Academy's Pervert in the D Class

"She bears the witch's blood," someone jeered, their voice dripping with venom. "Burn her too!"

"She's her spawn! Witches breed witches!" another shouted, a chorus of agreement rising like a tide.

"Better to end the line now!" a noblewoman called, her silk fan snapping shut with a flick of her wrist, her lips curled in disdain.

Kiara's eyes widened in horror, her small body shrinking against the servant as fingers pointed her way, accusing, damning.

Her breath hitched, her sobs turning to panicked gasps, her little hands clutching the servant's arm so tightly her nails drew blood.

Lord Silverward's voice thundered, shaking the balcony, silencing the mob with a single word:

"Enough!" His hand slammed the railing, the wood creaking under the force, his aura sparking faintly with restrained magic, a glimpse of the power he rarely showed.

"She is my blood. My daughter. She is no witch." His voice was iron, unyielding, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of desperation, a father's plea beneath the noble's command.

The High Mage's lips curled into a faint, unconvinced smirk, his eyes narrowing as he studied Kiara from below.

He lifted his crystal orb, its pink glow flaring briefly as he directed it toward her.

"Then let the orb decide."

The crowd hushed, breaths held as the mage whispered incantations, his voice a low, guttural chant that made the air hum with static.

The orb pulsed, scanning, its glow flaring brighter—then dimming to nothing, a cold, lifeless glass once more.

The mage frowned, his brow furrowing as he shook the orb, muttering another incantation.

He tried again, his staff glowing hotter, but the result was the same: still, silent, empty.

A collective sigh rose from the crowd—disappointment for some, relief for others, a ripple of murmurs spreading like wildfire.

The High Mage's jaw tightened, his eyes flicking to Kiara with a flicker of suspicion, but he lowered the orb.

"She is clean," he declared finally, his voice dripping with reluctance, the words bitter on his tongue. "The cursed blood did not pass to her."

Cheers erupted, cruel and triumphant, the mob reassured, their bloodlust redirected to the true prey at the pyre's center.

Kiara collapsed against the servant's arms, her sobs a tangled mess of relief and grief, her small body shaking as if it might break apart.

Her icy blue eyes were red-rimmed, her face streaked with tears, her little heart fracturing under the weight of what she'd witnessed.

Lord Silverward's shoulders slumped, a subtle motion unseen by most, but his eyes glistened as he turned away, unable to watch what came next.

He could not save his wife—not without condemning his daughter, his house, everything he'd built.

His hands clenched behind his back, knuckles white, the only sign of the war raging within him.

The High Mage raised his staff, its runes blazing with holy fire. "Light the pyre."

Torches touched the wood with a hungry hiss, flames leaping upward, devouring the dry logs with a crackling roar.

Smoke poured into the night sky, thick and choking, the heat pressing against the crowd, forcing them back even as they cheered louder, their voices a cacophony of righteous glee.

Lira stood within the flames, her body engulfed in a blaze of orange and gold, the fire licking at her torn gown, charring the fabric to ash.

Yet her face lifted to the heavens, serene, untouched by fear.

She did not cry. She did not beg.

Her icy blue eyes sought the balcony where her daughter wept, and for a single, eternal heartbeat, their gazes locked—mother and child, bound by blood and love.

"Live," her lips shaped silently, a final vow carved in the air. "Live strong."

Then the flames consumed her, the fire roaring higher, swallowing her form in a merciless embrace.

Kiara's scream tore through the square, a sound so raw, so full of hatred and grief, that even hardened soldiers flinched, their hands tightening on their weapons.

She clawed at the railing, her small body straining to leap, to reach her mother, to tear through the flames with her bare hands.

The servant held her back, weeping too, her arms a cage around the thrashing child.

"I'll kill them!" Kiara shrieked, her voice cracking into shards, her icy blue eyes blazing with a fury too big for her small frame. "I'll kill them all! Every one of them!"

Silvia collapsed to her knees in the shadows of the crowd, her body wracked with silent sobs, her hood falling back just enough to expose her tear-streaked face.

Her sister was gone—burned to ash before her eyes, her sacrifice a blade that cut deeper than any weapon.

And Silvia, coward that she was, had done nothing, hidden in the dark while Lira faced the fire alone.

But as she pressed her shaking hands to her chest, her nails drawing blood through her cloak, she swore a vow, silent and fierce, her voice a broken whisper in the chaos.

"I'll watch over her," she choked out, tears falling hot and unrelenting. "Kiara… I'll protect you. No matter what it takes. From the shadows, I'll never leave you alone."

Above her, Kiara's cries hardened into something colder, sharper.

Her tears still fell, streaming down her face, but her little fists clenched at her sides, her knuckles white.

Her icy blue eyes, burning with grief and rage, locked onto the High Mage, onto the nobles who had laughed, onto every stone-throwing face in the crowd.

Hatred bloomed in her heart, sharp and fierce, a seed planted in the ashes of her mother's pyre—a seed that would never die.

The flames roared higher, consuming the last of Lira Silverward, the witch reduced to ash and memory.

But in her place, two vows were born that night, forged in fire and grief.

One, whispered in shadow, a promise of protection from a hidden aunt.

One, screamed through tears, a vow of vengeance from a broken child.

Both would shape the world to come, their threads weaving into a tapestry of blood, magic, and unrelenting will.