Sweat clung to Isaac's collarbone as he stood in the dim light of Professor Vance's private quarters. Heavy oak bookshelves lined the walls, smelling of old parchment, dried lavender, and beeswax. Vance sat behind his mahogany desk, a quill poised over a stack of mid-term examinations, his posture as rigid as a soldier's.
Isaac swallowed the thick lump in his throat, his fingers twitching inside his pockets. He felt the small, square foil packet resting against his palm. It was a ridiculous, modern relic he had managed to secure through a desperate trade with a black-market merchant, a lingering habit from his old life. Desperation drove transmigrated souls to strange lengths, and right now, Isaac was running entirely on survival instinct.
He needed an anchor. If this terrifying, ancient dragon was going to tear his life apart, Isaac had to find a way to control the narrative. If Aurelius wanted to possess the men around him to force his affection, then Isaac would lean into the chaos. He would take the lead before the beast could completely strip him of his autonomy.
"Isaac? Is there something you require?" Vance's voice was deep, professional, and entirely unsuspecting. He adjusted his wire-rimmed reading glasses, looking up with a faint flicker of annoyance.
Stepping forward, Isaac bypassed the guest chairs entirely. He rounded the massive desk, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. Every step felt like walking a tightrope over an abyss.
Vance frowned, his brow furrowing as he began to rise from his seat. "If this is about your failing grades in practical conjuring, I have already told you that—"
Isaac reached out, placing his trembling hands flat on Vance's chest. He pushed the older man back into his high-backed leather chair. The sheer audacity of the action left the professor momentarily speechless.
Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. Vance stared up at him, his mouth slightly open, utterly paralyzed by the zero-tier student's sudden physical boldness.
Slowly, Isaac pulled the small foil packet from his pocket. He laid it flat on the polished mahogany wood, sliding it right next to the inkwell. The silver foil glinted under the candlelight.
Vance blinked down at the strange, metallic square, confusion clouding his sharp features. "What is the meaning of this?"
Instead of answering, Isaac leaned down, closing the remaining distance. He captured Vance's lips in a soft, deliberate kiss. It was an awkward, desperate movement, born more of panic than experience.
Vance stiffened instantly, his hands rising to grip Isaac's shoulders to push him away. A low gasp of protest escaped the professor's throat.
Then, the temperature in the room plummeted before skyrocketing into an oppressive, suffocating heat.
Familiar, heavy magic rolled over Isaac's senses. The air grew thick, smelling faintly of ozone and burning gold. The resistance in Vance's hands vanished, his fingers tightening on Isaac's shoulders before sliding down to grip his waist with bruising force.
When Vance opened his eyes, the dull brown color was completely gone.
Molten gold swirled in his irises, bright, predatory, and deeply amused. A slow, wicked grin spread across the professor's face, transforming his usually stern, academic features into something devastatingly handsome and terrifying.
"My, my," Aurelius murmured, his voice rumbling deep within Vance's chest. "What an incredibly good wife you are."
Isaac shivered, his codependent heart leaping at the sudden, intense warmth of the dragon's gaze. He hated how easily his fears subsided when he was held like this. He hated how much he craved this absolute, undivided attention from a monster.
Aurelius pulled him down onto his lap, sweeping the neat stacks of papers off the desk with a single, careless wave of his arm. The quill shattered against the floor, but neither of them cared.
Hours of feverish, intense heat followed, the dragon using the professor's body to claim what was legally his. Isaac surrendered entirely, letting himself be consumed by the possessive touch, finding a twisted sense of safety in the beast's overwhelming grip.
---
Morning light broke over the stone towers of the academy, painting the training courtyard in cold, grey hues. A thin layer of frost coated the stone tiles underfoot, crunching softly beneath Isaac's boots.
Isaac walked with a slight, aching stiffness, his body exhausted from the night's events. His mind was a chaotic mess of guilt, confusion, and lingering warmth. He had actively seduced his professor just to appease a dragon. The realization made his cheeks burn with intense shame, his gaze fixed firmly on the ground.
Heavy, aggressive footsteps echoed behind him, shattering his thoughts.
"Stop right there, zero-tier trash," a harsh, arrogant voice barked.
Isaac closed his eyes for a brief second, cursing his luck. He turned around slowly to find Damian standing near the stone arches. Damian, the academy's golden boy and a prominent two-tier mage, looked disheveled, his eyes bloodshot with manic frustration.
Damian had always loathed Isaac, but lately, that hatred had morphed into an obsessive suspicion. "You think you're clever, don't you? Shrugging off high-level spells yesterday. Surviving things you shouldn't have. You're hiding something, Isaac."
"I don't know what you're talking about, Damian," Isaac said, backing away toward the center of the courtyard. "I'm just trying to get to my morning lectures."
Damian scoffed, stepping closer, his knuckles white as he clenched his fists. "I demand a duel. Right here. Right now. No professors, no proctors. Let's see what you're really made of when you can't run away."
Isaac's stomach sank. He had absolutely no offensive magic of his own, and if he fought, his complete lack of combat skills would be laid bare for the entire academy to see. "I decline, Damian. I have no interest in fighting you."
"You don't get to decline!" Damian roared.
With a swift, fluid motion, Damian reached for the scabbard at his hip. He drew a heavy steel broadsword, the metal scraping against the sheath with a harsh, screeching hiss. The blade gleamed coldly in the weak morning sun.
Before Isaac could even scream, Damian charged. His face was contorted in pure, manic rage as he raised the heavy sword high above his head. He swung the blade downward with terrifying, lethal intent, aiming directly for Isaac's exposed neck.
Isaac froze, his breath catching in his throat as the cold steel rushed toward him. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the inevitable, brutal impact.
Suddenly, a loud, metallic clang echoed through the empty courtyard.
Isaac forced his eyes open, trembling. The heavy steel broadsword lay uselessly on the stone tiles, vibrating slightly from the impact of its fall.
Damian stood frozen in front of him, but the manic rage had completely vanished from his face. His features softened, his jaw slackening as his expression shifted into one of absolute, vacant adoration.
Damian falls to his knees, grabs Isaac's hand, and kisses it with terrifying devotion, his eyes flashing golden as he whispers, 'I would never harm a hair on your beautiful head.'