Michael's first week at the academy had turned out far more eventful than he'd anticipated. Having now attended most of his core classes, he'd grown familiar with most of his professors—each one, it seemed, harboring some peculiar flaw.

The refined Professor Max was obsessed with mana and gravitated toward students who demonstrated a strong grasp of the subject. He'd even begun calling Michael "blondie" in what might've been an affectionate tone—though the nickname only served to create awkward moments.

Professor Mia was a perfectionist, the kind who found fault even in correct answers. Not even Melody escaped her scrutiny. Meanwhile, Professor Quinn appeared to delight in tormenting the first-years, putting them through training so grueling it felt closer to punishment than education.

The only semblance of normalcy came in the form of Professor Crouch, the stern but composed instructor in charge of History. Though clearly passionate about his subject, he lacked the eccentricities of the others, offering a rare sense of stability that most students silently appreciated.

Currently, they were covering modern history—everything that happened after the Great War over two thousand years ago.

Michael had been a little disappointed. He was far more intrigued by the Great War itself and the era of the Ancient Mages. Still, since history was a recurring core subject throughout each year, he figured the older events would be covered eventually.

Until then, he planned to make use of the academy library to research on his own. Unfortunately, his first week had passed in a blur of activity.

Spellcrafting hadn't even begun yet. Their assigned professor had yet to return to the academy, and although it was disappointing, rumor had it the classes would commence in the coming weeks.

Between his packed class schedule, daily meals, and the added task of teaching Rudy mana theory, Michael barely had time to breathe, let alone dive into extracurricular studies. Back in the Winterborne manor, he'd at least had moments of peace while tending to Melody. Here, every moment was accounted for.

Classes ran six days a week, with Sunday being their only day off. First-years weren't allowed to leave the castle grounds under any circumstances, which led to restless weekends filled with bored teenagers.

And even then, Sundays weren't always free.

Michael stirred awake on his first official day off, stretching deeply as sunlight warmed his skin. From across the room came the soft snores of Rudy, who was still sound asleep—his sluggish morning a clear sign of how demanding the week had been.

Aside from a trace of fatigue, Michael felt refreshed. He had originally planned to visit the library today—until he remembered the meeting scheduled for the morning.

With a soft sigh, he rose quietly so as not to wake his roommate. Their dorm room, though modest, had grown familiar—warm even. The fireplace still held blackened logs from the night before, its fading scent of burnt wood a reminder of the cozy heat it had once provided. A few mugs, stained faintly with cocoa, sat atop coasters on the low wooden table.

A smile tugged at his lips as he gathered the dishes and padded over to the sink. Drawing back the curtains, he welcomed the morning light that spilled into the room, casting soft gold over the stone walls.

"Good morning, sunshine," he murmured with a faint chuckle, staring out at the sprawling academy grounds beyond the glass.

Then, with a quiet nod, he turned back to tidy up.

After serving as Melody's butler for so long, meticulous chores had become more than just routine for Michael—they were a source of calm, even pride.

It was Shirley who had instilled that mindset in him. The young maid had always worked with quiet grace, her every action laced with care and love. Yet she never compromised on standards—not for anyone.

Engaging in tasks like these brought back warm memories of life in the Winterborne manor, before he'd been swept up in the political undercurrents he now found himself navigating.

Man… it's only been a week and I'm already missing her, Michael thought with a touch of exasperation. Is it because she reminds me of Mom?

It was possible. In the three years since his mother's murder, Shirley had become the anchor he so desperately needed—a steady, nurturing presence that filled the void his mother once occupied.

Even now, he could still recall his mother's voice with haunting clarity… but her face was harder to summon. That realization hit him like a punch to the gut as he swept the floor.

He stopped mid-motion, closed his eyes, and tried—truly tried—to see her in his mind. But all that came were vague outlines and blurred features.

A familiar anger began to stir. It simmered just beneath the surface, hot and poisonous.

Those bastards took her from me... And now I can't even remember her face.

His grip tightened around the broom handle. His jaw clenched.

Unforgivable.

The blurry image of his mother's face faded, replaced by another.

A different face.

Plain, almost forgettable—yet etched into Michael's memory with searing permanence. Pale blue eyes. Neatly combed brown hair. A sharp nose. Thin lips. A small silver earring in the left ear.

Despite the years, despite the haze around his mother's features—he would never forget that face.

Rohan.

Michael's heart twisted. His blood boiled as the name echoed in his mind—the man who had led the group of robed assassins that took his mother's life.

Wherever you are… I'll find you. And I'll make you pay.

His expression darkened, a vow forming silently on his lips.

"Good morning," came a small voice between a yawn, startling him back to reality.

The rage that had been building within him ebbed away slowly, crawling back into the depths of his heart—but it didn't vanish. It waited. Smoldering.

Michael took a steadying breath before turning to face the girl who had spoken.

Melody had just stepped out of her room, already dressed, a simple braid trailing over her shoulder. For a moment, the sight of her like that reminded him of the younger version of herself—the one he used to look after at the manor.

"I thought you weren't doing butler duties anymore," she remarked, one brow raised in mild amusement.

"I've been cleaning this whole week," Michael replied evenly. "We agreed on a rotation, remember? Your week starts tomorrow."

"Absolutely not," Melody huffed, folding her arms in defiance.

Michael let out a dry chuckle, his emerald eyes narrowing playfully. "Oh, we'll see how long that attitude lasts."

Her confidence faltered for the briefest moment, but she recovered quickly, shifting the topic with forced casualness.

"We should leave for the student council meeting—we don't want to be late for the first one of the year."

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