Chapter Nine: Pink, Poison, and Sweater Vests
Arabella POV
So remember when I said murderers can be teachers here? Yeah. That wasn't a joke.
After a little late-night research into my professor for Arcanatural Sciences—bless the academy's unsecured database—I found out she's, in fact, a convicted felon.
A literal serial killer.
Suddenly, the enchanted shackles around her wrists and neck make a lot more sense.
Apparently, Professor Hoover leveled an entire enchanted building. Boom. Gone. She killed over 400 people in an instant. Just one survivor.
And that survivor? Her ex-lover and former professor.
You see, she was a prodigy. Brilliant. Young. A rising star in Arcanatural Sciences. But he—Professor Gilder—stole her research, published it under his name, then invited his wife and kids to the award ceremony where he accepted the praise.
So what did she do?
She made sure he lived to watch everything else burn. Friends, coworkers, colleagues. Gone.
The Arcanatural Sciences department was already small. She cut its population by 20%.
Honestly? I'm a fan.
Especially since Gilder was part of the reason I got expelled from my previous academy. So, in a way, this is justice. Cosmic and petty. My favorite flavor. I mean it happened way before he met me but those are minor details.
I glance up from my notes and watch Professor Hoover glide between the ruined desks like a predator with tenure. She's elegant in a terrifying, "please don't stab me" kind of way.
The room is practically abandoned, with dust and vines reclaiming the corners. No one wants to take this class. No one but me.
And apparently...
The door creaks open.
I turn, curious.
It's him.
The handsome, stoic guy who escorted me to my shack-in-the-woods when I first arrived.
What was his name again?
Zaire.
Yes. The second-year representative.
He walks in with that calm, focused expression. No nonsense. No fanfare. Just presence.
His locs are neatly tied back, the deep red catching in the sunlight. He's wearing a sweater vest again—seriously, what is it with him and preppy academia chic?—and glasses that sit perfectly on his sharp nose.
I blink.
Okay. Fine. He's hot.
He takes a seat two rows ahead and opens a leather notebook. Not a tablet. Not a scroll. A notebook. With an actual pen.
God, he's such a formal guy.
I smirk.
"Hey," I say.
He doesn't respond.
Tough crowd.
I lean forward, whispering just loud enough.
"Are you always this talkative, or is it just me?"
Still nothing.
Professor Hoover clears her throat, the sound sharp enough to silence a banshee. I sit back in my seat, but not before I see Zaire's hand twitch slightly.
Aha.
So he is alive.
This is going to be fun.
***
Zaire POV
Distraction.
That's what she is.
I will not deny it—I was prejudiced. The moment I saw her, Arabella Solstice, with her cotton candy aesthetic and glittering lip gloss, I pegged her as nothing more than a spoiled heiress playing pretend. I pride myself in being rational, forward-thinking, and objective, but even I fell into the pit of assumption.
And now? Now she's at the front of the classroom, leaning across Professor Hoover's desk, her voice animated as they discuss magical formulas.
Not even basic ones. She asked a question about elemental algebraic convergence, a topic even most third-years pretend doesn't exist. And she got it right.
She's no longer in her seat. She's up there with the professor, their eyes sparkling as they talk about rune destabilization mechanics and mana recoil trajectories. Hoover is smiling. Smiling. The last time I saw her smile, wait never.
And Arabella? She's glowing—not magically, but in that effortless way some people carry a spotlight into every room they enter. It's the outfit too. I mean, Astral has no dress code, we're all too jaded for that, but surely that skirt should be illegal.
It's pink. And it's… short. As in, bend-over-and-you-see-lace short.
I know this because she's currently doing just that—bending slightly to gesture at something in a book. Her soft pink top rides up slightly, revealing a sliver of stomach. Her pink hair tie bobs cheerfully in her honey-brown hair. Even her damn nails are pink.
What else is pink?
I shut my eyes. No.
This is clearly a result of my frustration. My twenty years of pure, untouched virginity are catching up to me. That's the only explanation. There's no other logical reason why I'm this aware of her. Of how she smells faintly like strawberries and trouble.
It's novelty, that's what it is. The rest of the girls at Astral Academy are like the rest of us—weathered. Tired. Clouded.
We live in this cold, damp gothic hellhole built like a cursed castle, and it drains you. After one semester here, everyone turns a little grey. Arabella? She's sticks out like a sore thumb.
I look down at my notebook, try to focus on the equations I was solving, the energy transfer formula for explosive elemental fusion. Very important. Very serious.
A chair squeaks. She returns to her seat beside me. Yes she moved to seat beside me.
"You okay there, Einstein? You looked like you were solving world peace."
Her voice is light, teasing.
I blink and look up. She's already halfway into her seat, her mini skirt riding high, her legs crossed like this was some pink-themed fashion editorial and not a decrepit, doom-laced academic institution.
"Fine," I say, adjusting my glasses.
"Uh-huh," she says, resting her cheek on her palm, her glossy lips quirking.
"That frown says you either hate me or you're working on an unsolvable theory."
"Both."
She snorts.
Gods help me, it's cute.
"You're not that special," I add dryly.
"Yet," she chirps.
She turns back to the front, doodling on the edge of her notes. I glance at her page.
Little hearts. Pink pens. Glitter stickers.
But beneath it—her notes are detailed, precise, better than even mine.
I sigh.