I froze, like I was back under interrogation lights. Heat crept into my cheeks — equal parts humiliation and rage. Oh no. I was not swallowing this quietly.

  “This is Weil’s doing!” I blurted out, gesturing vaguely in the air, as if he were supposed to perceive her demonic essence hovering nearby. “She curses students. That’s completely out of order!”

  Grey merely arched an eyebrow, as though I’d shared something mildly unfortunate, and gave a small shake of his head.

  “Yes? And?” he said calmly. “For educational purposes, I should add. I assume today’s lesson involved defensive wards? Consider this… practical application.”

  He said it as casually as if professors cursing students on a daily basis were as normal as rain. As if I were complaining about the weather.

  “Well then,” he added, clearly enjoying himself, “good luck lifting it, miss Orlova. A hint — when deciphering the counter-curse, try using your brain. If you have one. It’s a logic problem.”

  His gaze flicked over me once more, then with a slight nod he turned and walked away, leaving me standing in the middle of the staircase, blinking and unsure whether I felt more offended or furious.

  Oh, so I don’t have a brain now, Professor Grey Morne?

  Fine. I’ll manage on my own. I’ll go to the library right now and solve this myself. No help. Somehow. Curse or not, I was not about to spend the rest of my life walking like this. The feeling of being stared at and quietly laughed at had already worn thin.

  The Academy library, as I’d suspected, was dark and oppressive. Endless rows of shelves stretched upward toward gothic arches. The air smelled of old paper and something else — dust mixed with magic, if that was even a thing. I wandered toward the back shelves, scowling at titles that sounded like medical diagnoses: Morbid Maledictions, Dark Refinements of Necromancy, A Practitioner’s Guide to Shield-building.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  I walked for a long time and was starting to tire when I noticed a faint light at the far end of the hall. After checking that the ghost librarian was currently haunting a different aisle, I moved toward it.

  And there, behind a narrow door left slightly ajar, I saw Drake.

  Dark hair falling slightly into his eyes, sharp cheekbones, composed expression — the kind that suggested he’d never once had to wonder whether he belonged somewhere. He sat at a table, one boot hooked lazily around the leg of the chair, jacket open, posture relaxed in that infuriatingly confident way people only have when they know exactly how dangerous they look. His hands rested on the book — long-fingered, steady, far too calm for someone flipping through something embossed with a skull.

  If ordinary curses irritated me, this book looked like a carefully curated collection of spells for people with a profound moral deficit.

  Drake looked up and, of course, smirked.

  “Oh. You,” he said. His gaze dipped briefly, unhurried, tracing the unmistakable lines of my legs before circling back up. “Congratulations on the new look. Charming.”

  I narrowed my eyes and folded my arms. “Not funny, Mr Schafer!”

  He grinned and closed the book with an easy, practised motion, as if summoning forbidden magic was just another evening hobby.

  “I can help,” he said lightly. “Not for free, of course.”

  “And what exactly do you think I have to offer?” I muttered, already regretting asking.

  He leaned forward, elbows on the table, studying me with open, unapologetic interest — not predatory, not leering. Worse. Curious.

  “A favour for a favour. I lift the curse — you provide a little assistance. I have… occasional access issues with restricted areas. A distraction would be useful. Perhaps a girl unafraid to charm skeletons, I’ve heard what you did to Yarson .”

  “And if I refuse?” I raised an eyebrow.

  He shrugged.

  “Well. Bow-legs suit you,” he said, looking me up and down. “Unforgettable, really.”

  I shuddered but didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

  “You know, Drake, being your accomplice was never on my list of ambitions. I’ll manage. At least my intentions are honest.”

  Drake raised his eyebrows theatrically.

  “Should that hurt my feelings?” he said. “Suit yourself. You know where to find me when you get tired of limping.”

  He returned to his book, clearly dismissing me.