First, she turned to the blonde who had hit her and smiled, "Did you say you didn't see me? That's odd because I'm not a needle unless you're blind. That must be it, but you must not only be blind but also fucking useless if you can't even walk in a straight line without crashing into someone," Sylva finished smoothly, tilting her head.
The blonde—Mira, one of Acacia's loyal shadows—flushed, her smug expression faltering.
"Excuse me?" Mira snapped, straightening as if that would help her save face.
Sylva arched a brow. "Oh, so you can hear? I was starting to wonder if you were deaf and blind." She dusted off her sleeve, gaze sharp. "Might want to get that checked out before the fieldwork trip. Wouldn't want you wandering off a cliff."
A few students nearby snickered, and Mira's face turned red.
Acacia, still standing close, let out an exaggerated sigh. "Sylva, must you always be so dramatic?"
Sylva turned to her, flashing a cool smile. "Coming from you? That's rich."
Acacia's eyes narrowed, the false concern on her face dropping like a mask she no longer cared to wear. She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a low, saccharine murmur.
"You know, Sylva, for someone who acts so high and mighty, you don't have much to back it up," she sneered, looking her up and down with a slow, deliberate gaze. "You dress like a try-hard, talk like you have something to prove, and let's be honest—" she leaned in, voice dripping with venom, "—you'll never be anything more than an overachieving nobody who thinks being cold makes her untouchable."
Sylva tilted her head, unaffected. "And?"
Acacia scoffed, but Sylva didn't give her the chance to continue.
"Oh, Acacia," she sighed, feigning disappointment as she stepped even closer, her voice rich with mockery. "Is that really all you've got? The same tired, whiny nonsense about how I don't belong in your shallow little dollhouse life?" She clicked her tongue. "How pathetic."
Acacia's jaw clenched, her nostrils flaring, but Sylva didn't pause.
"Let's not pretend," Sylva continued, "You're pathetic. Starving for attention. You think being loud, petty, and aggressively pretty makes you special? News flash: you're a dime-a-dozen knockoff with a god complex and a crumbling ego."
Acacia let out a brittle laugh, but her eyes burned. "You think I'm forgettable?" she hissed, stepping in close. "You're the freak here. Cold. Arrogant. Acting like you're some kind of goddamn enigma when really, you're just a fucking freak, Sylva. A lonely little parasite that feeds off feeling superior."
Sylva smiled slowly, eyes gleaming. "Aw, sweetheart." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "You don't get it, do you? I don't need to be liked. I don't need a circus of insecure cheerleaders to feel important. I already am. But you? You'll spend your whole life being a jealous, hateful, and ungrateful bitch."
Acacia's breath came in tight, controlled inhales, her nails digging into her palms. Around them, the murmurs had grown louder. Students exchanged glances, some openly recording with their phones.
Mira opened her mouth, but Sylva cut her a sideways glance. "Say something, and I'll really make you cry."
Mira shut her mouth.
Sylva turned back to Acacia.
"As for our little fieldwork trip?" She leaned in, lowering her voice just enough for Acacia alone to hear. "If you try anything, you'd better fucking pray you make it back in one piece."
Acacia's breath hitched, just for a second. And Sylva caught it.
She patted Acacia's shoulder lightly like one would to a child throwing a tantrum. "See you out there," she murmured before stepping past her, not sparing her another glance.
Acacia stood frozen for a moment, fists trembling.
"Acacia…?" Mira called tentatively, but Acacia didn't move. She remained rigid, trembling slightly as her chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven breaths.
Her nails dug into her palms so hard she could feel the sting, her fists clenched like she was ready to throw a punch at the nearest wall—or Sylva's smug, untouchable face. The laughter, the whispers, the eyes on her like she was some kind of spectacle—it all festered inside her, a mix of humiliation and rage.
But then, just as quickly as the anger burned, her expression shifted. The fire in her gaze cooled into something far more dangerous. Her lips curled, ever so slightly.
She turned to Mira, voice smooth, almost casual. "Tell Olivia to get it done."
Mira blinked. "W—what? What is she going to get done?"
Acacia's smirk widened slowly. "Just a little surprise."
She didn't elaborate. Instead, she turned on her heel, striding out of the classroom with the sharp click of her heels against the tile.
⸻
"Give it."
"No, let me do it, Mom—"
Before Sylva could finish, the plate was already out of her hands.
Lunethra moved with the kind of ease that only years of self-sufficiency could bring. She set the plate down on the kitchen counter, barely sparing Sylva a glance.
