Academy's Pervert in the D Class

The door slammed shut behind them, the soldiers hauling her away, her aura extinguished under the weight of runes and shackles, her footsteps fading into muffled thuds down the hall.

The room fell silent except for Kiara's sobs, breaking like waves against stone—helpless, raw, a child's grief carving hollows in the air.

The servant rocked her gently, murmuring nonsense comforts, but Kiara fought, her small body wracked with shudders, her cries dissolving into hiccuping whimpers that twisted like knives in Silvia's chest.

Silvia stayed frozen in the dark, her teeth buried in her knuckles until blood welled between her fingers, the copper taste flooding her mouth.

Her body shook, every sob swallowed down, every scream silenced for the sake of survival. Her sister was gone.

And in that void, the world cracked open, leaving only ashes and the echo of a child's wail.

.

.

The square outside the Silverward estate was a cauldron of voices, a seething mass of nobles and commoners pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, their faces bathed in the flickering orange glow of torchlight.

Their eyes glittered with a volatile mix of fear masquerading as righteous fury, their murmurs rising like a tide, punctuated by sharp cries and the occasional clink of coin or clatter of boots.

The air was thick with the acrid stench of smoke, the sour tang of sweat, and the cloying sweetness of incense burned to ward off evil, blending into a suffocating haze that clung to the skin.

In the center of the square, the pyre loomed like a grim altar, its stacked wood bound by glinting silver chains, their runes etched with holy fire that pulsed faintly in the twilight.

And chained to it—her head bowed, wrists and ankles bound, her dark hair hanging in tangled curtains—was Lira Silverward.

Her white gown, once a symbol of noble grace, was torn and stained with ash, clinging to her sweat-slicked body, the fabric translucent where it pressed against her curves.

The pink aura that had once blazed from her like a bright sun was gone, strangled by shackles carved with glyphs that glowed with malicious intent.

Yet, even stripped of her power, Lira stood with a quiet dignity, her face serene despite the jeers hurled like daggers from the crowd.

From the balcony overlooking the square, Lord Silverward stood tall, his embroidered black and silver robes a stark contrast to the chaos below.

His hands, folded tightly behind his back, trembled faintly, betraying the storm beneath his composed exterior.

His face was pale, his jaw clenched so hard the muscles twitched, as if each insult aimed at Lira struck him like a physical blow.

She was my wife, he thought, the words a silent scream he could never voice.

And still…

she is the mother of my child.

His steel-gray eyes flickered to the small figure beside him, and his heart twisted.

Kiara clung to a servant's arm, her small face streaked with tears, her black curls matted against her cheeks.

Her cries had grown hoarse from the night before, raw and ragged, but they spilled from her chest in relentless waves, each sob a knife twisting deeper.

"She's not a witch!" she cried, her tiny fists pounding against the servant's skirts, leaving smudges of dirt and tears.

"Stop hurting her! She's not!" Her voice cracked, a child's plea lost in the roar of the crowd.

But the mob didn't listen.

To them, Lira wasn't a woman, a mother, a wife—she was a monster in human skin, a blight to be purged.

Their shouts grew louder, more vicious, feeding off each other like wildfire.

"Burn her!" a voice screamed from the throng, sharp and venomous.

"Witch-whore!" another spat, hurling a rock that arced through the air and struck Lira's shoulder with a dull thud.

She didn't flinch, her face unmoving, though a faint bruise bloomed beneath the torn fabric of her gown.

Another stone followed, then another, the square echoing with the cruel rhythm of hatred.

Even the nobles joined in, their silk sleeves fluttering as they tossed pebbles with delicate precision, their sneers hidden behind masks of loyalty to the witch-hunt.

Their voices blended with the commoners', a unified chorus of condemnation, eager to prove their righteousness.

Silvia watched from deep within the crowd, her hood drawn low, the coarse fabric sticking to her sweat-damp forehead.

Her nails dug crescent moons into her palms, the pain grounding her as she forced herself to stay still, to blend into the sea of bodies.

Each rock that struck her sister's body, each hissed insult, each cheer for her death carved itself into Silvia's heart like a brand, searing deeper with every heartbeat.

Her body screamed to move, to reveal herself, to unleash her pink magic in a blaze that would tear through the square like a storm.

But Lira's last glance at her—silent, fierce, unyielding—echoed in her mind like a command.

Stay hidden.

Live.

For her. For Kiara.

The High Mage raised his staff, its runes flaring with a cold, white light, silencing the mob with a single motion.

His orb pulsed in his other hand, its pink glow sharp and accusing, trembling as if it could taste the magic it hunted.

"This woman," he intoned, his voice carrying across the square like a death knell, "has concealed her cursed nature within the noble Silverward crest. She has deceived husband and child alike. She has defiled her bloodline. Tonight, her corruption ends."

Murmurs rippled through the crowd, some nobles smirking with smug satisfaction, others shifting uneasily, their eyes darting to Lord Silverward on the balcony.

The weight of the accusation hung heavy, a stain on the crest they revered.

Then a voice cut through the tension, sharp and cruel: "What of her daughter?"

A hush fell, as sudden and suffocating as a blade to the throat.

Dozens of eyes turned to the balcony where Kiara stood, trembling, her small hands clutched in white knuckles, her icy blue eyes wide with terror.

The servant tried to shield her, pulling her closer, but the crowd's gaze was relentless.