“Why are you hiding your face?” Rowan’s curious gaze landed on the single pale cheek that was abruptly removed from his sight by a familiar hand that got between his eyes and the prize.

“No special reason,” Syryn’s muffled voice responded.

“I doubt that,” Rowan answered with a chuckle.

The future was a very long time for Syryn to continue concealing his face; that too from the man who he hoped would once again stay by his side as a friend. Syryn figured he might as well get it over with and let Rowan get used to seeing the real him.

With that objective in mind, the mage very casually moved away from where his head was pressed up against black uniform. Face now exposed to the night sky whose cloak of darkness protected Syryn from the spectators, he hummed in agreement with Rowan’s words.

The anti mage had incidentally turned to speak to Syryn when the boy moved away. Rowan’s lips were parted to form words but they failed to appear. And after what had felt like an eternity of being scrutinised, the alchemist heard Rowan nervously clear his throat and speak.

“So that’s what you really look like,” and if Rowan’s voice had a breathless quality to it, Syryn pretended he didn’t notice.

It was a more favourable response than the one that grown-up Rowan first had at beholding Syryn. The anti mage had appeared taken aback, and then had refused to look at Syryn straight in the eye – but on the occasions he did, it always carried derision. The demon lord had taken massive damage to his ego after Rowan’s disregard of his renowned good looks. It was a disgusting plate of humble pie that was forced down his throat.

“Am I more beautiful than Lillith?”

Syryn himself was caught surprised at the words that had just come out of his own mouth. It was meant to stay inside his mind where everything shameful was hidden. What had possessed him to voice out his inner thoughts? Mana exhaustion wasn’t known to cause brain damage but Syryn considered the possibility of it.

Rowan did not immediately answer him and it gave Syryn a few seconds to stew in annoyance at himself. Perplexed blue eyes then turned to him, searching Syryn’s words for a clue as to why he was asked such a question. Why was Syryn comparing himself to Lillith?

The two brain cells in Syryn’s head warred each other for dominance. Embarrassment finally won out over bravado, the fruits of which glowed pink on his hot cheeks. Dim as the light was, the anti mage’s eyes did not miss a single detail, especially not the peculiar indigo eyes.

“Forget I asked,” Syryn raised an arm to cover his face and hopefully hide his entire self away but Rowan abruptly caught his arm, the offending arm that was separating Rowan from his alchemist.

“I can tell you with certainty, Syryn, I’ve never laid eyes on a more beautiful creature,” his lips were parted in awe at the twin smudges of pink under bashfully lowered lashes.

Upon hearing that, Syryn’s heart did an odd lurch and it surprised him. What the hell was that? It was odd, odder than his normal reactions to the gorgeous blonde’s praises. To hear such frankly spoken words from someone like Rowan – whose entire self, from head to toe, was sculpted with perfection – it was high praise that temporarily filled the older Rowan shaped hole in Syryn’s heart.

The alchemist then reminded himself that a good face changed nothing; Traxdart was still a threat to the world and Rowan would still marry Lillith. A third, neglected brain cell suddenly jumped in asking Syryn why he was so concerned about Rowan’s nuptials – because Lillith will receive all his attention again, Syryn snidely replied to it.

“I almost have enough mana.” On the outside, he remained impassive to Rowan’s words.

“That’s great,” the anti mage smiled as he loosened his grip on Syryn’s arm, “but why are you comparing yourself to Lillith?” And if it wasn’t like Rowan to go straight for the horns. Syryn wasn’t surprised, just mad at himself for letting his emotions get the better of him.

“Like a wise man once said, I’m a vain creature. And now you know.”

“I don’t believe that,” Rowan answered. His upper body was leaning backwards, supported on his elbows. Blue eyes fell to where Syryn’s pale hand was carelessly thrown over Rowan’s sun-kissed arm. Without understanding his motivations, the blonde flipped it gently so their palms were touching. He resisted the urge to slide his fingers between Syryn’s and entwine them with the slender appendages that had enamoured him.

Syryn who was making a show of not noticing Rowan’s – unexplainable and confusing – sly action, stared gratefully at the silhouette of a man approaching them. He recognised the concerned professor who was treading through the destroyed patches of ground, hands inside his pockets; one of which contained a dart tipped with just a potent enough amount of Dreamless to send Syryn into a coma for a few minutes. He needed a little more mana but Artemus was already in front of him.

“Magnus informed me you might need this.” Artemus held out a snowy white handkerchief to Syryn. “They wouldn’t let him onto the grounds so I had to come in his place.” If the young professor was troubled by the confirmation of his suspicions about his student, it didn’t show. Artemus behaved as he would under normal circumstances.

“Congratulations Syryn, you’ve really upset Winter Fortress.” The small smile on the professor’s face was genuine despite his words.

Syryn received the handkerchief that Artemus was holding out. Pressing it to his nose, he took in the fresh scent that had a hint of the same expensive washing soap that Alka used. It had to belong to Artemus since neither of his housemates used white kerchiefs.

“Thanks, professor. You’re late though,” the mage met Artemus’ eyes and then pointedly glanced at Rowan whose attention was on the white cloth that veiled Syryn’s face.

