Victor Draeven stood perfectly still beside the hospital bed, as rigid as a statue carved from ancient stone. His tall frame was imposing despite the sterile quiet of the room. Arms folded behind his back, he exuded the calm of a seasoned warrior, yet every muscle beneath his bloodstained sleeves was taut, knotted with worry. The morning light crept through the narrow window, slicing the room into sharp bands of gold and shadow. It painted the cold, white tiles with stark contrast, reflecting off the metallic fixtures and the faint shimmer of lingering healing magic that still hummed in the air. The sharp scent of mana-charged ointment mingled oddly with the faint but stubborn smell of dried blood clinging to Victor's clothes — a reminder that last night's chaos hadn't been a nightmare, but a brutal, bone-deep reality.
Victor hadn't slept. Not one wink. His body was fatigued, his mind a whirlwind, but sleep was a luxury he couldn't afford—not while Lytio's fragile life hung by a thread.
His dark eyes scanned the room again, landing on the bandaged figure resting in the bed. Lytio's chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths. Still alive. Still fighting. But still far too reckless.
Victor's hand curled into a fist so tight his knuckles whitened, shaking ever so slightly.
"Damn assassins," he muttered under his breath, voice low, rough like gravel scraped by years of bitterness. "Cowards without honor. Sneaking, stabbing in the dark like worms. You could've died, boy…"
His boots creaked on the floor as he paced slowly, every step echoing in the silent room. The familiar sound was a small anchor against the storm of his thoughts. He could still see the flash of steel in the assassin's hand, feel the hot sting of that arrow piercing Lytio's shoulder. He remembered the way the boy had grimaced, the way the gun had rattled empty in his grasp while the enemy toyed with him like a cat with a mouse.
Victor's mind slipped into a moment from the past—sharp and vivid as if it had just happened.
---
The thunderous clang of swords echoed in the dim light of a war-torn training yard. A younger Victor, bloodied but unbroken, squared off against his own mentor, a grizzled old veteran with eyes like flint and a voice like rolling thunder.
"You've got spirit," the old man growled. "But spirit alone won't save your life. You need discipline, patience. You fight with your heart, not your head. That's the mistake all young dogs make. You want to survive? You learn to listen, watch, and wait."
Victor had nodded then, swallowing the sting of failure, the bruises, and the bitter taste of defeat. He'd sworn to himself that no one he cared about would ever go through what he had.
---
Victor exhaled slowly, shaking off the memory. His jaw clenched hard.
"I trained you better than this," he whispered to himself, voice tight with regret. "But you always had your mother's stubbornness. Thought you could take on the world with a glare and a gun."
The old wounds in his heart ached—not just from worry, but from the weight of expectation and failure. Victor had spent years shaping Lytio into something more than just a reckless noble brat. He'd hoped the boy's stubbornness would be his shield, not his sword.
His thoughts turned dark for a moment, haunted by a shadow he rarely let touch the surface. Lytio's father—a ruthless, untouchable man with an iron grip over their family and the academy's politics. If he knew what had happened, if Victor had failed his son under that unforgiving gaze…
Victor shivered, though the room was warm.
"If he finds out I let his only son get nearly gutted in an ambush, he'll do worse to me than those assassins did to you."
The bitter truth hung heavy between his thoughts. Victor wasn't just a bodyguard or a butler. He was a soldier bound by honor, but also a man trapped by the harsh realities of noble families and their unforgiving codes.
He scoffed bitterly, the sound low and humorless.
"Then again," he muttered with a grim smile, "maybe you'd rather take a beating than hear one of his lectures."
---
The distant hum of the city seeped in through the window—mana-powered carriages rolling by, the soft flicker of streetlamps surrendering to the dawn. Mystic City was waking up, the grand towers of the capital glittering like jagged diamonds against the pale blue sky. Somewhere beyond the horizon, Mystic Academy stood proud and untouchable, a bastion of power and knowledge that both promised hope and threatened destruction.
Victor's gaze lingered there for a moment, thoughts tangled.
The door creaked softly behind him, breaking the silence.
