AETHON:Demons in steel

The morning mist curled like spectral fingers around the ancient flagstones of the Bloodspar Courtyard, its damp tendrils caressing the leather boots of the assembled students. The air hung heavy with the petrichor of last night's storm, undercut by the sharp tang of lingering ozone - a telltale sign that powerful magic had recently been unleashed here. The courtyard itself bore the scars of countless battles: blackened patches where spells had gone awry, grooves worn into stone by years of combat drills, and the faint, shimmering remnants of protective wards etched into the very foundations.

At the center of this arena of learning stood Professor Morgana, her presence commanding silence before she even spoke. Tall and statuesque, she carried herself with the effortless grace of someone who had spent decades mastering both magic and pedagogy.

Her silver-streaked ebony hair was pulled into a severe braid that fell like a whip down her back, while her piercing violet eyes missed nothing. The faint lines around her mouth and eyes spoke of both wisdom and weary patience, the marks of an educator who had seen generations of students pass through her courtyard. Her robes, deep indigo edged with silver runes, seemed to drink in the morning light rather than reflect it.

When she spoke, her voice carried the weight of experience, each word carefully measured like ingredients in a potent spell.

 "Magic,"

 She began, letting the word hang in the air like an unsheathed blade,

"is not a toy for children, nor a spectacle for the masses."

Her gaze swept across the faces before her, pausing momentarily on those who shifted nervously. "It is a weapon - the most dangerous you will ever wield - and like any weapon, it demands three things from those who would bear it: respect, discipline, and above all, control."

She moved between the students now, her boots whispering against the stone. "You stand here today because you possess talent. But talent," she paused beside a particularly nervous first-year,

"Without discipline is like a blade without a hilt. Sooner or later, it will cut you as deeply as any enemy might."

"Today," Professor Morgana continued, "you will be paired.

Professor Morgana's voice cut through the murmurs. "Today," she announced, "you will be paired. You will assess each other's capabilities, identify strengths and weaknesses, and begin to understand what it means to face another magic-wielder in combat." A meaningful glance at the still-smoldering remains of a training dummy in the corner. "And you will accomplish this without reducing my courtyard to rubble."

As students began pairing off with familiar partners, Aethon remained motionless. His isolation wasn't accidental - he had cultivated it deliberately, believing true strength came from self-reliance. Rook, meanwhile, seemed to have burned through (sometimes literally) all potential partners from previous classes.

"Looks like we're the leftovers."

Aethon turned. The auburn-haired boy stood before him, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, the other extended in a mockery of courtesy. Up close, the missing tooth was more apparent, as was the faint scar that traced the line of his jaw. matching the description he had heard from one of the school gist vlog from his classmates

— PYRO

Their eyes met across the space, and Pyro grin was all sharp edges and mischief, accentuated by the missing incisor on his left side - the legacy of some past adventure. Aethon's responding expression was cool appraisal, nothing more.

Aethon regarded him coolly. "And you're the one who set the library annex on fire. The walking fire hazard."

 Pyro's grin widened. "Allegedly."

Behind them, Professor Morgana cleared her throat. "Problem?"

 Pyro waved a hand. "Nope. Just getting acquainted with my new best friend."

Aethon exhaled through his nose. "We're paired, then?"

Professor Morgana's lips twitched—the closest thing to a smile any of them had seen. 

"You are. Try not to kill each other."

As she moved on, Pyro rolled his shoulders, the motion sending a cascade of embers spiraling from his fingertips. "So," he said, 

"How do you want to do this? Light sparring? Full-contact? Winner buys the loser a drink after?"

Aethon flexed his fingers, shadows pooling at his feet like liquid night. "I don't drink with pyromaniacs."

 Pyro laughed, the sound bright against the courtyard's solemnity. "Good. That means I won't have to share."

"let meet later after classes"