Without the need for a verbal reply, Artemus sent Syryn a look. It communicated his dissatisfaction with his student for having gotten caught with his face exposed. First, it was Magnus, then me, and now Rowan; have you not learnt a lesson yet? Where are your safeguards? Do you not have precautions in place? It was terrifying just how much Syryn was able to unpack from that one stern look he received.

Wilting under Artemus’ stare, Syryn quietly pressed his face into the handkerchief and made himself appear small.

“This tournament has attracted enough attention towards Syryn that we’re considering a change of residency till the fever dies down,” Artemus addressed the blonde anti mage. “Needless to say, I have faith in your discretion about the matters of his- secret.” Artemus’ gaze flickered over to Syryn very quickly and back. “Though I still feel the need to impress upon you the importance of keeping this strictly to yourself, Rowan.”

A nod, “I understand. I won’t breathe a word of it to anyone,” Rowan replied with solemn composure.

Syryn had gathered enough mana. He recast an illusion but still kept the handkerchief. There was no way he was returning a dust-coated cloth back to the fastidious Artemus.

“Professor, I broke my arm,” the mage cut into the serious mood that had developed between the anti mages, “but I don’t want the healers to touch me.” The alchemist was aware of the astronomical amount of trouble he would find himself in if the healers snooped around his blood.

“Do you have your kit?”

“Yes. It’s with Magnus.”

“You trust him.”

Why did it sound like the anti mage was making another important guess? “Less thinking and more helping professor. Can you carry me?” Syryn quite shamelessly asked.

At his words, Artemus quickly reverted back to a concerned professor, “Are your legs injured?”

“No, but I’m tired. If I have to walk all the way there, I might faint.” Syryn replied.

The alchemist was unaware of how the blonde anti mage was scrutinising his interaction with Artemus. They did not communicate like a student and a professor.

Rowan wasn’t quite sure what it was but he had a feeling that there was a strange intimacy in the way Syryn had his arm draped around Artemus. The younger man’s head was pressed against his professor’s strong back, eyes closed from exhaustion.

“See ya, Rowan,” Syryn mumbled. No sooner had Artemus lifted him, the alchemist had felt a blanket of safety and comfort cover him. He was ready to fall asleep on Artemus’ back.

“I’ll see you soon Syryn,” Rowan replied almost too softly for their ears.

When the professor had carted him a good distance away, Syryn decided that it was a good time to dish out payback for what Artemus had done on the day of his neck injury.

He took a breath against the delectable skin of Artemus’ neck – right under his ear, “You smell good Artemus, I like it.” Keeping in mind Syryn’s injury, the anti mage was very slowly carrying him past the obstacles that the fight with Rowan had created.

“Should I be concerned about the things my 12-year-old student keeps saying to me?” Artemus replied wryly.

“Turned 13 a few days ago.”

Artemus chuckled and it was a beautiful sound, deep and rich, “It doesn’t make a difference.”

“Professor, stop pretending. You and I both know I’m old enough for the things we’ve both had thoughts about,” Syryn whispered against the gentle arch of Artemus’ ear.

The anti mage halted in his steps and breathed out audibly.

“Syryn.”

“Yes?”

“Another word out of that mouth and I’ll drop you.”

Syryn was discovering just how fun it was to needle Artemus. It was too bad he wouldn’t be training them anymore.

“Rowan, cheer up. No one could have predicted his weird power,” Rain tried to comfort the blonde who looked a little lost.

“Rowan?” She had never seen the anti mage act like this before.

“I’m fine,” he lifted his head and assured his worried friend.

Vincent had his arms crossed and was stretched out across three chairs. Nobody really knew what to say to their defeated champion. Rowan had always seemed like an unassailable wall to Winter Fortress; when it broke apart, words seemed inadequate to express their feelings.

Disappointment, sorrow, anger, frustration and a whole lot of smarting pride reigned over them but not towards Rowan. He was still their idol.

“I’m hungry, who the fuck stole my meat buns?!” Vincent roared at the anti mages. Rowan made eye contact with the guilty Rain who was subtly crab walking away from view.

“It was me,” Rowan sighed. His tired brain was not ready for the bickering that would erupt between the two if Vincent found out.

“Rowan, I have it on good authority that I’m an idiot,” Vincent grouched – recalling how Syryn had pulled a fast one over him- “but now you’re just insulting me.”

Vincent then squinted at Rowan, “wait, wait, wait! it was Rain, wasn’t it? Only she would have the guts to fight me, and something about your expression tells me you just want to get out of here quietly.”

And there it was, the shrewdness that made Vincent a brilliant anti mage in high pressure-clutch situations. How was he simultaneously so dumb and smart? It was one of the questions that plagued Vincent’s own parents.

“Right, I’d appreciate it very much if you didn’t start bickering like idiot children.” Rowan cut in before Vincent started throwing hands. He wasn’t in a good mood tonight and it had something to do with Syryn, that much Rowan was certain of.

“Buy me dinner,” Vincent finally allowed after taking one look at Rowan’s body language. The blonde was broadcasting unease and irritation, Vincent noted with concern.

Unusual. Very unusual.

“Rain, you coming?” Vincent threw out a truce. For Rowan, they’d have to settle his grudges another time.