Arila Vellion was sulking. Not just your average, run-of-the-mill sulking, but the kind of epic sulking that could be painted in a grand oil portrait and hung in the "Legendary Tragedies" wing of a museum. She sat cross-legged on her bed, wrapped entirely in her white and gold divine cloak like a burrito of justice and mild despair. The folds of fabric pooled dramatically around her, spilling over the mattress in a cascade of holy embroidery and unspoken suffering.
Ninko sat beside her in perfect solidarity, mirroring her pout with the precision of a well-trained theatre partner. His tails draped themselves artistically across her lap, the tip of one flicking every few seconds like it was punctuating her misery. Between them, on the nightstand, stood a teetering tower of pastel macarons, leaning at an angle so precarious it looked like it might collapse into sugary ruin at any moment.
"I just…" Arila began, her voice breaking like burnt caramel cracking under a spoon. She clutched a pillow to her chest as though it might shield her from the cruel, cruel world. "I just wanted to make a tart. Is that too much to ask? A tart. A crumble. A divine chocolate soufflé of destiny."
Ninko, clearly feeling the depth of her heartbreak, delicately pawed at a truffle before nudging it toward her. The gesture had all the solemn care of a furry therapist offering an emergency chocolate prescription. It helped. Slightly.
Downstairs in the Noble Lounge—a place that looked less like a communal sitting room and more like a royal salon that had fainted from excess—the atmosphere was tense. Velvet curtains draped over tall windows, sunlight spilling in like it had paid for a front-row seat to the drama.
Lucien, Darian, Julian, and Vincent sat scattered across the ornate furniture, all exhibiting different flavours of noble concern.
"She's not okay," Julian declared, leaning back into a velvet armchair shaped like a throne and holding a crystal goblet of imported fruit nectar. He sipped it with the exaggerated elegance of someone auditioning for a costume drama no one had asked for.
Lucien frowned into his own glass of juice, swirling it absently. "She hasn't insulted anyone all morning. Not even me."
"She shared a cookie with Ninko," Vincent added gravely, "and didn't name it."
Darian's brows drew together. "That's… terrifying. This is grief. Pastry grief."
Julian slammed his goblet down onto a gold-trimmed table. "We need a plan. A mission. Something daring and sugar-coated. Gentlemen—Operation Sugar Sparkle Resurrection begins now."
Meanwhile, in the Dorm of High Expectations and Eyeliner Sharp Enough to Slash Egos, Clarissa Blackbrook sat sprawled on her chaise lounge like a queen plotting a coup. Her fan fluttered in short, agitated bursts, each flick threatening to slice the air.
"He healed her," she hissed.
Her two best friends froze mid-compliment.
"Lucien," Clarissa clarified, her voice trembling with outrage, "used light magic. On her."
A ripple of dark energy curled around her fingertips. A small, innocent mirror on her vanity cracked down the middle in protest.
"No one appreciates what I do," she muttered, rising to her feet with the dangerous grace of someone whose patience was wearing thinner than magically-stretched silk. "But I will make them see. Starting with her."
Back in the actual world, where professors were morally grey and magical drama was a daily sport, Arila had been summoned. Not to detention, not to the kitchens, but to the Headmaster's Office—a place where dreams went to get disciplined.
Daelen, ever the image of calm, escorted her with the long-suffering patience of a man who had once fought a dragon using nothing but a wind spell and an overrun deadline.
The Headmaster was already there, standing tall and radiating authority. He was the sort of man who looked like he bathed exclusively in consequence and brushed his teeth with discipline. Without a word, he gestured for them to sit.
"Miss Vellion," he began, rubbing his temples as if bracing for impact, "let's discuss the crater."
Arila folded her hands primly in her lap. "It was a tactical, pastry-motivated incident. The demon started it."
"You obliterated the west gardens."
"They were in the way."
Daelen sipped his tea, unbothered.
What followed was fifteen minutes of back-and-forth so absurd it could have been sold as dinner theatre. Arila defended her honour, the Headmaster defended the school's landscaping, and Daelen occasionally made dry comments that made it unclear whose side he was on.
Finally, Arila leaned forward, her eyes glinting. "I will accept my punishment. But only if it includes a new kitchen. Custom counters. Singing spice racks. Caramel-proof tiles."
The Headmaster stared at her. Daelen raised one brow.
"Honestly," Daelen said mildly, "it might be cheaper than expanding the infirmary."
The Headmaster sighed like a man accepting the inevitable. "Fine. Also, you will receive a public commendation for your bravery."
Arila blinked. "A what now?"
"A medal."
She grinned. "Does it come with a dessert buffet?"
Elsewhere, in the Fancy Goblet Lounge™, the boys were holding court.
"So," Julian said, swirling his juice like it was a vintage red, "our divine sugar storm is getting publicly praised and a designer kitchen. I assume Lucien's already planning their honeymoon."
Lucien choked slightly.
Vincent didn't even look up. "Please don't elope before exams."
"I'm not—we're not—" Lucien groaned, dragging a hand down his face.
Darian smirked. "You healed her hand. Publicly. That's practically a royal declaration."
"It was bleeding!" Lucien protested.
"And your gaze lingered," Julian said in his most dramatic tone. "Tell me, did violins play in your head?"
Back at the suite, Arila entered like a heroine returning from a victorious campaign.
"Good news!" she sang. "Kitchen 2.0 launches in two days. Also, I'm getting a medal for saving the school. Minor detail."
Felicia gasped. "A medal? Like a shiny one? Do we clap? Should we bow?"
Julian sprawled across the couch. "Can I give a speech? I have so many drafts."
Vincent raised his goblet. "To surviving school with her."
They clinked glasses in a refined chaos toast.
"I request whipped cream fountains," Arila announced. "And marshmallow chandeliers. And edible spoons."
"You're going to make the staff cry," Lucien said, his voice softer than usual, his eyes lingering just a heartbeat too long.
She caught the look. And her heart… did a weird, squiggly thing she immediately pretended hadn't happened.
That night, Arila collapsed onto her bed, Ninko curled against her like a heated plushie of vengeance. She yawned, pulling the covers over them both. "Tomorrow I conquer dessert. Today I rest."
Outside her window, unseen, a rose-shaped magical icon flickered to life. Somewhere, deep within the divine mechanisms of fate, a dating route had been quietly activated.
And Arila? Arila had no idea she was the main heroine now.
To be continued…