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“Excellent,” Prince Daemon replies and stands before D’Angelo’s knelt position so he can block his image entirely while confronting Headmaster Atlas. “Was that clear enough of a submission to set in stone, Headmaster Atlas?”
Submission.
Prince Daemon enjoys making others feel utterly insignificant in their element and environment.
“Was heard loud and clear,” Headmaster Atlas states. She may not be smiling, but her eyes tell me a different story. I secretly believe she enjoys these random outbursts of Daemon’s.
Makes our professor positions rather eventful.
“There’ll be plenty of students who will survive their trials and be considered mentor-worthy in the coming hours. I’d suggest that those considering using their mentor privileges this year stay near this area, so when I have a larger list of official attendees of N.M.U., I’ll be able to congregate another meeting like this.”
No one says anything because Prince Daemon is still present. Anyone who knows a thing about fae is they don’t have much patience unless they’re very intrigued by the topic at hand.
Or are heavily rewarded in exchange for their utmost attention.
“Then Professor North and I can dismiss ourselves, yes?” Prince Daemon concludes.
He can’t wait to get out of here.
“Yes, Prince Daemon,” Headmaster Atlas confirms. “Please let your counterpart, Professor Daemon, be aware I’ll need to speak to him later with Professor North present.”
“Certainly,” Prince Daemon says with a proud smile. He briefly looks my way. “I’m leaving that to you, Professor North.”
He wasn’t going to tell his other side shit.
I don’t think Headmaster Atlas realizes it’s not a simple task to talk to your alter.
With such a new condition of mental instability, there isn’t enough information or research surrounding the unique trait that runs specifically through royal fae and, in a rare instance, Gilded Mergers who have the potential to become Nephalem.
“Excellent.” He spins around and takes two steps to leave him towering over Professor D’Angelo. “A word, James.” Not waiting for D’Angelo to argue or bring up the obvious point that the ceremony isn’t quite over yet, he walks down the hall with everyone’s trailing gazes centered on his departure.
He loves the attention.
Following his lead, we end up before the massive doors that open upon our closeness. When they finally close behind us, we turn back to see Professor D’Angelo is with us.
“A little handsome birdy told me you interfered with Miss Guinevere’s entry trial,” Prince Daemon gets to the point.
The poor guards at the doors are bowing the entire time. Can’t blame them when all the tense energy from inside the ceremony chambers migrated out of that room and got cozy in this hall’s atmosphere.
Wait. Did he refer to me as handsome?
“Little snitch,” D’Angelo mutters my way.
His opinion of me means nothing. I’ve known he’s hated my guts since I obtained this professor position.
Probably because I’m teaching Malevolence Dark Magic and Artistry: Intermediate this year when he’s been teaching that subject for twenty-five years.
Not my fault the new curriculum wishes to incorporate more youthful professors who can better motivate the students.
“Didn’t know I owe you my secrecy,” I comment.
Maybe the geezer needed a reminder of our age difference. I just turned thirty and was the second youngest professor at N.M.U. I would have kept my rank if Prince Daemon hadn’t been invited to teach advanced classes revolving around Nephilim Dark Arts and History. Nevertheless, at N.M.U., the younger you were, the more respected you were in the realms of dark magic and arts.
The youth are stronger and more resilient on the battlefield. Not to forget the advantage the youth carry with their abilities of tapping into unlimited flows of magic.
Our weakness is our lack of knowledge, which is why N.M.U. was established in hopes of confronting that dilemma and capitalizing on teaching the youth their capabilities earlier on in their lives.
If D’Angelo’s fifty-five-year-old stubborn self stopped using magic to try to maintain a youthful image, maybe his essence score wouldn’t drop every year. I’d be lying if I pretended that I wasn’t counting the days for this man’s essence levels to reach zero.
