Quiet support

The corridors of Astoria Academy bustled with activity. Students of various races moved through the halls, chatting, laughing, or rushing to their next class. Some were in their uniforms, while others wore custom attire that reflected their respective cultures and abilities. A group of fairies flitted overhead, their wings shimmering under the enchanted ceiling lights. A pair of minotaurs strode past, their heavy footfalls making the floor tremble slightly.

Theron kept his head down, hoping to avoid drawing attention. He didn't need someone stopping him right now—not when he was already mentally preparing for whatever lecture Principal Valtheris had in store for him.

Theron walked swiftly through the halls of Astoria Academy, his boots making barely a sound against the polished stone floors. The weight of his absence pressed on him with every step. Seventeen classes. Nine mandatory sessions. No official leave request.

His stomach twisted, but he forced himself to breathe. He wasn't just skipping for the sake of it—he had been working, inventing, panicking, and then inventing again. First, the Bondometer, a device designed to detect mate bonds with precision. He had poured himself into the calculations, the mechanics, the energy configurations—only to uncover a truth he had never prepared himself for.

Kael was his mate.

Kael. The flirt. The troublemaker. The werewolf prince.

Theron had nearly short-circuited at the realization, his mind scrambling for solutions. It couldn't be true. It shouldn't be true. But the Bondometer had functioned perfectly—so flawlessly that there was no room for doubt.

Panic had set in, and with it, an obsessive need to fix things. He had thrown himself into his lab, designing the Bond Veil, an invention meant to suppress the bond's visibility, to mask it even from the supernatural instincts of Kael himself. The prototype had worked, theoretically. It should have hidden their connection seamlessly.

Except, of course, it didn't.

Kael had figured it out almost instantly.

Because Theron hadn't accounted for one thing—Kael wasn't just any werewolf. He was a lycan. Stronger. Sharper. Impossible to deceive when it came to something as primal as a mate bond. The Bond Veil had barely stood a chance.

And that was how seventeen missed classes had come to pass.

Now, as he approached Principal Valtheris' office, reality crashed down hard. He had no excuse that wouldn't sound insane. No invention to present as a justification for his absence—at least, none he could safely admit to.

He sighed, squared his shoulders, and knocked.

"Enter."

The voice that answered was smooth but devoid of warmth. It was neither welcoming nor unkind—just calm, controlled, and absolute.

Theron stepped inside, his heartbeat steadying as he took in the figure behind the grand mahogany desk.

Principal Valtheris was an elf, but not the kind people envisioned when thinking of elegant, nature-loving beings with an affinity for soft smiles and flowing robes. No, Valtheris was cut from a different cloth.

His presence was a thing of precision.

Long, silver hair, so fine it seemed woven from starlight, cascaded neatly down his back. Not a strand was out of place. His sharp, angular face was carved with an almost unnatural symmetry, his high cheekbones and straight nose giving him a sculpted, statuesque appearance. His skin had the timeless quality of elves—ageless, smooth, and pale as moonlight, but not delicate.

His piercing glacial blue eyes were what set him apart the most. There was no softness in them, only keen intelligence, the kind that dissected a person with a single glance. They were the eyes of a man who had lived centuries and wasted not a moment of it.

He wore a high-collared navy-blue coat, fitted with silver embroidery that traced along the seams like arcane constellations. His long fingers were adorned with exactly two rings—one, a platinum band inscribed with the academy's sigil, and the other, a ring of enchanted onyx, its purpose unknown but undoubtedly functional.

There was no excess to him. No wasted words. No unnecessary movements. Every aspect of Principal Valtheris was efficient. Controlled. Purposeful.

And that made him, quite possibly, the worst person Theron could be facing right now.

Valtheris steepled his fingers, his expression unreadable. "Theron."

His name alone, spoken with that measured cadence, carried weight.

Theron cleared his throat. "Principal Valtheris."

A long pause. Then—

"Seventeen absences. No recorded leave request."

He didn't ask why. Didn't prompt him for an excuse. Just stated the facts, allowing them to settle like iron weights in the air.

Theron knew how this worked. Valtheris didn't tolerate embellishments or nervous rambling. He wanted facts. Directness.

So Theron inhaled sharply and responded. "I was working on a research project. I lost track of time."

It wasn't a lie. Just… an extremely condensed version of the truth.

Valtheris' gaze didn't waver. "A research project."

Theron gave a single nod.

Another long pause. Then, Valtheris leaned back slightly, his fingers tapping against his desk.

"I assume you have results."

Theron swallowed. He did. The Bondometer had been a success. The Bond Veil, in theory, had been too—until Kael shattered that illusion. But neither of those were things he could present.

So he did what any gnome would do. He adapted.

"I was developing an advanced detection system for supernatural bonds," he said carefully, focusing on technicalities. "A way to track compatibility and connection strength between individuals of different species."

That was technically true.

Valtheris tilted his head slightly, considering. "A bold claim. And you have functional data to support it?"

Theron straightened. "I do."

It was partially classified—in the sense that he had classified it himself to protect his own sanity—but he did have the data. Every algorithm, every test result, every iteration of the Bondometer's development. He had hard proof that it worked.

Valtheris observed him for a moment longer, then nodded once.

"Submit your findings. If they are as you say, your absences may be excused under academic contribution."

Theron exhaled, tension easing slightly from his shoulders.

But then—

"However."

His relief halted mid-breath.

Valtheris' gaze sharpened. "That does not excuse the lack of responsibility. You failed to notify the academy of your whereabouts. That level of negligence is unacceptable, regardless of your research."

Theron resisted the urge to wince. Of course.

"I expect a full report by the end of the week."

Theron gave a crisp nod. "Understood."

Valtheris studied him for another long moment, then—without further words—turned his attention to a document on his desk.

Dismissed.

Theron didn't waste time. He inclined his head respectfully and strode out of the office, his heart still hammering.

That could have been much worse.

Now he just had to make sure his selectively edited research report was convincing enough to hold up.

The moment Theron stepped out of Principal Valtheris' office, the weight on his chest eased—if only slightly. He had survived the conversation with nothing but a stern warning and an assignment to submit a full report on his "independent research." It was a far better outcome than he'd expected, considering how long he had been absent.

But the real challenge was returning to his normal routine.

His next class was Multispecies Applied Mechanics and Enchantment, a subject where magic and technology intertwined. It was also one of the few classes he shared with Aelric.

Aelric, the mischievous, sharp-tongued fairy, whose infinite curiosity and boundless energy made avoiding him an impossible task.

Except today…

Theron wasn't sure he wanted to avoid him.

Aelric, Bronn, and Lirien had visited him when he was at his lowest. They had seen him cry.

But instead of making it worse, they had simply… stayed. No prying, no pushing, just quiet support. And for that, Theron was grateful.