How to Train Your Tyrant

Ronan was still a mess. I watched him move through the academy, stiff and hollow, like a man wearing his own corpse. His lackeys stuck close, whispering when they thought he wasn't paying attention. He didn't talk, didn't smirk, didn't even react when a student bumped into him—just turned his head, slow and deliberate, and kept walking. The original Ronan would have sent the kid flying with a flick of his wrist.

This wasn't going to work. If people started asking questions, if the wrong professor noticed the shift, it wouldn't take long before someone started digging. The parasite was keeping him functioning, when I desperately needed him to fit in. I honestly didn't care if he pushed around a couple people, just do it in a way that doesn't leave lasting damage. Just enough torment to show that Ronan was still the top dog. I was now banking on him to win his father's approval and actually contribute to my efforts, instead of eliminating a false threat.