Chapter Text
The room was in ruins.
Dark scorch marks licked the walls like ghosts of long-lost battles, their jagged edges crawling toward the ceiling as if trying to escape the destruction below. The once-pristine marble floor was cracked, fissures running through it like veins of barely contained fury.
Bookshelves had been reduced to splintered wreckage, their contents strewn across the room, pages still smoldering, curling at the edges like they, too, had been caught in the storm
And at the center of it all, standing in the wreckage of what had once been his perfectly organized office, was Valtor.
His breath was still ragged, uneven, the echoes of what had just transpired between them refusing to fade. He flexed his fingers, staring down at his hands as though they were foreign to him, as though they had done something unforgivable.
Because they had touched her.
They had held her, pulled her close, felt the warmth of her against him, the fire in her kiss, the way she had trembled not out of fear but from something else entirely. Something that had unraveled the last threads of his self-control.
His jaw tightened, the muscles in his arms coiling with residual tension as he swept his gaze across the destruction. It wasn't Bloom's doing. No, she had left the moment reality crashed back down on her, her eyes wide with the realisation of what had just happened.
Bloom had fled.
And Valtor... he had lost it.
The second she was gone, the moment the door slammed shut behind her, something inside him snapped. He had lashed out -not at her, never at her- but at everything else, every single object in this cursed office that had borne witness to the moment he lost control.
The moment she had slipped past his defenses, past the careful layers of calculation and control he had spent years perfecting.
He had wanted to test her. To push her. To make her confront the feelings she so stubbornly pushed away. He had expected resistance, expected her to fight him, deny the truth, deny herself.
What he hadn't expected was for her to win.
Not because she had fought back against him, but because she hadn't needed to. She had mastered her fire in a way he hadn't foreseen - not by suppressing it, but by owning her desire. Commanding it. She hadn't lost control.
She had been in complete control. Of her flames. Of herself. Of him.
His grip tightened into fists at the memory of her lips, of the way she had kissed him back - not hesitantly, not cautiously, but with the same fire that burned in her soul. That fire had wrapped around him, consumed him, dragged him into a place he hadn't allowed himself to go in a very, very long time.
And now, he was paying the price for it.
He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair, frustration clawing at his ribs like a caged animal. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. He was supposed to be the one in control. He had been the one orchestrating this, manipulating the pieces on the board.
And yet, somehow, she had flipped the entire game over in a single heartbeat.
His eyes flickered to the shattered remains of his desk, the dark wood cracked down the middle where he had slammed his fist through it. Papers lay scattered like fallen soldiers, their ink smudged and torn. A half-melted candle dripped wax onto the floor, the flame still flickering defiantly despite everything.
Just like her.
Valtor turned away abruptly, as if physically distancing himself from the thought could banish it from his mind. It didn't.
His hands curled around the back of the nearest chair, the only one still standing, his fingers digging into the wood. He closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply, trying to force his thoughts into submission. But no matter how many times he tried to rationalize it, to push it away, one truth remained.
He had been affected, too. More than affected.
Bloom had gotten under his skin, past his defenses, straight into the very core of him. And worse, he wanted more.
The sweet taste of her still lingered on his lips, the warmth of her body against his like an imprint burned into his very being. He could still hear the way she had whispered his name, the breathless way she had challenged him, the confidence in her eyes when she finally understood what he had been trying to make her see.
And gods, that had been his undoing.
But it wasn't just him that had lost control.
His fire had, too.
The realization was like a slow, creeping burn in his mind, spreading through his thoughts with relentless clarity. He could still feel it - the remnants of something beyond his own power, something that had slipped from his grasp the moment he had touched her.
His fire had answered her call.
Not obeying him. