You didn't defend yourself or apologize for your interests. You simply... were. And in doing so, you showed them that there was nothing to defend or apologize for."
Lilia looked up at the young man he had raised—the future king of the fae, powerful and wise and kind—and felt a swell of emotion so intense it nearly took his breath away.
"When did you get so insightful?" he asked.
"I had a good teacher." Malleus paused at the door. "Goodnight, Lilia. Sleep well."
"You too, Malleus."
Alone in the common room, Lilia let himself smile—a real smile, the kind he rarely showed anyone. Then he pulled out his phone (a modern device he had embraced with perhaps too much enthusiasm) and opened his notes app.
New project idea, he typed. Magical girl inspired lace work. Incorporate transformation ribbon motifs. Possibly experiment with binding magic applications in fabric construction.
He paused, then added: Stop hiding. It's exhausting.
Chapter Eight: The Art of Lace and Liberation
The days that followed were strange—not uncomfortable, but different. Lilia found himself no longer darting glances over his shoulder when he went to check on his collection. He stopped using the protection spells on his chest. He even left a few of his favorite pieces out on his desk, where anyone who entered his room might see them.
The reactions continued to vary.
Some students avoided him more than before, clearly uncomfortable. Lilia accepted this with grace—he had never been close to them anyway, and their discomfort was their problem, not his.
Others grew curious, asking questions about his lace work or the origins of various pieces in his collection. Lilia answered honestly, finding that he enjoyed sharing his knowledge.
A few, surprisingly, asked if he could teach them.
"I've never taught anyone before," Lilia admitted to the small group that had gathered in his room one afternoon—three Diasomnia students and, unexpectedly, Flora, who had apparently been visiting Silver. "Lace work is typically a solitary practice."
"But you're so good at it," one of the students said. "And it seems really relaxing."
"It is. But it requires patience."
"We can be patient."
Lilia looked at them—these young people who had seen his secret and instead of running away had asked to be part of it—and felt something loosen in his chest.
"Very well," he said. "But I warn you: I'm a strict teacher."
The first lesson was on basic stitches. Lilia set up a frame with fine thread and walked them through the simplest patterns, correcting their grip and their tension with the same precision he used when teaching magic.
"You're holding it too tight," he told Flora, who was visibly struggling. "Lace work is about control, not force. The thread should feel like an extension of your fingers, not something you're fighting."
"How do you make it feel like that?"
"Practice. Hundreds of hours of practice." Lilia demonstrated a simple loop, the thread flowing through his fingers like water. "Eventually, your hands will remember what to do even when your mind isn't paying attention."
"That's kind of magical," Flora murmured.
"In a way, it is. All crafts are a form of magic—taking raw materials and transforming them into something new. The only difference is that in lace work, the magic comes from within you rather than from external sources."
Flora's face scrunched in concentration as she tried to replicate his movement. "I think I'm doing it wrong."
"You are. But that's expected. Try again."
They practiced for two hours, and by the end, everyone had managed a passable row of basic stitches. Flora's were uneven and slightly too tight, but they were recognizable as what they were supposed to be.
"Not bad for a first attempt," Lilia said, and was surprised to find he meant it.
"Will you teach us again?" one of the Diasomnia students asked.
"If you want to learn, I'll teach you."
They wanted to learn. They came back the next day, and the day after that, and slowly—stitch by painstaking stitch—they improved.
Word of Lilia's lace work lessons spread beyond Diasomnia. Within a week, he had students from other dorms asking to join.
"Absolutely not," Sebek declared when a pair of Savanaclaw second-years showed up at the door. "This is Diasomnia territory. You can't just—"
"Sebek." Lilia appeared behind him, smiling pleasantly. "If students from other dorms wish to learn, I see no reason to refuse them."
"But—"
"Learning builds bridges, Sebek. Isn't that what you're always saying? About how Young Master Malleus should reach out to other dorms to build alliances?"
Sebek's mouth opened and closed several times. "That's... different."
"How?"
"It just is!"
"Come in, both of you," Lilia said to the Savanaclaw students, ignoring Sebek's sputtering. "We're just starting today's lesson. Find a seat."
The two students—one tall and broad-shouldered, the other smaller with delicate features—exchanged surprised glances before entering.
"I'm Ruggie," the smaller one said, eyeing the lace-making supplies with obvious skepticism. "This is Leona." He gestured to the larger student, who yawned.
"I didn't agree to this," Leona said. "Ruggie dragged me here."
"Then why did you come?"
"Free food. Ruggie said there'd be snacks."
"There are snacks," Lilia confirmed. "But you're also going to learn to make lace."
"Don't wanna."
"Then you can leave."
Leona blinked, clearly not expecting to be dismissed so easily. "Wait—"
"Lace work requires willingness, Leona-kun. If you don't want to be here, no amount of forcing will make you learn. So either stay and try, or leave and miss out on the snacks. Your choice."
Leona stared at Lilia for a long moment. Then, with a put-upon sigh that would have done a drama queen proud, he dropped into a seat.
"Fine. But if this is boring, I'm leaving."
"Noted."
The lesson proceeded. Ruggie, surprisingly, took to lace work immediately—his clever fingers finding the rhythm of the stitches with unusual speed. Leona struggled, growling under his breath every time his thread tangled.
"This is stupid," Leona announced after twenty minutes.
"Your stitches are actually improving," Lilia observed.
"They look terrible."
"They look like beginner stitches. Which is what they are." Lilia sat beside him, demonstrating the movement again. "You're too used to physical labor—using force. Lace work requires finesse."
"I don't do finesse."
"Then this will be good practice." Lilia guided Leona's hands through the motion. "There. Feel how the thread moves when you relax your grip?"
"It's... easier?"
"Because you stopped fighting it. Lace work is like a conversation with the thread. If you try to dominate it, it resists. If you work with it, it cooperates."
Leona was quiet for a moment, actually focusing on his stitching. When he looked up, his expression was less hostile than before.
"That's... actually kind of deep."
"I've had a lot of time to think about things," Lilia said simply. "Now, try again."
Chapter Nine: The Grand Project
Two months had passed since the market incident. Lilia's lace work lessons had become a regular fixture at Night Raven College, drawing students from every dorm. The common room of Diasomnia had been permanently rearranged to accommodate the large group, with tables set up for lace work and a consistent supply of snacks (funded by Malleus, who saw the political value in fostering cross-dorm connections).
Lilia found himself happier than he had been in decades. Teaching had given him a new purpose, and watching his students progress—from clumsy beginners to somewhat competent lace-makers—filled him with a satisfaction he hadn't expected.
But something was missing.
One evening, after the other students had left, Lilia sat alone in the common room, a half-finished piece of lace in his hands. It was beautiful—intricate patterns of roses and ribbons, executed with the skill of centuries of practice. But it felt incomplete.
"You're frowning," Silver observed from the doorway. "That's unusual for you."
"Am I frowning? I hadn't noticed."
Silver crossed the room and sat beside him, peering at the lace. "This is amazing. The detail is incredible."
"Thank you. But something's missing."
"What?"
"I don't know." Lilia set the lace down. "I've been making lace for four hundred years, Silver. I've created thousands of pieces. But I've never made anything... large. Anything that truly showcases everything I've learned."
"Like what?"
Lilia considered the question. In his mind, an image was forming—a project so ambitious that he had never dared attempt it before. But now, with his secret exposed and his skills being shared with others, the idea didn't seem as impossible as it once had.
"A gown," he said slowly. "A full gown, made entirely of lace. Every piece hand-crafted, every pattern meaningful. Something that incorporates everything I know about lace work, about magic, about... me."
Silver's eyes widened. "That would take months. Maybe years."
"I have time."
"But the materials alone—you'd need hundreds of spools of thread, specialized tools—"
"I have resources. And I have students now. People who could help, if they chose to."
Silver was quiet for a moment. Then: "You want to make a dress for yourself, don't you?"
The question was direct in a way that only Silver could manage—cutting through all the layers of subtext to the heart of the matter.
"Yes," Lilia admitted. "I've never... I've made pieces that could be worn, but I've never worn them. Not really. Not in a way that felt... authentic."
"Why not?"
"Because I was hiding." Lilia smiled, but there was a sadness in it. "What's the point of making beautiful things if you can't use them as they were meant to be used?"
"So make the dress. Wear it."
"It's not that simple."
"Why not?"
Lilia opened his mouth to list all the reasons—the judgment, the mockery, the centuries of conditioning that told him this was wrong—but stopped. Silver was looking at him with that particular expression he got when he was seeing through to the truth of things.
"You're right," Lilia said quietly. "It is that simple. I've just been making it complicated."
The next day, Lilia announced his project to his students.
"I'm going to make a gown," he said, standing at the front of the common room. "A full lace gown, from scratch. It will take months, possibly longer. The work will be painstaking and require skills that many of you haven't learned yet."
The students exchanged glances.
"I'm asking for volunteers to help. This isn't a requirement—you're here to learn, not to serve as my assistants. But if anyone wants to be part of something... special... I would welcome the help."
Silence. Then Flora raised her hand.
"I'll help."
Ruggie's hand went up next. "Me too. This sounds like it could be profitable—custom lace gowns have got to be worth something."
One by one, hands went up around the room. Even a few students who Lilia had expected to decline—students who had seemed uncomfortable with his hobby—raised their hands.
And then, from the back of the room, a voice that Lilia didn't expect to hear: "I'll help too."
Everyone turned to look at Sebek, who was standing with his arms crossed and an expression that suggested he was being forced to participate at gunpoint.
"Sebek?" Lilia kept his voice neutral. "You want to help make a lace gown?"
"I want to ensure that this... project... doesn't interfere with Young Master Malleus's needs," Sebek said stiffly. "The fastest way to do that is to help you complete it quickly."
"Of course." Lilia smiled. "We're grateful for your assistance."
Sebek huffed and looked away, but he didn't leave.
Chapter Ten: Threads of Change
The gown project transformed Lilia's lace work lessons from casual learning into something approaching a workshop. Every afternoon, students gathered in the common room to work on different components of the dress—some making lace panels, others spinning thread, still others researching historical patterns that Lilia wanted to incorporate.
Lilia himself designed the overall structure, drawing on centuries of knowledge and inspiration. The gown would be made of dozens of individual lace panels, each featuring different patterns. Roses and butterflies, moons and stars, ribbons and bows—every element that Lilia loved, woven together into a cohesive whole.
"It's going to be incredible," Flora said one afternoon, holding up a completed panel. The lace was delicate but detailed, featuring a pattern of blooming roses that seemed almost real.
"You've improved remarkably," Lilia told her. "Your tension is much more consistent."
"Thanks to your teaching." Flora set the panel down carefully. "Can I ask you something personal?"
"You can ask. I reserve the right not to answer."
"Why this project? Why now, after all these years of hiding?"
Lilia considered the question. Around them, other students worked quietly—Ruggie producing lace with surprising speed, Leona growling over a tangled thread, a pair of Octavinelle students murmuring over a complex pattern.
"Because I realized something," Lilia said finally. "Hiding takes energy. Energy I could be spending on creation. Every moment I spent worrying about someone discovering my secret was a moment I wasn't spending on making something beautiful."
"But aren't you worried about what people will think? When you actually wear it?"
"Less than I used to be." Lilia picked up his own work—a particularly intricate panel featuring moon-bloom roses. "I've spent seven hundred years worrying about what people think. It hasn't made me happy. Maybe it's time to try something different."
Flora was quiet for a moment. "You're braver than you think, you know."
"Am I?"
"Most people would have stayed hidden forever. You're choosing to stop."
"Choice implies consciousness. I'm not sure I chose this—I think the choice was made for me, and I'm simply... accepting it."
"Either way." Flora smiled. "It's brave."
Lilia looked at her—this first-year student who had accidentally shattered his secret and then become one of his most dedicated helpers—and felt gratitude that he couldn't quite put into words.
"Thank you, Flora."
"For what?"
"For being curious that day. For opening the chest. For not running away."
Flora's smile softened. "Thank you for not being angry. And for teaching me something beautiful."
The weeks turned into months. The gown began to take shape—first as a collection of lace panels, then as something recognizable as clothing. Lilia worked on it every spare moment, often staying up late into the night to add details that only he could execute.
The design was more elaborate than anything he had ever attempted. The skirt alone consisted of seven layers of lace, each featuring different patterns that created a depth effect when layered together. The bodice incorporated structural elements that would provide support without visible seams. The sleeves were dramatic—floor-length with cascading lace that would move like water when he walked.
But the true masterpiece was the back. Lilia had designed an elaborate train that extended nearly six feet, covered in a pattern that told a story—the story of his life, rendered in lace. Battles and peace treaties, gardens and graveyards, moments of joy and sorrow, all woven into the fabric with a skill that bordered on magical.
"Is that... a dragon?" Silver asked one evening, peering at a section of the train.
"Malleus's grandmother," Lilia confirmed. "The first time I met her. She was magnificent."
"And this part? With all the flowers?"
"A garden I once tended, three hundred years ago. It was destroyed in a war. I've tried to recreate it from memory, but lace can only capture so much."
Silver sat back, looking at the train with new eyes. "This is your life."
"Parts of it. The parts that mattered."
"It's beautiful, Father."
Lilia's hands stilled on the lace. "Thank you, Silver."
They worked in companionable silence, the only sounds the soft click of shuttles and the rustle of thread.
Chapter Eleven: The Final Stitch
The gown was completed on a Tuesday.
Lilia had planned for this moment—had imagined it countless times over the months of creation—but when it actually arrived, he found himself frozen.
The gown hung on a mannequin in the center of the common room, displayed like a work of art. Which, Lilia supposed, it was. Hundreds of hours of work, dozens of contributors, thousands of stitches—all coming together into a single, magnificent whole.
The lace caught the light and shimmered. The layers of the skirt created a waterfall effect that seemed to flow even in stillness. The train spread across the floor like a river of stories. And the overall effect was somehow both delicate and powerful—fragile-looking but clearly the product of incredible skill.
"It's done," Ruggie said, stating the obvious because no one else seemed capable of speech.
"It's done," Lilia agreed.
"Now you have to wear it."
Lilia turned to find Yuu standing in the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable as always.
"Yuu. I didn't hear you come in."
"I let myself in. Your security is terrible, by the way." Yuu walked over to examine the gown. "This is extraordinary. I've never seen anything like it."
"Thank you."
"So when are you going to wear it?"
The question hung in the air. Around the room, the other students had gone quiet, all of them apparently having the same thought.
"There's a gala next month," Flora said hesitantly. "The end-of-year celebration. Everyone dresses up for it."
"That's a formal event," someone else pointed out. "Would a lace gown be appropriate?"
"Why wouldn't it be?" Malleus's voice came from the doorway. He had entered silently, as was his habit, and was now studying the gown with an expression of genuine admiration. "It's formal attire. Exquisitely made formal attire."
"But it's... you know..." The speaker trailed off, gesturing vaguely.
"It's pink?" Malleus's tone was mild. "It's lacy? It's frilly?" He turned to face the speaker. "Is there a rule against formal attire being pink and lacy and frilly?"
"Well, no, but—"
"Then I don't see the problem." Malleus walked over to stand beside Lilia. "Lilia, will you wear this to the gala?"
Lilia looked at his student—his ward, his responsibility, the young fae he had raised from childhood—and saw only support in those green eyes.
"Yes," Lilia said, and the word felt like a key turning in a lock. "Yes, I will."
Chapter Twelve: The Night of the Gala
The night of the gala arrived with an unusual atmosphere at Night Raven College. Students bustled about in formal attire, excitement and nervousness mingling in equal measure. But beneath the normal pre-gala energy ran an undercurrent of something else—anticipation, perhaps, or curiosity.
Lilia Vanrouge was going to wear the lace gown.
Everyone knew. Word had spread through the school like wildfire, and now the question on everyone's lips was: would he actually do it?
In his room, Lilia stood before a mirror, the gown laid out on his bed behind him. It looked even more beautiful than he remembered—the lace glowing softly in the evening light, the layers of the skirt seeming to whisper promises of movement.
His hands were shaking.
"Are you nervous?"
Lilia turned to find Silver in the doorway, already dressed in his own formal attire—a simple but well-fitted suit that made him look less sleepy than usual.
"Terrified," Lilia admitted.
"You don't have to do this."
"I know."
"You could wear something else. Something more... conventional."
"I know."
Silver was quiet for a moment. Then: "I've never seen you afraid before. Not like this."
"I've been afraid many times. I've just learned to hide it."
"Why hide it now?"
Lilia laughed softly. "Because I'm about to walk into a room full of people wearing a pink lace gown, and I have no idea what will happen."
"Does it matter?"
"Does it—Silver, of course it matters. What they think—"
"Why?" Silver crossed the room to stand beside Lilia. "You've lived for seven hundred years. You've fought wars, raised a dragon fae, built a collection that spans centuries. Why does what a bunch of teenagers think matter?"
When put that way, it seemed absurd. And perhaps it was.
"Because..." Lilia struggled to articulate the fear that had lived inside him for so long. "Because if they reject this—reject me—it means the hiding was right. It means I should have stayed concealed. It means—"
"It means nothing," Silver said firmly. "Whatever they think, it doesn't change who you are. It doesn't change that you made something beautiful. It doesn't change that I'm proud to call you my father."
Lilia felt tears prick at his eyes—ridiculous, after all this time, to be moved by such simple words.
"When did you become so wise?" he asked, voice thick.
"I had a good teacher." Silver smiled. "Now, are you going to put on the dress, or are we going to stand here talking all night?"
"The gown," Lilia corrected automatically. "It's a gown, not a dress."
"Then put on the gown."
Lilia took a deep breath. Then another. Then he turned to the bed and began to undress.
The process of putting on the gown took nearly thirty minutes. There were layers to arrange, closures to fasten, the train to spread properly. Silver helped where he could, though his assistance was limited by his lack of experience with formal women's clothing.
"This is more complicated than armor," Silver observed.
"Armor only has to protect you. A gown has to make you beautiful."
"Are you beautiful?"
Lilia looked at himself in the mirror. The gown fit perfectly—he had made sure of that, adjusting the pattern countless times during construction. The bodice hugged his petite frame, the sleeves cascaded to the floor, and the skirt created a silhouette that was at once dramatic and delicate. The lace shimmered with every movement, and the train spread behind him like a banner.
"I think so," Lilia said quietly. "I think I am."
"Then let's go."
The walk to the gala was the longest of Lilia's life. The gown rustled softly with each step, the train whispering against the floors of the corridors. Students they passed stopped and stared—some with open mouths, some with barely concealed smiles, some with expressions that were harder to read.
Lilia kept his chin up and his expression pleasant, as if this were any other day, as if he weren't wearing months of work and centuries of hidden identity.
They reached the doors to the gala hall. Through them, Lilia could hear music and voices—the sounds of the celebration already in progress.
"Ready?" Silver asked.
"No." Lilia took a breath. "But I'm going to do it anyway."
He pushed open the doors.
The hall was decorated in the school's colors—purples and blacks with touches of gold. Students milled about in their formal attire, drinking punch, eating canapés, dancing to the music provided by a student band.
The doors opening caused a ripple of attention—heads turning, conversations pausing. And then, as people registered what they were seeing, a silence fell that seemed to suck all the sound from the room.
Lilia Vanrouge stood in the doorway wearing a floor-length gown of pink lace, with a train that spread across the floor behind him like a story waiting to be read.
The silence stretched.
And then Malleus crossed the room.
"You're late," he said, as if nothing unusual were happening. "I saved you a seat."
He offered his arm—formal, proper, the picture of a young noble escorting someone to an event. Lilia took it, and together they walked into the hall.
The spell of silence broke. Conversations resumed, though at a higher pitch than before. Eyes followed Lilia as he walked, but he kept his attention on Malleus, matching his stride, letting the train of his gown trail behind them like a whisper.
"You look magnificent," Malleus said quietly as they reached their table.
"You don't think it's too much?"
"It's exactly enough." Malleus pulled out a chair for him. "I've never seen you look more like yourself."
Lilia sat, arranging the skirts of his gown with practiced ease. Around them, other students were pretending not to stare and failing spectacularly.
"Your grandmother would have loved this," Malleus continued. "She always said that the most powerful people were those who could be vulnerable without fear."
"Your grandmother was a wise woman."
"She learned from you."
Before Lilia could respond, a flurry of movement announced the arrival of the rest of their group. Silver took a seat beside Lilia, Sebek positioned himself behind Malleus's chair, and—surprisingly—Flora, Ruggie, and several other students who had worked on the gown also joined them.
"I helped make that," Ruggie said loudly, apparently deciding that ownership was better than association. "The panel with the butterflies? That was me."
"Ruggie!" Flora hissed. "You're supposed to be subtle!"
"Why? It's impressive. How many people can say they helped make a gown that's being worn to a formal event?"
"You have a point."
The evening progressed. People danced, ate, made small talk. And gradually, the initial shock of Lilia's attire faded into something like acceptance—not universal acceptance, but enough that he no longer felt like a specimen under glass.
Some students approached to compliment the gown, asking about the lace work or the design. A few asked if Lilia would make similar pieces for them. One bold soul even asked where they could learn lace work, and Lilia directed them to his afternoon lessons.
Not everyone was positive. Lilia caught muttered comments and disapproving looks—particularly from a group of students who seemed to believe that his gown was somehow an affront to formal etiquette. But even their negativity felt different now, smaller, less significant than it would have before.
"You're ignoring them," Silver observed.
"I'm choosing not to engage."
"Same thing."
"Not quite. Ignoring implies they matter enough to avoid. Choosing not to engage acknowledges their existence but refuses to grant them importance."
Silver considered this. "That's very philosophical."
"seven hundred years will do that."
The highlight of the evening came unexpectedly, during a break in the music. The headmaster had taken the stage to make some announcements—schedule changes, upcoming events, the usual administrative matters. But then he paused, looking out over the crowd.
"I'd like to take a moment to acknowledge something unusual tonight," he said. "Many of you have noticed Professor Vanrouge's attire."
Lilia's heart sank. He had hoped to avoid this—hoped that if he simply acted as if nothing were different, others would follow suit.
"What you may not know," the headmaster continued, "is that the gown Professor Vanrouge is wearing was made entirely by hand—his own hands, with assistance from students. Every stitch, every pattern, every element was created through traditional lace work techniques that Professor Vanrouge has mastered over centuries of practice."
The headmaster's gaze found Lilia in the crowd. "In my years at this school, I have seen many displays of magical skill. But the gown you see tonight represents a different kind of magic—the magic of creation, of patience, of turning thread into art. It is, in its own way, as impressive as any spell I've witnessed."
Lilia stared at the headmaster, too surprised to respond.
"I understand that some of you may find Professor Vanrouge's choice of attire... unconventional," the headmaster continued. "I would remind you that Night Raven College values excellence in all its forms. And what Professor Vanrouge has achieved—both in the creation of this gown and in the courage to wear it—is excellent indeed."
With that, the headmaster stepped down, leaving a stunned silence in his wake.
Then, slowly, applause began. It started with Malleus—clapping with the deliberate precision of someone who knew the weight of his approval. Silver joined next, then Flora and Ruggie and the other students who had worked on the gown. And then it spread, until most of the hall was clapping—not everyone, but enough.
Lilia felt heat in his cheeks that he hadn't experienced in centuries. He was blushing. Actually blushing.
"Are you crying?" Silver asked quietly.
"No." But there was definitely moisture in his eyes. "It's just... bright in here."
"Uh-huh."
Epilogue: New Beginnings
The gala ended at midnight. Students drifted back to their dorms, conversations buzzing with the events of the evening. Lilia's gown had been the topic of the night, but the tone had shifted over the hours—from shock to curiosity to something approaching admiration.
Lilia himself walked back to Diasomnia in a state of mild disbelief, the train of his gown gathered over one arm to keep it from dragging on the ground.
"That went well," Malleus observed.
"Better than I expected."
"Better than you feared?"
Lilia smiled. "Everything is better than what I feared. My fears tend toward the catastrophic."
"Fears often do. It doesn't make them accurate."
They walked in comfortable silence for a while. The night was clear, stars visible above the spires of the school, and the air smelled of the flowers that bloomed in Diasomnia's garden.
"Lilia?"
"Yes?"
"I'm proud of you."
Lilia stopped walking. In all the years he had raised Malleus—through childhood tantrums and teenage rebellion and the slow emergence of the wise young man he had become—he had never heard those particular words directed at him.
"Proud of me?" he repeated.
"You taught me to be true to myself, no matter what others think. Tonight, you demonstrated that lesson. How could I not be proud?"
Lilia didn't know what to say. So he didn't say anything—just pulled Malleus into a hug, careful not to crush the gown between them.
"Thank you," he whispered.
Malleus hugged back, awkward but genuine. "You're welcome."
Later, alone in his room, Lilia carefully removed the gown, hanging it in a place of honor where he could see it every day. The train pooled on the floor like a pet waiting for attention.
He sat at his desk, looking at the space where his lace work supplies were neatly arranged. The chest was still there, but it was open now, its contents visible and accessible. No more hiding.
His phone buzzed with a message—from Flora, who had apparently started a group chat for everyone who had worked on the gown.
Flora: Tonight was amazing!! Everyone was talking about the gown!!
Ruggie: I've already had three people ask if I can make them lace stuff. This is going to be profitable.
Leona: It wasn't bad. For a dumb hobby.
Jade: I found the botanical patterns particularly interesting. Would you consider incorporating mushroom motifs in future pieces?
Floyd: THIS WAS SO COOL. When's the next project??
Lilia smiled and typed a response.
Lilia: I'm glad you all enjoyed the evening. As for next projects—we'll see. For now, I think I need to rest. seven hundred years, and tonight might have been the most exhausting one yet.
Silver: You should sleep, Father. You've earned it.
Sebek: I suppose... this was acceptable. For a frivolous activity.
Malleus: Well said, all of you. And Lilia—get some rest. Tomorrow, we can discuss incorporating some of your lace work techniques into Diasomnia's magical defenses.
Lilia: Malleus, that's brilliant. I hadn't considered the applications to protective magic.
Malleus: I know. That's why I'm suggesting it.
Lilia set down his phone and looked around his room—at the lace supplies, at the gown, at the open chest that held centuries of hidden joy. Everything was the same as it had been a few months ago, and yet everything was different.
He was different.
For the first time in longer than he could remember, Lilia Vanrouge was exactly who he appeared to be—an ancient fae warrior who liked pink lace, frilly things, and everything cute and girly. No more hiding. No more shame. No more fear.
It felt like flying.
He changed into sleep clothes and crawled into bed, but sleep didn't come immediately. Instead, he lay in the dark, thinking about the months that had passed—the discovery, the lessons, the gown, the gala. Thinking about the students who had helped him, the friends who had supported him, the ward who had praised him.
Thinking about the future, for the first time in a long time.
There would be challenges, he knew. Not everyone would accept him. The comments and looks wouldn't stop entirely. There would be days when hiding seemed easier than being seen.
But those days would pass. And in the meantime, there would be lace to make, students to teach, beautiful things to create and share with the world.
There would be joy.
Lilia smiled in the darkness and finally, finally let himself sleep
May we all be as brave as a seven-hundred-year-old fae warrior in a pink lace gown.
There may still be a few small canon details here and there that I missed while writing and checking both versions.
Hi! I've been reading your lilia fics lately and I just wanted to say that you write him so beautifully. But it would be nice if you were to write him being more into adorable, frilly, and girly stuff. Since canonically speaking, he is into those. Fret not, I am not a hater khee khee 😓😓This was just a tiny suggestion, please take it with a grain of salt. Bye bye! 🥰🥰
The Frilly Menace of Diasomnia
Lilia-dono
It started, as most disasters did, with Lilia Vanrouge and a catalog.
"Oho!" Lilia's eyes went wide, sparkling with a dangerous light that Silver recognized from experience. The last time Lilia had made that sound, they had ended up lost in a forest for six hours because he'd chased a "magnificent butterfly."
Silver, who had been dozing peacefully on the common room sofa, cracked one eye open. "Father, what are you looking at?"
"Come see!"
"I'd rather not."
"Silver. Look."
With the heavy sigh of a man who had been waking up to nonsense for seventeen years, Silver dragged himself across the room and peered over Lilia's shoulder at the magazine spread open on the table.
It was a page full of frilly dresses. Pink ones. White ones. Ones with ribbons and bows and lace so elaborate it probably violated several laws of physics.
"That's... nice," Silver said, because he had learned that neutral responses minimized escalation.
"Nice? NICE?!" Lilia clutched the catalog to his chest like a sacred text. "Silver, look at this one! The bows! The LACE! And this—this one has little roses embroidered along the hem! Little roses, Silver!"
"I see them."
"Don't you want to touch the page? Just once?"
"No."
"You're missing out on life."
Silver returned to the sofa. He had not yet closed his eyes when the door slammed open and Sebek marched in, green hair bristling with its usual intensity.
"Lilia-dono! I have been looking everywhere for you! Young Master Malleus requested your presence for—what is that?"
Sebek had spotted the catalog.
Lilia smiled. It was the smile of someone who knew exactly what he was doing and was going to do it anyway.
"Just a little shopping material," Lilia said innocently.
Sebek's eyes narrowed. He crossed the room in three long strides and snatched the catalog from Lilia's hands. For one blessed moment, his face was blank with confusion.
Then he turned the page.
"LILIA-DONO!"
"Yes?"
"WHAT IS THIS?!"
"A dress catalog. I thought that was obvious."
"This—" Sebek gestured at the page with the kind of horror usually reserved for seeing a ghost. "This is—this is PINK! And FRILLY! And—are those RIBBONS?!"
"Among other things. I particularly like the one on page fourteen with the—"
"WHY DO YOU HAVE THIS?!"
"Because I want to buy things from it."
"BUY—" Sebek made a sound like a teakettle reaching boiling point. "You cannot—this is—YOUNG MASTER MALLEUS'S ADVISOR SHOULD NOT BE—"
"Should not be what, Sebek?"
"LOOKING AT DRESSES!"
"Why not?"
"Because—because—"
Silver, from the sofa: "He doesn't have an answer."
"STAY OUT OF THIS, SILVER!"
"I'm not in anything. I'm lying down."
Sebek turned back to Lilia, who had somehow already produced a notepad and was scribbling down item numbers with a look of intense concentration.
"Are you... are you ORDERING something right now?"
"The rose dress, definitely. And this white one with the pearl buttons—oh, and look, Sebek, there's a matching hair ribbon."
"I don't want to see the matching hair ribbon."
"It has tiny lace edges."
"I SAID I DON'T WANT TO—"
"Too late, you've seen it now. Isn't it delightful?"
Sebek looked like he was having a stroke. His mouth opened and closed several times, producing no sound. His left eye twitched.
Then, salvation—in the form of Malleus Draconia himself, gliding through the doorway with the particular grace of someone who had no idea what he was walking into.
"What is all the commotion?" Malleus asked, his deep voice immediately settling the room. "I could hear Sebek from the other wing."
"Young Master!" Sebek seized the opportunity like a drowning man grabbing a life raft. "You must speak with Lilia-dono! He has—he is—look at THIS!"
Sebek thrust the catalog at Malleus with both hands, as if presenting evidence at a trial.
Malleus took it. Looked at the page. Blinked.
"It's a dress catalog," he said.
"YES!"
"Lilia, are you planning to purchase something?"
"I was thinking several things," Lilia said, holding up his notepad. "The rose dress, the pearl-button one, possibly the set on page twenty-three if it comes in my size."
"I see." Malleus turned the page. "This one is nice. The embroidery is quite fine."
Sebek's soul left his body. Silver, from the sofa, sat up slightly to watch.
"Y-Young Master? Did you just say it was... nice?"
"The craftsmanship is respectable. The lacework on this particular piece appears to be hand-done." Malleus looked at Lilia. "You should get this one. It suits your coloring."
"OH THANK YOU, MALLEUS!" Lilia launched himself at the young prince, wrapping him in a hug that Malleus accepted with the resigned patience of long familiarity.
Sebek made a sound like a deflating balloon.
"And this one," Malleus added, pointing at another page, "has an interesting structural design. The layered skirt creates a volume effect without excessive fabric. Efficient."
"Eff—" Sebek looked like he might cry. "Young Master, you're supposed to be on MY side!"
"I am not aware that this is a conflict with sides, Sebek."
"IT SHOULD BE! This is—this is UNDIGNIFIED!"
"Is it?" Malleus tilted his head, genuinely puzzled. "Lilia has always appreciated beautiful things. This is not new."
"It's new to ME!"
"Then you have not been paying attention."
Sebek opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. No sound came out.
Silver, who had been watching this entire spectacle with the mild interest of someone observing nature documentaries, finally spoke up: "Father wore a frilly apron while cooking last week. And the week before that, he bought curtains with little flowers on them."
"LIES!" Sebek whirled on Silver. "FABRICATIONS!"
"They're in the kitchen right now. The curtains, I mean. You can check."
"I WILL NOT BE FOOLED BY YOUR—"
"Sebek." Malleus's voice carried a gentle but unmistakable finality. "Lilia's preferences are his own. They do not affect his capability as a warrior, an advisor, or a caretaker. I would have thought you of all people would know this."
Sebek deflated. His shoulders sagged. He looked at Lilia, who was now happily circling items in the catalog with a pink highlighter that he had seemingly produced from nowhere.
"I... understand, Young Master," Sebek managed, though the words clearly cost him. "I will... refrain from further comment."
"Thank you, Sebek."
"However—"
"Sebek."
"I was only going to say that if Lilia-dono purchases the item on page eighteen, I will NOT be seen in public with him."
Lilia looked at page eighteen. It was a dress with an enormous bow on the back—the kind of bow that could potentially be seen from space.
"That one does have a rather dramatic bow," Lilia conceded. "I'll get it in a smaller size."
"THAT IS NOT THE POINT—"
Three days later, a package arrived at Diasomnia.
It was enormous.
Silver, who had been the one to accept it from the postal service, set it down in the common room with a grunt. It was heavier than it looked.
"Lilia," he called. "Your order arrived."
From somewhere in the dormitory came a sound like a child on Christmas morning—rapid footsteps, a gleeful laugh, and then Lilia Vanrouge appeared in the doorway, moving with a speed that belied his small stature.
"IT'S HERE!"
He descended upon the box like a hawk on prey, tearing it open with an enthusiasm that would have been alarming if it weren't so clearly joyful.
Inside, wrapped in layers of tissue paper, were dresses. Several of them. In various shades of pink and white and lavender, each one more frilly than the last.
Lilia held up the rose dress—the one Malleus had approved—and pressed it against himself, spinning in a slow circle.
"Oh, it's even more beautiful in person," he breathed. "Look at the lace, Silver! LOOK AT IT!"
"I'm looking."
"Is it not magnificent?"
"It's very lace-y."
"Very lace-y! That's exactly what it is! And here—" He pulled out another dress, this one white with pearl buttons. "Feel the fabric! It's so soft! So delicate! So—"
"Lilia-dono."
Everyone turned. Sebek stood in the doorway, his expression suggesting he had steeled himself for this moment like a soldier marching into battle.
"I have come to... observe," he said stiffly. "To ensure that nothing... inappropriate is occurring."
"Sebek! Perfect timing! Hold this."
Lilia thrust a dress into Sebek's arms before the poor boy could react.
Sebek stood frozen, holding a frilly pink dress at arm's length like it might bite him. His face had gone an interesting shade of purple.
"What—LILIA-DONO, WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO—"
"Just hold it while I find the hair ribbon. Ah, here it is!" Lilia produced a length of pink silk ribbon from the box, tying it into his hair with practiced ease. "How do I look?"
Sebek stared at him. Lilia stood there in his regular Diasomnia uniform, pink ribbon in his dark hair, surrounded by an explosion of frilly fabric, beaming like the sun.
"You look..." Sebek struggled. "You look like you've lost your mind."
"Close enough!"
"I did NOT mean that as a compliment!"
"And yet I'm taking it as one."
Silver, who had been watching from the sofa with the vague interest of a cat observing a particularly confusing toy, suddenly sat up.
"Father," he said. "You should try on the rose dress."
Sebek's head whipped toward Silver so fast it might have caused whiplash. "SILVER! How could you ENCOURAGE—"
"He wants to try it on anyway," Silver said calmly. "This way he does it now instead of at three in the morning when the rest of us are trying to sleep."
"That is—there is NO WAY Lilia-dono would—"
"I absolutely would try it on at three in the morning," Lilia confirmed. "Silver knows me well."
"THEN I WILL SIMPLY LEAVE THE DORMITORY BEFORE—"
"Sebek." Malleus's voice came from the hallway. He walked in, took one look at the scene—Lilia with his ribbon, Sebek clutching the pink dress, Silver already lying back down—and raised an eyebrow.
"Are we having a fashion show?"
"WE ARE NOT—" Sebek started.
"I think we are," Lilia said brightly.
"I think we are too," Malleus agreed, sitting down in a chair with the air of someone settling in for entertainment.
"Young Master! You cannot POSSIBLY—"
"I have never seen Lilia try on his new purchases. This seems like a good opportunity."
Sebek looked around the room. Lilia was already disappearing behind a decorative screen with the rose dress. Silver had pulled a pillow over his face, presumably to muffle his laughter. Malleus was watching with genuine interest.
He was alone.
He was so, so alone.
"I hate it here," Sebek whispered to no one in particular.
"Ten minutes!" Lilia's voice sang out from behind the screen. "Maybe fifteen! There are a lot of buttons!"
"WHY ARE THERE SO MANY BUTTONS?!"
"Because it's BEAUTIFUL, Sebek!"
Sebek sat down on the floor, put his head in his hands, and began counting his breaths.
Fourteen minutes later, Lilia emerged.
The rose dress fit him perfectly—hugging his petite frame, the lace overlay catching the light, the embroidered roses trailing down the skirt like a garden in bloom. The pink ribbon in his hair matched the roses. He had even found matching shoes somewhere—pink, with little bows.
He looked, objectively, stunning.
He also did a spin.
"Ta-da!"
Silver lowered the pillow. "It suits you."
Malleus nodded approvingly. "The fit is excellent. You should commission more from that artisan."
Sebek said nothing. He was staring at Lilia with an expression that had gone beyond horror into something that looked almost like reluctant acceptance—the expression of a man who had seen too much and could no longer be surprised.
"Lilia-dono," he said finally, his voice very small.
"Yes, Sebek?"
"The bow on the back is very large."
"It IS large! Isn't it wonderful?"
"...It is not the worst thing I have ever seen."
Lilia's face lit up like someone had told him he'd won the lottery. "Sebek! Was that a COMPLIMENT?!"
"It was an OBSERVATION."
"It was POSITIVE! Silver, did you hear that? Sebek said something positive about my dress!"
"I heard." Silver removed the pillow entirely. "I'm surprised too."
"It was NOT positive! It was merely—less negative than it could have been!"
"Close enough!" Lilia spun again, the skirt flaring out around him. "Oh, I HAVE to show Yuu! They'll love this! And I should send a picture to Thornapple—she made the lace, after all—oh, and I should wear this to the next dorm meeting, don't you think?"
"PLEASE DO NOT WEAR THAT TO A DORM MEETING," Sebek said, but his heart clearly wasn't in it anymore.
"Why not? It would liven things up."
"DORM MEETINGS ARE NOT MEANT TO BE 'LIVENED UP'!"
"All the more reason to liven them up."
Sebek looked at Silver with the desperate eyes of a man begging for backup.
Silver looked back at him. "I think it would be funny."
"TRAITOR."
Malleus, who had been quietly observing this exchange, stood. "I believe the dress is lovely, Lilia. You should wear it wherever you like." He paused at the door. "In fact, grandmother is visiting next month. I'm sure she would appreciate meeting someone with such refined taste in fashion."
Lilia gasped. "Malleus, you're right! I should make her something! A matching piece perhaps—a shawl, or a fan—do you think she prefers roses or butterflies?"
"Roses, definitely. She has a garden that would make you weep."
"I'M ALREADY WEEPING FROM EXCITEMENT!"
Malleus smiled—a real, warm smile—and left, closing the door behind him.
In the common room, Lilia continued to spin in his rose dress, occasionally pausing to examine the lace or adjust the ribbon in his hair. Silver had gone back to sleep. Sebek remained on the floor, staring into the middle distance with the hollow expression of a man who had survived something traumatic.
"Sebek," Lilia said, stopping mid-spin. "Would you like to try one on?"
The silence that followed was deafening.
"Father," Silver said from the sofa, eyes still closed. "Don't break him."
"I'm not going to break him. I'm just asking."
"His eye is twitching again."
"It does that."
"Lilia-dono," Sebek said, his voice eerily calm, "I am going to go to my room now. I am going to close the door. I am going to lie on my bed and think about dragons. And when I come out tomorrow, this entire evening will have been a fever dream."
"That sounds unhealthy."
"SO IS THIS ENTIRE SITUATION."
Sebek stood, walked to the door with the careful steps of a man navigating a minefield, and paused.
"The dress is... acceptable."
And then he fled.
Lilia and Silver exchanged glances.
"Did he just—"
"He did."
"Acceptable," Lilia repeated, testing the word. "He said acceptable."
"He's learning."
Lilia smiled—not the mischievous smile he usually wore, but something softer. Something genuine.
"I think I'll make him a thank-you gift," he said. "Something with green ribbon. To match his hair."
"Father, if you give Sebek a frilly gift, he might actually combust."
"Worth the risk."
Silver shook his head, but he was smiling too—small and barely there, but definitely a smile.
And somewhere in Diasomnia, Sebek Zigvolt lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering how his life had come to this.
The answer, of course, was Lilia Vanrouge.
It was always Lilia Vanrouge.
May we all be as brave as a seven-hundred-year-old fae warrior in a pink lace gown.
There may still be a few small canon details here and there that I missed while writing and rechecking both versions.
When Chaos Meets Chaos: The Spelldrive Catastrophe
Chapter 1: A Fateful Encounter in the Cafeteria
It was a perfectly normal Tuesday afternoon at Night Raven College. The sun was shining, birds were singing, and somewhere in the distance, Ace Trappola was probably causing some minor disaster that would eventually require Riddle Rosehearts to collar him. All was right with the world.
Then Lilia Vanrouge decided he was bored.
The ancient fae, who looked for all the world like a delicate teenager with an affinity for gothic fashion, floated into the cafeteria with the specific intention of finding entertainment. Malleus had been busy with student council duties, Silver had fallen asleep standing up in the hallway again, and Sebek was being Sebek. Loud. Aggressive. Completely incapable of understanding the concept of "indoor voice."
Lilia needed something new. Something fresh. Something that wouldn't involve the same old dynamics he'd been navigating for centuries.
He collected his lunch—a suspiciously pink smoothie that made several first-years question their life choices—and surveyed the room. There. A face he didn't recognize. Sitting alone at a table, ears twitching with mischief, tail swishing in a pattern that suggested either extreme boredom or the planning of something nefarious.
The beastman had wild purple hair that seemed to defy gravity in ways that would make a physicist weep, and eyes that sparkled with the particular gleam of someone who found joy in the absurd. He was currently making his mashed potatoes form increasingly obscene shapes, much to the horror of the Ignihyde student sitting across from him.
Lilia was instantly intrigued.
With a flutter of his dramatic cape, he teleported directly into the seat across from the stranger, causing the mashed potato sculpture to collapse in surprise.
"Interesting technique," Lilia observed, gesturing to the potato ruins. "I've never seen someone attempt to recreate the Monstro Lounge's architecture in side dishes before."
The beastman's ears perked up, and his tail stopped its erratic swishing. For a moment, there was silence. Then a grin spread across his face—wide, lopsided, and utterly without shame.
"Chen'ya," the beastman introduced himself, extending a hand that had suspicious traces of glitter on it. "And that wasn't the Monstro Lounge. That was a scaled-down replica of the Headmage's office. Complete with tiny potato Crowley sitting at a tiny potato desk, ignoring tiny potato student complaints."
Lilia's eyes lit up. "You have a gift."
"I have many gifts. The ability to make authority figures uncomfortable with starch-based art is but one of them."
"Lilia Vanrouge," the fae introduced himself with a bow that was simultaneously elegant and mocking. "Diasomnia dormitory. Ancient fae of considerable power and minimal fucks to give."
Chen'ya's tail began swishing again, this time in a rhythm that suggested excitement. "Wait. You're the Lilia? The one who supposedly once convinced an entire kingdom that the moon had been stolen?"
"That was a misunderstanding. The moon was only temporarily relocated. And they noticed in three days. I expected better from them, honestly."
"I heard you also taught a generation of warriors a dance routine that was actually a complex battle formation, and they didn't realize until they waltzed through enemy lines."
Lilia smiled proudly. "The look on the enemy general's face when my soldiers began doing the cha-cha through his defenses was priceless. I have it painted in my personal gallery."
Chen'ya leaned forward. "I once convinced my entire dormitory that the showers were haunted by the ghost of a student who failed alchemy. For three months, people only showered in pairs and left offerings of shampoo to appease the spirits."
"What did you do with the shampoo offerings?"
"Sold them back to the school store at a profit."
Lilia clutched his chest as if struck by Cupid's arrow. "Where have you been all my immortal life?"
"Avoiding ancient fae who teleport into people's personal space without warning." But his grin suggested he didn't mind in the slightest.
It was at this precise moment that a first-year from Savanaclaw, who had been eavesdropping with growing horror, made the mistake of dropping his tray. The clatter caused both Lilia and Chen'ya to turn and look at him with matching expressions of predatory interest.
"New friend?" Chen'ya asked.
"Potential project," Lilia corrected.
The first-year bolted.
As they watched him flee, Chen'ya mused, "You know what this school is missing?"
"Proper respect for its elders?"
"Okay, yes, but also: a truly spectacular prank at the Spelldrive competition."
Lilia's entire demeanor shifted. His playful expression became something more focused, more dangerous. The kind of face that had launched a thousand legends of fae mischief. "Go on."
Chen'ya leaned in conspiratorially. "Hear me out. The Opening Ceremony. All those pristine uniforms. All those serious faces. All that dignity—"
"Overrated."
"Deeply. What if, during the most important magical sports event of the year, something happened that was so completely absurd that people would talk about it for generations?"
Lilia's eyes gleamed. "I'm listening."
"My Unique Magic," Chen'ya said, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret, "is called Lost in the Mist. The short version? I can make things unable to reach their destination. People, objects, doesn't matter. They get lost. Can't find their way."
"Useful."
"The fun part is what happens when something can't get where it's going. It has to end up somewhere else. And that somewhere else?" Chen'ya shrugged, ears wiggling. "Nobody knows. Not even me. That's the whole point. A sound that can't reach its target might come out as something else entirely. A disc that can't reach the goal might go literally anywhere. The more someone tries to force a path, the more my mist scrambles it."
Lilia set down his smoothie. "So you don't create chaos directly. You create lostness, and chaos is just what fills the gap."
Chen'ya pointed at him. "Yes. Exactly that. Most people hear the name and think 'oh, how spooky, a mist that makes you lost,' and they imagine fog and confusion. Which, fair, it does that too. But the real power is in the unraveling. You take something that's supposed to go from point A to point B, and you just… remove point B from the equation. The universe has to figure out what to do with all that momentum, and it gets creative."
"And I can teleport anything anywhere at any time," Lilia finished, understanding blooming across his face. "Your magic removes the destination. My magic provides a new one. Together—"
"Together we don't just disrupt things. We redesign them in real time."
They stared at each other for a long moment. Around them, the cafeteria continued its normal operations, completely unaware that a legendary partnership had just been formed.
"To partnership?" Lilia offered, raising his pink smoothie.
"To chaos," Chen'ya countered, clinking his own suspiciously green drink against it.
They drank. Somewhere in the distance, a crow cawed ominously. Crowley, who happened to be passing by, sneezed violently and felt an inexplicable sense of dread.
He chose to ignore it.
This would prove to be a mistake.
Chapter 2: The Planning Phase
The abandoned classroom on the third floor of Night Raven College had seen many things in its time. Illicit magic experiments. Secret meetings. That one time Leona had tried to nap there and ended up trapped when the door handle fell off.
But it had never seen anything quite like the planning session currently unfolding within its walls.
Chen'ya had claimed a desk and was using it as a throne, legs crossed, tail draped over the armrest like a particularly fluffy accessory. Lilia had produced a whiteboard from somewhere—possibly from another dimension, given that the school didn't actually own one—and was drawing increasingly complicated diagrams with a marker that smelled suspiciously like it had been enchanted to never run out of ink.
"Phase One," Lilia announced, drawing a large circle on the board. "We establish our base of operations."
"The supply closet near the Spelldrive field. I've already scouted it. Enough room for two people, emergency snacks, and a small dimensional rift if necessary."
Lilia paused his drawing. "Do you often plan for dimensional rifts in your supply closet operations?"
"One can never be too prepared."
"Phase Two: reconnaissance." Lilia drew several smaller circles connected to the main one. "We need the schedule, the participants, the security arrangements—"
"I have all that." Chen'ya produced a scroll from seemingly nowhere. "I may have accidentally walked through the organizing committee's meeting last week while invisible."
"Accidentally."
"I was practicing my stealth techniques and happened to end up under their table. The detailed notes were a bonus of good observational skills."
Lilia examined the scroll with growing appreciation. "You've noted the refreshment schedule, the bathroom break patterns of the refereeing staff, and…" He squinted. "Is this the Headmage's speech for the opening ceremony?"
"Highlighted the key dramatic pauses and everything."
Lilia pinned the scroll to the whiteboard with a dagger he also produced from nowhere. "Phase Three: scope. How far are we going?"
Chen'ya considered this seriously. Not the flippant, rapid-fire consideration of someone joking around, but the careful calculation of someone who understood that chaos without boundaries was just destruction. "I've been thinking about that," he said, and his voice shifted—still playful, but with an edge of something more considered underneath. "There's a difference between chaos that makes people laugh and chaos that makes people afraid. I'm not interested in the second kind."
Lilia studied him. "Why not?"
Chen'ya's tail slowed its swishing. "Because I've been on the wrong end of it. When you're a beastman who doesn't fit neatly into any one category—who doesn't belong to a clear group, a clear dormitory, a clear anything—people's uncertainty about you can curdle into something ugly pretty fast. I've had people 'lose' me before. Not with magic. Just with paperwork, with scheduling, with 'oh, we forgot you were on that list.' Being lost isn't fun when you didn't choose it."
The room was quiet for a moment. Lilia set down the marker.
"So you took the thing that hurt you," Lilia said slowly, "and made it yours."
Chen'ya's grin returned, but it was different now—sharper, more intentional. "I took the thing that hurt me, and I made it fun. There's a difference between being lost because no one cares where you are, and being lost because you chose to throw away the map. My magic does the second one. It says: you don't need a destination to have a good time."
Lilia nodded, something warm settling behind his eyes. "Then we aim for joy. Not fear. Not harm. Just… joyful confusion."
"Joyful confusion. I like that." Chen'ya bounced to his feet and grabbed the marker from Lilia's hand. "Okay. Phase Four: specific objectives. Opening Ceremony. Crowley gives his big speech, very dramatic, very self-important. What if, at key moments, his microphone emitted sounds that were not his voice?"
"Animal noises?"
"I was thinking more like dramatic opera vocals. But animal noises could work. Maybe a combination. Opera-singing goats?"
Lilia nodded. "I can teleport small objects into the microphone mechanism to create the effect. But we'd need to time it perfectly."
"That's where Lost in the Mist comes in." Chen'ya began sketching on the whiteboard—what appeared to be a very enthusiastic goat wearing a Viking helmet. "I can lay a mist over the sound equipment. Not enough to be visible, just enough that the electrical signals can't quite find their proper destination. The sound goes in, but it gets lost on the way out, and whatever comes out the other side is… whatever the universe decides. They'll think it's a technical glitch."
"Brilliant. What else?"
"During the actual games, the spelldrive discs." Chen'ya drew what looked like a Spelldrive field but with far more explosions than regulations typically allowed. "What if they couldn't reach their targets? Not enough to actually affect the outcome, but enough to make everyone question their sanity?"
"You want to use your mist on the discs."
"Just a thin layer. The thrower aims for point B, but the disc gets lost somewhere between A and B and ends up at point… Q? The momentum has to go somewhere, and the somewhere is never where anyone expects."
"I can teleport in replacement discs at key moments. discs that look identical but behave differently."
"There was this spell I learned in the nineteenth century," Lilia said, "that makes objects temporarily develop sentience and strong opinions about where they want to go."
Chen'ya's ears went vertical. "Sentient sports equipment?"
"Sentient sports equipment with attitude."
"Oh, this is going to be beautiful."
They spent the next two hours fleshing out increasingly elaborate plans. The halftime show would feature unexpected choreography. The refreshment stand would serve items that had been mysteriously swapped with identical-looking but differently-flavored alternatives. The referee's whistle would occasionally play show tunes.
"We should establish boundaries," Lilia said eventually, voice hoarse from excited planning. "We don't want to actually hurt anyone or ruin the competition entirely."
"Obviously. The point is to enhance the experience, not destroy it."
"Though destroying it would be easier."
"Much easier. But where's the artistry in that?"
Lilia drew a final circle on the now-crowded whiteboard. "We need an escape plan."
"From what?"
"The inevitable aftermath when someone tries to figure out what happened."
Chen'ya considered this. "I have a contingency."
"Which is?"
His grin turned mysterious. "Let's just say that I've made friends with the school's plumbing system, and leave it at that."
Lilia stared at him for a long moment. "You've made friends with the plumbing."
"It's a long story involving a clogged drain, a rainy Tuesday, and my ability to make water go places it shouldn't."
"You know what? I don't need to know. I trust you."
They shook on it. The whiteboard looked like the planning diagram of a supervillain who had given up on world domination in favor of pure absurdity.
It was perfect.
Chapter 3: The Pre-Game Jitters
The night before the Spelldrive competition, most students were experiencing one of two states: nervous excitement or nervous terror. Athletes visualized their plays. Strategists reviewed notes. Fans painted their faces in dormitory colors and practiced their cheers.
Lilia Vanrouge was doing none of these things.
Instead, he was floating upside down in the Diasomnia common room, juggling seven small objects that appeared to be different types of fruit, while having a conversation with a very stressed-looking Silver.
"Father, I'm concerned about you," Silver said, his usual drowsy demeanor replaced with something approaching alertness. "You've been humming for the past three hours. Not a normal song—it sounds like a chaotic medley of every national anthem from every kingdom, played simultaneously but slightly out of sync."
"Is that what it sounds like? I was trying to practice for tomorrow."
"Practice what?"
"Chaos, Silver. Pure, beautiful chaos."
Silver sighed—a sound that carried the weight of centuries of dealing with his father's eccentricities. "Is this about that beastman you met in the cafeteria? Chen'ya?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"Sebek saw you two planning something in an abandoned classroom. He was going to report it to Malleus, but I convinced him that perhaps you were just expressing yourself creatively."
"Tell Sebek I appreciate his restraint."
"Father, please tell me you're not going to do anything that will embarrass Malleus during the competition."
Lilia stopped juggling, catching all eight fruits in a sudden cascade that defied physics. He righted himself and looked at Silver with pure innocence.
"Silver, my dear boy, would I ever do anything to embarrass our young master?"
"Yes."
"Would I do it intentionally?"
"Also yes."
"Would I do it in a way that he couldn't appreciate once the initial shock wore off?"
"…probably."
"That's good enough for me." Lilia patted Silver on the head and vanished, leaving behind only a faint smell of strawberries and the lingering sense of impending doom.
Silver sat down heavily. "I need more sleep," he muttered. "Much, much more sleep."
Meanwhile, in a different part of campus, Chen'ya was having a different kind of pre-game ritual.
He sat cross-legged on the floor of his room—a small space in one of the less-monitored corners of campus, the kind of room that existed in a bureaucratic gray area where no one had bothered to assign it or unassign it. Chen'ya had been living in it for months, and so far no one had questioned his presence. This was, in his experience, how most of his life worked: he simply arrived places, and the universe failed to notice he wasn't supposed to be there.
His enrollment at Night Raven College was, to put it charitably, a matter of interpretation. He had applied to a different school entirely. His application had gotten lost in transit—whether through mundane postal errors or through the unconscious influence of his own magic, he had never been entirely sure. It had ended up on Crowley's desk. Crowley, being Crowley, had approved it without reading it carefully, assuming it was a transfer student's paperwork. By the time anyone noticed the discrepancy, Chen'ya had already been attending classes for two weeks, and the sheer bureaucratic effort required to un-enroll him was more than anyone at the school was willing to expend.
So he stayed. He had no official dormitory assignment, no student ID number that matched any database, and no record of ever having been accepted. He also had perfect attendance, passing grades, and a talent for being exactly where he needed to be while remaining invisible to anyone who might ask uncomfortable questions.
It was, he reflected, a very Lost in the Mist way to exist.
He turned his attention to the small device in his hands—a modified version of something he'd built for a different prank, now repurposed for the Spelldrive catastrophe. It was a remote control with far too many buttons and a small antenna made of a bent spoon.
One press of the primary button, and the mist would settle over the target area. Sounds, objects, magical signals—they'd all get lost on their way to their destinations and emerge as something else entirely.
He set the device down and picked up a handkerchief instead, absently folding it into an origami crane as he thought.
He liked Lilia. That was the surprising thing. Chen'ya liked very few people. Not out of malice, but out of a kind of protective laziness—getting attached to people meant caring about where they were going, and caring about destinations felt like a betrayal of his entire philosophy.
But Lilia was different. Lilia didn't just embrace chaos; he understood it on a level that Chen'ya had never encountered in another person. For Chen'ya, chaos was a survival mechanism, a way of turning being lost into a choice. For Lilia, chaos was an art form, honed over centuries of existence. They approached the same concept from completely different angles and arrived at the same destination.
Which was, ironically, a destination, and Chen'ya chose not to think too hard about that.
He finished the origami crane and enchanted it to fly in slow circles around his room. Then he lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
Tomorrow was going to be the most fun he'd had since he'd accidentally enrolled at this school.
He couldn't wait.
Chapter 4: The Opening Ceremony
The Spelldrive stadium was packed.
Every student from Night Raven College had turned out for the opening ceremony, along with various dignitaries, alumni, and curious onlookers from the surrounding town. The stands were a sea of different dormitory colors. Banners waved, noisemakers noised, and the general atmosphere was one of excited anticipation.
In the supply closet that served as their base of operations, Lilia and Chen'ya were experiencing a different kind of excitement.
"He's taking forever," Chen'ya complained, peering through a crack in the door. Headmage Crowley was on stage, preparing to give his opening remarks. "How many throat-clearing noises does one bird-man need?"
"It's called building suspense."
"Crowley wouldn't know suspense if it bit him on his feathered—"
"Shh. He's starting."
Crowley approached the microphone, his dramatic cape billowing in a breeze that was definitely being generated by a small fan placed offstage. He cleared his throat one final time, adjusted his mask, and began.
"Students, faculty, distinguished guests, and those of you who are only here for the free refreshments—welcome to the Annual Night Raven College Spelldrive Competition! A tradition stretching back centuries, this event represents the very best of what our institution stands for: magical excellence, sportsmanship, and the occasional dramatic injury that we all pretend wasn't that serious!"
Polite laughter rippled through the crowd. Crowley preened.
"Tonight, we gather not as rivals, but as—"
Chen'ya pressed the button.
What came out of the microphone was not Crowley's voice. It was, unmistakably, the sound of an opera singer hitting a high C with the kind of passion usually reserved for tragic love scenes.
Crowley stopped. The sound cut off after three seconds.
Silence.
He opened his beak to speak again. The microphone emitted a goat attempting to yodel. An operatic goat. A goat that had trained at a prestigious music academy and had strong feelings about modern vocal performance.
In the supply closet, Chen'ya pressed his hand over his own mouth to muffle his laughter. Lilia had gone very still, his shoulders shaking silently.
On stage, Crowley examined the microphone with the intensity of a crime scene investigator. He tapped it. Shook it. Held it at arm's length and stared at it.
"Ahem. Technical difficulties, I assure you. Nothing to be concerned about—"
The microphone began playing a slow jazz saxophone solo.
Crowley slowly set it down and took a step back.
In the crowd, reactions varied. First-years looked confused. Second-years looked suspicious. Third-years were trying very hard not to laugh, because they recognized the signs of chaos and knew that acknowledging it would only make it worse.
Riddle Rosehearts had gone very still, eyes darting around for the source. Leona Kingscholar was openly grinning. Azul Ashengrotto was taking notes. Kalim Al-Asim was laughing delightedly while Jamil Viper calculated how to prevent whatever was happening from affecting Scarabia. Vil Schoenheit had his phone out, recording. Idia Shroud was live-streaming with running commentary. Malleus Draconia watched with mild amusement, because very little fazed a dragon fae who had seen centuries of human oddity.
A technician rushed forward to replace the microphone. Crowley approached the new one with the caution of someone handling a live explosive.
"AS I WAS SAYING," Crowley began, speaking much louder than necessary, "this competition represents—"
The new microphone produced the sound of a very proper voice saying, "Pardon me, but I believe you're mistaken," before cutting to silence.
Crowley's eye twitched.
"IS EVERYONE HAVING FUN TONIGHT?" he shouted, abandoning the microphone entirely.
The crowd roared. A flustered Crowley was always entertaining.
Back in the supply closet, Chen'ya was already preparing the next move. "The refreshment stand," he whispered. "It's time."
While Chen'ya kept watch, Lilia teleported small objects into the refreshment area. The lemonade would temporarily turn anyone who drank it light blue. The sandwiches had been enchanted to squeak when bitten into. The cookies would, when broken open, reveal small messages in edible ink: "Have you considered chaos today?" and "The end is near (but not really)."
Within twenty minutes, the refreshment stand had claimed its first victims.
A Heartslabyul student who had drunk the blue lemonade was being examined by his classmates.
"Do I look okay?" he asked, voice tinged with panic.
"You look… refreshed?"
"I look like a smurf!"
"What's a smurf?"
"I don't know! But I feel like one!"
Across the stadium, a Savanaclaw student bit into his sandwich and it let out a loud squeak. He stared at it.
"Did my sandwich just squeak at me?"
"You're imagining things, bro. Eat it before it gets cold."
"It's a cold sandwich."
"Then eat it before it gets colder."
He took another bite. Another squeak, higher-pitched, almost questioning.
"I'm going to pretend this is normal," he announced.
Lilia and Chen'ya shared a look of satisfaction in their supply closet.
"This is just the beginning," Chen'ya said, his tail curling with anticipation. "Wait until the actual games start."
"I can hardly wait."
Chapter 5: The Games Begin
The first match was Heartslabyul versus Savanaclaw. Riddle had his team lined up with military precision, each player in their assigned position with exactly three inches between them. Leona had his team in what appeared to be a chaotic mess but was actually a carefully calculated formation.
Professor Trein, who had drawn the short straw, approached the center of the field with the official spelldrive disc.
"Teams ready?"
"Ready!" both captains responded.
"Play fair, play hard, play—"
Lilia made his move. With a subtle gesture and a whispered incantation, the official disc in Trein's hand was replaced with an identical-looking one, specially enchanted. The disc would behave normally for the most part, but occasionally it would develop temporary sentience and express opinions about how it was being treated.
"—disc?" Trein finished, frowning as if he'd lost his train of thought. He tossed the disc into the air.
For the first few minutes, everything proceeded normally. Heartslabyul and Savanaclaw players soared through the air on their brooms, passing and intercepting with practiced skill.
Then, during a high-speed maneuver, the disc first showed its nature.
Leona had caught it and was preparing to throw when the disc, nestled in his hands, emitted a weary sigh.
Leona froze. "Did that disc just sigh?"
"Keep playing!" Trein called.
Shaking it off, Leona threw to a teammate. The pass was successful. But Chen'ya had laid a thin mist over the field—invisible, undetectable, just enough to make the disc's trajectory uncertain. A Heartslabyul student reached for what should have been an easy catch and missed. The disc curved slightly, as if it had decided to take a different path.
"My bad!" the student called, assuming he'd miscalculated.
But it happened again. To different players on both teams. Catches that should have been simple suddenly weren't.
The crowd began to notice.
"Are they playing badly on purpose?" a first-year asked.
"No, look—that throw was perfect until the last second," a second-year observed. "Something's weird."
On the field, Riddle was getting frustrated. "Focus! Your fundamentals are lacking!"
"We are focused!" Ace called back, having just missed an easy interception. "The disc's just being weird!"
"A disc cannot be 'weird.' A disc is an inanimate object that follows physical laws."
As if to contradict this, the disc—currently in a Savanaclaw player's possession—let out a thoughtful "hmm."
The player dropped it. It bounced twice and then, with determination that should not have been possible for a sports implement, rolled directly to Riddle.
Everyone stared.
Riddle stared down at it.
"That just—"
"Keep playing!" Trein called, deciding that acknowledging it would only make things worse.
The game resumed, but players now handled the disc with extreme caution. Ten minutes later, with the score tied, a Savanaclaw player made a powerful throw toward the goal. The disc soared in a perfect arc.
Instead, it stopped. Mid-air. Completely defying gravity and momentum.
It hovered, as if considering its options, and then a voice—small, slightly squeaky, and inexplicably British—emanated from it.
"I say, this is rather undignified, isn't it? Being thrown about like a common object. I have feelings, you know. Dreams. Aspirations."
Silence fell over the entire stadium.
"I wanted to be a star. Literally. I had dreams of hanging in the night sky, beautiful and untouchable. But here I am, being batted about by teenagers with sticks. It's rather demoralizing."
On the sidelines, Crowley had gone pale behind his mask. Professor Trein was examining the disc with academic intensity. Riddle looked like he was having an aneurysm. Leona looked like he was trying to decide if this was the best or worst thing that had ever happened to him.
The disc noticed its audience. "Oh, I'm sorry. Am I holding things up? Do carry on. I'll just be a disc, I suppose. It's not like I have any other options."
It dropped to the ground and resumed normal behavior.
The silence lasted three seconds before the stadium erupted. Some people laughed. Some screamed. Some cried. In the stands, a group of first-years had formed a prayer circle around a very confused upperclassman.
In the supply closet, Lilia and Chen'ya were on the floor, tears streaming, laughter shaking their bodies.
"It talked," Chen'ya wheezed. "And it was British."
"I may have slightly over-enchanted it. The sentience was supposed to be non-verbal."
"You made a disc have an existential crisis about its life choices. In the middle of a competitive sporting event."
"Art is never perfect on the first try."
Eventually, order was restored. The disc was replaced with a normal one, though several players treated it with suspicion for the remainder of the game. The match concluded with a narrow Savanaclaw victory, though no one really remembered the score.
As the teams left the field, Lilia and Chen'ya prepared for their next act.
"Halftime show?" Chen'ya suggested.
Lilia's grin could have lit up the stadium. "Halftime show."
Chapter 6: The Halftime Show
The halftime show was supposed to be a dignified display of magical prowess and synchronized performance by representatives from each dormitory. It had been rehearsed for weeks. Everything was planned down to the smallest detail.
Which made it the perfect target.
"My Lost in the Mist is ideal for this," Chen'ya explained, fine-tuning a small device that looked like a cross between a compass and a kaleidoscope. "I lay the mist over the performers' formation. Not visible, not tangible—just enough that their intended positions become unreachable. They aim for point A, but point A is lost in the mist, so they end up at point somewhere-else-entirely. All that rehearsed choreography falls apart, and they have to improvise."
"You're not just disrupting them. You're unmooring them."
"Exactly. And unmoored people either panic or create. I'm betting on create."
The performers took their positions in a complex geometric pattern. The music started—something classical and dramatic—and they began.
For thirty seconds, everything went according to plan. Then Chen'ya activated his device.
The student at the northernmost point found himself drifting left instead of forward. He corrected, overcorrected, and collided gently with the student next to him.
The ripple effect was immediate. The formation wobbled. Students who had been moving in perfect synchronization were suddenly out of step.
A Heartslabyul performer, pushed off course, ended up in front of a Savanaclaw performer instead of beside him. Without missing a beat, he executed an elaborate bow that was definitely not part of the choreography. The Savanaclaw student responded with an equally elaborate curtsey.
The music continued, but the rehearsed choreography was dead. In its place, something new was emerging—part improvised dance, part magical accident, part sheer determination.
An Octavinelle student, finding himself in an unexpected position, began aquatic interpretive dance, his movements flowing and wave-like. A Scarabia student nearby added spins that created a small whirlwind of sand. A Pomefiore student turned what should have been a simple turn into a full theatrical pose that would have made Vil proud.
Then Chen'ya made a subtle adjustment, and the magical effects started triggering at random. A student who was supposed to create fire got a shower of flower petals. Another who was supposed to summon water got a small flock of butterflies.
The crowd's murmurs turned to gasps, then to cheers. Whatever was happening, it was clearly not planned, but it was captivating.
In the stands, Vil Schoenheit leaned forward, his critical eye taking in every unplanned movement. To everyone's surprise, he nodded approvingly.
"Raw. Unpolished. But there's something here. Something genuine."
Riddle had gone from annoyed to confused to something approaching wonder. His carefully ordered world was being disrupted, and yet it was working. Chaos was supposed to lead to disaster, not to this.
Leona was laughing openly. Kalim was clapping along. Jamil was massaging his temples.
Malleus watched with genuine delight. "How wonderful. They've discovered the joy of spontaneity."
On the field, the performance reached a crescendo of beautiful chaos. Students who had never practiced together moved as if some collective unconscious had taken over. Then, as if the universe decided to contribute, it started to rain—not a downpour, just a gentle drizzle that shouldn't have been possible given the clear sky. The magical effects interacting with the rain created a rainbow of colors across the field.
In the supply closet, Chen'ya lowered his device, looking slightly surprised. "I didn't do that."
"Neither did I."
They looked at each other. Chen'ya shrugged. "Magic is weird."
"Magic is definitely weird."
The performers incorporated the rain into their routine, and the whole thing became something otherworldly. As the music reached its conclusion, they came together in a formation that was nothing like what had been rehearsed but felt somehow right.
Silence.
Then the loudest cheers of the day.
Lilia and Chen'ya exchanged a look that went beyond their usual mischief-making satisfaction. They had intended to create chaos. Instead, they had accidentally created something beautiful.
"Well," Lilia said, "that wasn't quite what I expected."
"Same. But I'm not complaining."
They allowed themselves a moment of genuine pride before Chen'ya's nature reasserted itself. "So, for the second half, I was thinking—"
"Oh, we're not done yet."
Chapter 7: The Second Half
The second half began with wary anticipation. The disc's existential crisis had become the talk of the stadium. The halftime show's beautiful chaos was still being dissected. Everyone knew something else was coming.
Lilia produced a small box from his pocket. Inside were what appeared to be ordinary pebbles, except they glowed with a faint shimmer.
"Enchanted stones. When activated, they create small, localized reality distortions. A person walking through might find their left foot suddenly wants to go right. They might reach for something and find it's two inches to the left of where it appears to be."
"And where do you plan to place these?"
"Around the field, at strategic points. To the players, it will feel like sudden uncoordination. To everyone watching, it will look like bizarre athletic incompetence."
"Beautiful."
While the crowd discussed the halftime show, Lilia teleported the stones into position. Chen'ya used his mist to create an interference pattern that would prevent anyone from detecting the stones' magical signatures.
The second match—Octavinelle versus Scarabia—began. The referee tossed a new disc, thoroughly inspected and declared "definitely not sentient" by three professors.
The first player to hit a distortion field was an Octavinelle student moving confidently toward the goal. Mid-stride, he stumbled for no apparent reason.
"Clumsy!" a Scarabia player called, seizing the opportunity.
"Am not! The ground just moved."
"Ground doesn't move, bro."
"It did this time!"
As the game continued, more players experienced strange effects. A Scarabia student reached for a pass and found the disc wasn't where it appeared to be. An Octavinelle player tried to change direction and went in a completely different one.
The crowd noticed.
"Are they all tired?"
"No, look—that was a perfect setup and he just missed."
In the supply closet, Chen'ya was recording everything with an undetectable camera. "Look at Azul's face."
Azul Ashengrotto was on the sidelines, cycling through confusion, frustration, and that particular look of someone mentally calculating how to turn a disadvantage into an advantage. He pulled out a notebook and began jotting observations.
"Showtime," Chen'ya said, producing a second device.
One moment, Azul was standing on the sidelines, taking notes. The next, a flock of pigeons—definitely not supposed to be inside a magical stadium—descended upon him with military precision. They didn't attack or land on him. They simply swirled around him in a perfect formation that looked like a small tornado made of birds.
Azul's notebook went flying. The pigeons completed three rotations and vanished into the rafters.
The entire sequence lasted perhaps ten seconds.
On the field, play had stopped. Azul stood covered in loose feathers, looking like he was questioning reality.
"What was that?" Jamil asked.
"I have no idea. But I want it studied."
"Maybe later. Game's still in progress!"
Play resumed, but the pigeon incident had added a new layer of confusion. Players periodically glanced at the sky.
"Pigeons?" Lilia asked. "Where did you get pigeons?"
"Family of them near the library. I negotiated an arrangement."
"You negotiated with pigeons."
"I have a talent for communication."
The game grew increasingly surreal. The reality distortions caused players to move in unexpected ways. The disc seemed affected too, occasionally changing direction mid-flight.
With five minutes left and the score tied, a Scarabia player moving through a dense cluster of distortion fields experienced several glitches in quick succession. The result was a movement pattern that should have been impossible—a zigzagging, spiraling, somehow-forward motion that left defenders standing confused.
He emerged from the distortion field with the disc, directly in front of the Octavinelle goal, and scored.
The crowd went wild.
"That wasn't supposed to happen," Lilia said, surprised.
"You created an environment of chaos and are surprised when chaos produces unexpected results?"
"Fair point."
The final minutes passed without further major incident, unless you counted the moment the referee's whistle produced a sound like a slide whistle. Scarabia won by a single point. The players on both teams looked exhausted, confused, and slightly shell-shocked.
In the supply closet, Lilia and Chen'ya rested and regrouped. One more match remained: Diasomnia versus Ignihyde.
"We need something big for the finale," Lilia said. "Something that ties everything together."
Chen'ya nodded, tail swishing thoughtfully. "Something that involves both our magics. Both our approaches. Your teleportation provides new destinations. My mist removes old ones. Together—"
"Together we don't just disrupt reality. We redesign it."
Chen'ya's eyes lit up. "What specifically are you thinking?"
Lilia explained. As he did, Chen'ya's grin grew wider.
"That's either the best or worst idea I've ever heard."
"Why can't it be both?"
Chapter 8: The Final Match
The final match—Diasomnia versus Ignihyde—was supposed to be the dramatic conclusion. Instead, it became the moment when reality decided to take a coffee break.
Diasomnia, led by Malleus, looked imposing as always. Ignihyde looked like they would rather be anywhere else. Their captain was giving a pep talk that mostly consisted of "let's just get this over with."
The referee approached the center with the disc.
"Teams ready?"
"Ready," Malleus responded.
"I guess," the Ignihyde captain replied.
"Then let's—"
Lilia teleported the disc, replacing it with one that combined both their magics. Chen'ya's mist was woven into its very structure—the disc's destination was perpetually lost, unreachable, gone. Lilia's teleportation magic filled the gap, providing new destinations that were chosen by neither logic nor intention.
The result was a disc that followed no rules, obeyed no laws, and existed in a state of quantum uncertainty until someone interacted with it.
The referee threw it into the air.
It went up.
It kept going.
And up.
Until it was a small speck against the sky.
The referee stared up at it. The players stared. The entire stadium stared.
"Well," the Ignihyde captain said, "that's a problem."
The disc stopped. It hung there impossibly still. Then it came down. Fast. Faster than should have been possible.
Players scattered. The referee dove for cover.
The disc hit the ground with a force that should have created a crater. Instead, it bounced—a chaotic bounce that sent it careening in a direction unrelated to the angle of impact. It hit a goalpost, ricocheted into the air, did something that looked like a loop-the-loop, and disappeared.
One moment it was there. The next, gone.
Silence.
Then, from near the refreshment stand: "WHY IS THERE A SPELLODRIVE disc IN MY POPCORN?!"
The disc had teleported into a customer's popcorn bucket. The popcorn exploded outward. The disc, apparently offended, teleported again—appearing directly in front of Malleus.
Malleus didn't flinch. He looked at the disc with mild curiosity.
"Interesting. A disc with teleportation capabilities. Lilia, is this your doing?"
In the supply closet, Lilia winced. "Don't answer that," Chen'ya whispered. "Keep the mystery alive."
Before Malleus could investigate, the disc teleported again—appearing directly above the Ignihyde goal. It hung there, as if considering its options, and dropped straight through the goal ring.
The referee stared. "I suppose that's a point for Diasomnia?"
The crowd erupted.
The game continued in a fashion that could only loosely be described as "continuing." The disc teleported randomly, changed direction unpredictably, and occasionally did things that defied explanation. A Diasomnia player would reach for it, only to have it teleport to the other side of the field. An Ignihyde player would try to block a shot, only for the disc to reverse direction and go through the goal from behind.
The referee gave up enforcing rules and started providing color commentary. "The disc appears to be floating. Not moving, just existing horizontally. Oh, now it's spinning. Still not moving, just spinning. Fascinating."
In the supply closet, Chen'ya watched their creation with a mix of pride and slight concern. "It might be too chaotic."
"We might have overdone it."
"Nonsense. Look at them."
"Them" was the players, who had given up playing normally and were treating the game like surreal performance art. Diasomnia and Ignihyde players were working together to try to corral the chaos disc, their competitive instincts overridden by shared bewilderment.
Malleus simply watched the disc with academic interest, occasionally making notes. The Ignihyde captain sat down on the field, accepting that control was an illusion.
"Score?" the referee called.
"One of the goal rings is on fire. Does that count?"
"Is it on fire because of the disc?"
"The disc flew through it, and then it was on fire."
"Then it doesn't count. Unrelated phenomena."
The match continued for another twenty minutes. The final score was a matter of debate—the disc had scored several goals on its own, players had accidentally scored in the wrong goal, and at one point the goals themselves had switched positions.
When the final horn sounded, the referee made an executive decision. "The match is over. The final score is also over, in that it no longer makes sense. Both teams are declared participants. Thank you for your time."
The crowd gave a standing ovation. It wasn't clear if they were applauding the players, the chaos, or the fact that the ordeal was finally over.
In the supply closet, Lilia and Chen'ya collapsed against the wall.
"We did it," Chen'ya said, his tail making one final, weak swish.
"We broke Spelldrive."
"We didn't break it. We liberated it from the constraints of rules."
"The disc is currently trying to eat a goalpost."
They looked out at the field, where the chaos disc was indeed attempting to consume a goal ring through some combination of teleportation and aggressive nibbling.
"Okay, slightly breaking," Lilia conceded. "But in a fun way."
Chapter 9: The Aftermath
The days following the competition were a blur of explanations, investigations, and increasingly creative theories.
The official explanation, released in a statement clearly written by someone who had no idea what had occurred, attributed the events to "unusual atmospheric magical fluctuations combined with equipment malfunctions and the natural unpredictability of competitive sports."
No one believed it. But the alternatives—admitting that reality had temporarily stopped working, or that powerful chaos agents were targeting school events—were unappealing enough that most people accepted the lie and moved on.
The sound equipment was examined by three magical technicians, all of whom concluded there was "nothing wrong with it" despite evidence of goat yodeling and jazz saxophone solos.
The sentient disc was never found. Replacement discs were inspected and certified as "definitely not conscious," though this did little to reassure players.
The halftime show became the subject of intense analysis. Professor Trein, despite his earlier retreat to strong drink, wrote a paper on "The Emergent Choreography of Unplanned Magical Disruptions" that became required reading in several performing arts programs.
The reality distortion stones were eventually discovered and removed, but not before spawning at least a dozen conspiracy theories. The most popular, propagated by Ignihyde students, alleged a secret government experiment in reality manipulation.
The pigeons remained a mystery. Some claimed to see them forming coordinated patterns days after the event. A few students started leaving bread crumbs near the library, "just to be safe."
Azul devoted considerable resources to investigating the pigeon incident. He never found evidence of foul play, but he developed a newfound respect for urban wildlife and started carrying an umbrella.
The chaos disc was eventually contained by a team of professors, but not before it had teleported into the middle of a history exam, briefly turned into a flock of butterflies, and ended up in Crowley's office, where it was found attempting to organize his paperwork—more competently than Crowley himself.
Throughout all of this, Lilia and Chen'ya maintained perfect innocence.
"I have no idea what could have caused such chaos," Lilia said during a dormitory meeting when Malleus brought up the topic. "It's almost as if some powerful force of unpredictability was at work."
"Curious," Malleus replied, his eyes meeting Lilia's with a knowing look. "Almost as curious as the fact that you and that beastman have been spending considerable time together."
"We share common interests. An appreciation for the absurd, a distaste for excessive order, and a mutual acquaintance who happens to be a very knowledgeable pigeon."
"A pigeon."
"His name is Gerald. He has strong opinions about campus architecture."
"I see."
They both knew Malleus knew. They both knew he knew that they knew. And they both knew he was unlikely to act on it, because even a dragon fae prince could appreciate chaos that didn't directly affect him.
Chen'ya fielded questions with wide-eyed innocence and plausible deniability.
"Me? Involved? That's crazy. I was in the stands the whole time."
"You can't name anyone who saw you there," a first-year pointed out.
"That's because I was sitting in a section where I didn't know anyone. Theoretically, you could ask them."
"That's not how alibis work."
"It's how my alibis work."
Chapter 10: The Legacy
In the weeks and months following the competition, something unexpected happened: the chaos began to spread.
Not intentional chaos, but a general loosening of the rigid structures that had defined Night Raven College. Students started experimenting more. Classes incorporated practical, unpredictable elements. The arts program developed a curriculum on "spontaneous creative expression." Even Heartslabyul found itself relaxing certain rules—not because they'd been challenged, but because "but why?" had suddenly become harder to answer.
Lilia and Chen'ya had agreed to pace themselves after the competition. Too much chaos too quickly would lead to crackdowns. Instead, they engaged in "chaos maintenance"—small disruptions that kept the spirit alive: a missing sock here, a mysteriously rearranged classroom there, the occasional sound of duck quacking from a non-duck location.
Their partnership had evolved beyond prank-making. They had discovered a genuine connection, but it was built on something unexpected: the recognition that their relationships with chaos came from completely different places.
One evening, a few weeks after the competition, they were sitting on the roof of the school watching the sunset. Chen'ya had his legs dangling over the edge, tail hanging limply, ears relaxed. It was the most unguarded Lilia had ever seen him.
"Can I ask you something?" Lilia said.
"You just did."
"Why chaos? For me, it's easy. I've lived for centuries. Order bores me. But you're young. You could do anything. Why spend your time making things unpredictable?"
Chen'ya was quiet for a long moment. Not the performative silence of someone building suspense, but the genuine quiet of someone deciding whether to be honest.
"When I was a kid," he said, "I got lost. A lot. Not in the fun way—just literally, physically lost. My sense of direction has always been terrible. My parents would find me miles from where I was supposed to be, completely turned around, no idea how I'd gotten there. They thought something was wrong with me. Took me to specialists. Nobody could figure it out."
He picked at the edge of his sleeve.
"Then my Unique Magic manifested, and it turned out that I hadn't been getting lost by accident. My magic had been active since I was born, making me unable to reach my destinations. Every path I tried to take, my mist scrambled it. I spent my entire childhood lost, and I didn't even know I was doing it to myself."
Lilia said nothing. Just listened.
"The day I found out, I should have been devastated, right? My whole childhood explained as a magical malfunction. But instead I felt…" He trailed off, searching for the word. "Free. Because it meant I wasn't broken. I was built this way. Getting lost wasn't a mistake. It was what I was for."
His tail started swishing again, slowly.
"So I stopped trying not to be lost. I started leaning into it. And the more I leaned in, the more fun it became. Not just for me—for everyone around me. People laugh when things go wrong. They connect over shared confusion. A room full of people who don't know what's happening is a room full of people who are all in the same boat, for once. No hierarchies, no competition, no one knowing the right answer. Just… people being lost together."
He looked at Lilia. "That's why I do it. Not because chaos is fun, although it is. Because being lost together is the most honest people ever get."
The sun had dipped below the horizon. The sky was turning deep purple and orange. Lilia let the silence sit for a moment before speaking.
"I've been alive for a very long time," he said quietly. "I've seen kingdoms rise and fall. I've watched people I cared about grow old and die while I stayed the same. Do you know what the loneliest part of immortality is?"
Chen'ya shook his head.
"It's not the loss. You learn to live with loss. The loneliest part is that eventually, you stop being surprised by anything. You've seen every pattern, every outcome, every variation. The world becomes predictable, and predictability is a kind of death."
He turned to look at Chen'ya.
"Then I met you, and for the first time in decades, I didn't know what was going to happen next. You don't just create chaos. You create genuine uncertainty—the kind that can't be predicted even by someone who's seen everything. That's a gift, Chen'ya. A rare and precious one."
Chen'ya's ears had gone very still. He blinked a few times.
"That's… a lot of feelings for one sunset," he said, but his voice was softer than usual.
"Blame the orange sky. It's very emotive."
Chen'ya snorted. Then, after a moment: "You're the first person who's ever framed my magic as something other than a problem to be managed."
"Most people are too busy trying to reach their destinations to appreciate the value of being lost."
"Yeah." Chen'ya leaned back on his hands. "Yeah, they are."
They sat in comfortable silence as the first stars appeared. Somewhere below, they could hear the sounds of campus life—students talking, doors closing, distant laughter.
"So," Chen'ya said eventually. "Same time next year?"
Lilia's grin cut through the gathering dark. "I was hoping you'd ask."
Epilogue: One Year Later
The Spelldrive competition had returned.
In the year since the Incident (capitalized now, in the official records—a distinction that carried more weight than it probably should), the event had undergone changes. New safety protocols. Thorough equipment inspections. Increased security.
And yet.
Lilia and Chen'ya watched from their new hiding spot—a small room above the stadium officially classified as "storage" but completely empty except for their supplies. Below them, the Opening Ceremony was beginning. A new referee approached the microphone with the confidence of someone who had been assured that "the technical issues from last year have been completely resolved."
They had not been completely resolved.
But this year was different. This year, they weren't going to repeat themselves.
"Ready?" Chen'ya asked, but he wasn't reaching for any device. His hands were empty. His tail was still.
"Ready," Lilia said, equally calm.
Below, the referee reached the microphone. The crowd fell silent.
"Welcome to the Annual Night Raven College Spelldrive Competition—"
The microphone worked perfectly. The sound came through clear and strong, exactly as intended. The referee continued without interruption. The crowd settled in, relieved, assuming that this year would be normal.
And it was. For the most part. The games were played. The discs behaved. The halftime show went off without a single unexpected butterfly.
But if you looked closely—if you were the kind of person who noticed the spaces between things rather than the things themselves—you might have spotted something strange.
The shadows in the corners of the stadium were slightly more shadowy than they should have been. The breeze carried a faint smell of strawberries that had no source. One of the goalposts had a very small, perfectly carved potato crow perched on top of it that no one could remember putting there. A pigeon with unusually knowing eyes sat in the rafters, watching the proceedings with what could only be described as professional interest.
And in the stands, in a section where no one quite remembered sitting down, two empty seats remained throughout the entire event. Occasionally, someone nearby would glance at them and feel a strange warmth, like the memory of laughter they couldn't quite place.
The competition concluded without incident. The winners were crowned. The crowd filed out, chattering about the games, the players, the perfectly normal proceedings.
It was, by all accounts, a successful and uneventful day.
Except.
As the last students left the stadium and the groundskeepers began their work, one of them noticed something tucked under a seat in the empty section. A small note, written in handwriting that was somehow both elegant and messy, in ink that shimmered faintly before fading to ordinary black.
It read:
"The best chaos is the kind you don't even notice happening.
See you next year.
— L & C"
The groundskeeper stared at the note for a long moment. Then they folded it, put it in their pocket, and went back to work.
They were still smiling by the time they got home.
No spelldrive discs were permanently harmed in the making of this chaos.
Gerald the pigeon has since been promoted to Head of Avian Relations at Night Raven College, a position created specifically for him that comes with a small office and unlimited bread crumbs.
The original sentient disc was last seen somewhere in the Bermuda Triangle, where it is reportedly having deep conversations with a group of very confused dolphins.
Chen'ya's enrollment status remains unchanged: still technically not a student, still attending classes, still invisible to anyone who might ask uncomfortable questions.
Lilia has been asked to "please stop" by three different faculty members. He has not stopped. He will not stop. He is having too much fun.
