(Hestia's POV)
The non-human academy felt… layered.
Magic pressed softly against the air, old and disciplined, woven into the walls, the ground, even the silence between footsteps. Hestia walked through the grand courtyard in her human form, her wings hidden, her divine aura folded tightly beneath her skin.
No pink.
No white.
Her hair was a deep natural shade now, her eyes calm, unreadable. To everyone else, she looked like a normal transfer student—quiet, observant, unimportant.
But she remembered everything.
Every law.
Every warning.
Every name.
That was when she saw him.
The courtyard shifted—not physically, but spiritually. Conversations dulled. Students straightened instinctively. Power moved like a shadow passing over light.
The Young Master had arrived.
Hestia stopped walking.
Tall. Controlled. Dark energy wrapped around him like a second breath—not wild, not cruel, but ancient and deliberate. His presence bent the space around him without effort.
Her heart sank.
Azarel.
Prince of Hell.
Her target.
She felt it instantly—the unmistakable signature of infernal royalty. The kind of power Heaven never mistook. Her fingers twitched at her side as instinct screamed at her to reach for an arrow that wasn't there.
Why are you here?
And why is love breaking wherever you walk?
She forced herself to look away.
"Hey," a soft voice said.
Hestia turned to see a girl standing beside her, shadowy wings folded neatly behind her back. The shadows around her moved as if alive, but her expression was warm.
"I'm Lyria," the girl said. "You look new."
Hestia inclined her head. "Hestia."
Another girl approached, horned, silver-haired, her eyes sharp but curious. "Kora," she said simply. "You picked a bad day to transfer."
Hestia glanced back toward where Azarel had disappeared into the main building. "Why?"
Kora followed her gaze and exhaled. "Because when the Young Master is in a mood, the whole school feels it."
Hestia kept her voice neutral. "Young Master?"
Lyria nodded. "Az—" She stopped herself, lowering her voice. "The prince. Everyone just calls him that."
Hestia's chest tightened.
"So he's important," she said carefully.
Kora let out a short laugh. "Important? He's untouchable. No principal protection, no special treatment—he doesn't need it."
That answer unsettled her more than anything else.
They walked together toward the shaded gardens, and Hestia listened more than she spoke.
"Does he cause trouble?" she asked casually.
Lyria hesitated. "Not openly. But wherever he goes… emotions get strange. Bonds weaken. People argue for no reason."
Hestia's jaw tightened.
So it's true.
Kora glanced at her. "Why do you care?"
Hestia met her eyes evenly. "Curiosity."
Before either girl could respond, a familiar pressure rolled over them.
The air cooled.
Footsteps approached—unhurried, confident.
"Careful," a voice said smoothly. "Curiosity gets people hurt."
Hestia turned slowly.
Azarel stood there, hands in his pockets, dark eyes locked directly onto hers. Not scanning. Not guessing.
Recognizing.
For a brief moment, the world narrowed.
He knew.
Not who she was—but that she was something.
Lyria stiffened. "Young Master, we were just—"
"Talking about me," Azarel finished, gaze never leaving Hestia.
A faint, unreadable smile touched his lips.
"And you," he said quietly, "are far more interesting than you're pretending to be."
Hestia held his stare, her heart steady, her mind racing.
Why are you destroying the balance of love?
And why does Heaven want you stopped—by me?
She said nothing.
And neither did he.
But the war had just noticed its first spark.