A groggy, teasing voice murmured, "...You always talk to yourself when I'm dying, old man?"
Victor spun around, eyes flashing wide with surprise and relief. "You little brat."
Lytio sat up slowly, his movement careful and deliberate despite the wince that crossed his face. His upper body was swathed in thick bandages, and a faint golden glow radiated from residual healing magic still lingering like a protective aura. His hair was tousled and wild, eyes heavy but alive. And that grin—the same cocky, reckless smirk that had landed him in this mess in the first place—was back.
"You look like death," Victor said, reaching for a cup of water on the bedside table and handing it to him.
"I feel like I got hit by a war elephant," Lytio replied with a tired chuckle, taking the cup with careful fingers and sipping slowly. "Twice."
Victor dropped onto the edge of the bed with a sigh so heavy it seemed to press down on the air itself. "You were lucky."
"No," Lytio said softly, voice losing its edge. "You were there."
Victor blinked, caught off guard by the sudden sincerity. He looked away, swallowing a lump that wasn't quite guilt but close enough.
A silence stretched between them—a rare moment where the usual banter fell away like old armor.
Finally, Lytio muttered, "So… you gonna tell Dad?"
Victor groaned, rubbing his temple. "Again with this…"
"Victor. You can't tell him," Lytio insisted, voice firm now, shadows flickering in his eyes. "You know what he'll do. He'll drag me back to that hellhole estate and lock me in some magic-proof dungeon until I'm thirty."
Victor chuckled bitterly, shaking his head. "I mean… he might have a point."
Lytio raised an eyebrow, challenging.
"That assassin was Red-level," he said, voice laced with a stubborn pride. "Do you think any other noble brat would've lasted even half as long?"
Victor grunted. "You barely lasted at all."
"Details, details," Lytio smirked.
Victor gave him a long, searching look, one that held years of frustration and reluctant admiration.
"Fine," he said finally. "I won't tell him. Yet. But only if you promise to stop getting yourself stabbed every damn week."
Lytio tossed the blanket off and stood, wincing but unbowed. "Can't promise that," he said with a mischievous grin. "But I can promise I'll look cooler doing it next time."
Victor facepalmed, laughing despite himself. "You are going to be the death of me."
"No," Lytio said, stretching his aching limbs with a hiss. "I'll be the reason you live longer. You old war dogs need something exciting in your lives, right?"
Victor chuckled softly. "Well, you're definitely that."
Lytio's gaze drifted to the window, eyes narrowing toward the dark silhouette of Mystic Academy in the distance.
"We're in the city already?" he asked.
"Yeah. Hospital's just a few blocks from Mystic Academy. You were out for most of the night."
Lytio nodded slowly. "Good… That gives me just enough time."
"Time for what?" Victor asked, suspicion lacing his tone.
"To head for the academy," Lytio said, voice steady. "Today's the entrance test and awakening ceremony."
Victor sprang to his feet. "Absolutely not. You're still injured."
Lytio grabbed his coat from the chair and threw it on with an effortless flick of the wrist. "I'm fine."
"You got stabbed through the shoulder!"
"Got better."
"Lytio—"
"I need to do this, Victor," Lytio said, eyes sharp and unwavering. "It's not just about me. It's about proving something."
Victor paused, staring hard into the boy's determined eyes. The sarcasm and bravado were gone now, replaced by something raw and real.
"You're going to get yourself killed one day, you know that?"
"Yeah. But I'll do it on my own terms."
Victor sighed in surrender, rubbing the back of his neck. "At least take a weapon with you."
Lytio patted the holster under his coat where his gun sat snug and ready.
"I never leave home without her."
He moved toward the door.
"Hey," Victor called out, voice softer now. "You sure about this?"
Lytio stopped, glancing back with that familiar smirk.
"Nope. But I'm doing it anyway."
And just like that, he was gone—out the door, into the waking city, into the uncertain light of the day, and toward the academy that might just chew him up and spit him out.
Victor stared after him, rubbing his temples.
"Why do I feel like this is only the beginning of my headaches?"
---