"You don't need to wash the plates, sweetheart. You've been running around since morning while I've barely done anything today aside from cooking," she said lightly, but there was no missing the way her eyes flickered over Sylva's face, searching for something.
Sylva rolled her eyes but didn't argue. She leaned against the counter instead, arms crossed as she watched her mother move around the kitchen.
A smile formed on her lips.
For a while, there was silence—comforting, familiar silence.
Then:
"You had another run-in with that girl, didn't you?"
Sylva didn't even flinch, she was already accustomed to her Mom knowing how her day went just by staring at her face. "Which one? The blonde idiot or the narcissistic one?"
Lunethra let out a small sigh. "Acacia."
Sylva shrugged, reaching for an apple from the fruit bowl. "She started it."
"And you finished it?"
She took a slow bite. "Naturally."
Lunethra hummed, placing a steaming cup of tea in front of her daughter before leaning against the opposite counter, arms crossed. "I don't understand why she keeps testing you. It's almost embarrassing at this point."
Sylva smirked. "Insecurity makes people do dumb things."
Lunethra's lips quirked, but she didn't look amused. There was something else—something deeper in her gaze. Concern.
"You should be careful," she said finally.
Sylva raised a brow. "You're saying that like I don't already know."
Her mother sighed again, this time softer. "I mean it, Sylva. I know you can handle yourself, but people like Acacia… when they start losing control, they get reckless." She tilted her head, studying her daughter. "And reckless people are dangerous."
Sylva nodded thoughtfully, "Alright, I have heard you but if she tries something," she said, voice light. "I will make sure she regrets it."
Lunethra watched her for a long moment, eyes unreadable. Then, finally, she pushed off the counter and ruffled Sylva's hair on her way to the sink.
"Just don't make too much of a mess, alright?"
Sylva grinned, ducking away. "No promises."
⸻
Meanwhile, across a hidden veil separating the humans from the creatures of the night, creatures of the moon, creatures of darkness, and creatures born of magic, within the heart of Velkareth; the Werewolf Kingdom—where the forests stretched endlessly and shadows bled into the stone—a towering figure stood atop the rooftop of the castle's tallest tower.
The night stretched around him, vast and silent, broken only by the distant howls echoing through the forest below. Cloaked in a black shirt, the top buttons undone, and dark pants, with the wind snapping around him like a restless beast, the strands of hair across his face fluttered wildly. Thalos stood motionless—watching, his expression frighteningly blank and bored.
"Lycian."
"Yes, Your Majesty?" came the smooth reply from the shadows, where Lycian had merged into the darkness.
"How long?" Thalos's voice was low, calm—too calm. His gaze remained fixed on the endless stretch of wilderness below.
Lycian pushed up the bridge of his eyeglass frames—thin, ornamental, and entirely without lenses, worn more as a quirk than necessity. He resisted the urge to sigh.
His ears had already picked up the scuffle of boots and the growls carried by the wind. If he could hear them approaching, then His Majesty—whose senses were terrifyingly sharper—had likely already memorized the rhythm of their heartbeats.
"In a minute, Your Majesty," Lycian replied coolly. "Your entertainment will arrive in… 58 seconds."
Thalos chuckled darkly, tipping his head back. "Old Luke had better be trying harder this time."
And right on cue—ragged breathing, hooves skidding, and the thunder of snarls cracked through the air like a whip.
In the blink of an eye, the rooftop was flooded with hostile energy—armed men surged forward, wielding enchanted weapons flanked by monstrous werewolves and half-shifted beasts foaming with aggression.
Thalos didn't move. He stood still, statuesque, the wind tossing his hair.
He slowly tilted his head, golden eyes flicking lazily over the crowd encircling him, lips twitching upward.
"I don't think you gentlemen have ever laid eyes on your king," he said, his voice smooth as silk and twice as lethal. "Isn't this a great way to meet your ruler?"
A wicked smirk spread across his face. "Helping your king with his boredom… what thoughtful subjects I have."
Before the last word left his lips, two of the monstrous werewolves lunged for his throat, followed by the men attacking from every direction.
Thalos didn't flinch.
His arms remained at his sides, relaxed, almost lazy. His expression? Blank. Cold. Bored. But his smirk? It contrasted terrifyingly with his expression.
He turned his head just enough to glance at the two beasts hurtling toward him—like he was observing insects mid-flight.
"Too slow," he murmured, voice deep and guttural as his golden irises flared.