Professor.
Mortimer is a professor now.
Professor of Supernatural History and Draconic Studies, to be specific.
One of the seven positions that the academy requires—positions that my bond mates are apparently destined to fill.
Atticus's whistle pierces the morning chaos with appreciation that makes me smile despite not being able to see what prompted it.
"Wow, old man!" the blood mage exclaims. "Those professor robes actually look good on you!"
I can imagine Mortimer's expression—the particular combination of pleasure at the compliment and annoyance at being called "old man" despite the fact that his age is exactly why he's qualified for the position he's now holding.
"All we ask is don't fail us," Atticus adds, the request carrying humor that doesn't quite hide genuine concern.
"I don't cater to favoritism," Mortimer responds, voice carrying the particular dignity of someone who has decided to take their new role seriously regardless of personal connections.
"But when Gwen couldn't figure out that Fae smell," Damien mutters, apparently abandoning his argument with Koi in favor of calling out hypocrisy, "you practicallyfedit to her."
The Fae smell.
During one of the orientation exercises.
When I was supposed to identify different magical signatures and kept confusing Fae essence with something else entirely.
"She would have figured it out," Mortimer defends, voice carrying conviction that probably doesn't match his actual belief. "I just further assisted."
"Liar."
The accusation comes from multiple voices simultaneously—a chorus of bond mates who apparently share my skepticism about Mortimer's claims of neutrality.
I snicker at their synchronized calling-out, the sound escaping before I can moderate my response.
"Can we make our way, please?"
My voice carries through whatever walls separate us—loud enough to reach them, clear enough to communicate that I've been listening to this entire exchange.
"This is the first academy assembly," I continue, "and unlike you guys, I actually like to be on time."
Koi groans.
The sound carries theatrical disappointment that probably accompanies an equally theatrical expression.
"That's such a good student way of showing up," he complains, tone dripping with the particular disdain of someone who has apparently never cared about punctuality in his centuries of existence.
I shoo him away with a gesture he can't see but probably senses anyway.
His laugh echoes through the walls—bright and manic and carrying the particular delight of someone who has found joy in circumstances that previously seemed impossible.
"First one there gets to sleep in Gwen's room tonight!"
The declaration lands with implications that make my cheeks heat despite the fact that I should probably be used to their competitive approaches to my attention by now.
Silence.
Four seconds.
Maybe five.
