Academy's Pervert in the D Class

The Silverward guards stiffened, their hands tightening on their spears. Servants froze mid-step, trays wobbling, their faces paling as the words sank in. The air grew taut, the estate holding its breath.

Then, a door opened.

Lord Silverward himself stormed into the foyer, his embroidered black and silver robes swirling around him like storm clouds, the heavy fabric whispering against the marble floor.

His face was a mask of thunder—high cheekbones flushed with rage, his steel-gray eyes narrowing to slits beneath a furrowed brow.

The man who commanded armies and bartered alliances with a flick of his wrist now looked like a cornered wolf, his spine rigid with fury.

"This is madness!" he barked, his voice booming off the vaulted ceiling, echoing down the halls. "You insult my crest with this farce—my house, my blood! Leave now, or I'll have you dragged from these grounds in chains!"

But his words drowned beneath the High Mage's cold, unyielding declaration, delivered with the precision of a judge's gavel.

"There is a witch in this house. The orb does not lie." He lifted the crystal from his hip, holding it aloft like a lantern of judgment.

Its glow deepened, trembling in his palm like a heart on the verge of bursting, the pink light fracturing into the foyer, painting the marble veins blood-red.

Lord Silverward's face twisted, his fists clenching at his sides, knuckles whitening against the silver threads of his cuffs.

For a heartbeat, the air crackled with the promise of violence—noble pride clashing against mage authority.

But the mage's eyes, cold as winter steel, held no room for negotiation. "Search every corner. Leave no shadow untouched."

They began tearing the mansion apart with methodical savagery.

Curtains were ripped from rods, heavy brocades pooling like spilled blood on the floors.

Cabinets overturned with grunts and crashes, porcelain shattering into jagged shards that glittered like broken promises.

Runes were pressed to walls and floors, their etched symbols flaring white-hot, sniffing out hidden magic like hounds on a scent.

Silver chains uncoiled from belts, glinting ominously in the lamplight, prepared for binding the unholy.

Silvia crouched in the suffocating dark behind a lattice screen in her sister's chambers, her heart hammering so violently against her ribs she feared it would betray her with its thunder.

The wooden slats pressed into her back, rough and unyielding, her hood sticking to her damp forehead like a second skin.

Sweat beaded down her spine, soaking through her simple woolen shift, her lungs burning as she forced shallow breaths, each one tasting of dust and fear.

She was cornered, a rabbit in a snare, her magic coiled tight inside her like a spring ready to snap—but she couldn't.

Not yet.

Not if it meant dooming them all.

She glanced through the narrow gaps in the lattice at her sister.

Lira stood by the window, clutching little Kiara tight against her chest, her arms a fortress around the child's small frame.

The girl wept, her tiny fists twisting into her mother's dress, knuckles white against the pale silk, her voice breaking into panicked sobs that tore at Silvia's heart like claws.

"Mother! Please—make them go! I don't want them here!" Kiara's face was streaked with tears, her black curls matted, her icy blue eyes wide and frantic, reflecting the flickering candlelight like shattered glass.

"Hush, darling," Lira whispered, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands as she stroked her daughter's hair, fingers threading through the dark strands with desperate tenderness.

But her own face shone pale as moonlight, her lips pressed thin, the lines around her eyes deepening with the weight of what was coming.

The boots were closing in now—heavy, methodical thuds echoing down the corridor, growing louder, closer.

The orb's glow seeped under the door like malevolent fog, pulsing brighter with every step.

The High Mage's voice cut through the walls, only rooms away, cold and certain as a grave: "She is here. Find her."

Silvia pressed her hands over her mouth, nails biting into her palms, tears spilling hot and silent down her cheeks, soaking the collar of her shift.

If they opened this door, if they searched this room… she would be found.

Dragged into the light, chained, her screams joining the pyres.

And there would be no hope for any of them—not for Lira, not for the child who carried their blood like a hidden flame.

"Lira," she whispered hoarsely, the word barely audible, a plea wrapped in terror.

Her sister's eyes flicked to the shadows where Silvia hid, sharp and knowing.

For one heartbeat, something passed between them—a lifetime of shared secrets, stolen nights, blood that sang the same forbidden song.

Lira's jaw clenched, her blue eyes hardening with resolve.

She shook her head sharply, a silent command.

Stay hidden. Live.

Silvia froze, her chest aching as if her heart had been carved out, leaving only raw, bleeding space.

The door slammed open with a crash that rattled the walls, hinges screeching like a dying animal.

Soldiers flooded in, a tide of armored menace, their breastplates glinting in the firelight, weapons drawn and gleaming—swords etched with holy wards, silver nets unfurling from their belts like serpents ready to strike.

The air filled with the metallic tang of their armor, the acrid bite of rune-ink, the heavy stomp of boots on Persian rugs.

The orb shone violently in the High Mage's grip, its pink light fracturing across the room, illuminating every corner with accusatory brilliance.

His face split into a hungry grin, lips curling back from teeth yellowed by years of incantations, his eyes fever-bright with zeal.

"Here," he hissed, his voice dripping with triumph, the orb trembling in his hand like a caged beast.

One soldier's torch swung low, its flame hissing as it cast wild shadows, the light landing dangerously close to Silvia's hiding place.

She felt her body seize, muscles locking in terror, her breath trapped in her throat as the lattice threw jagged patterns across her pale face.

This was it—the end, the chains, the pyre's kiss.

And then—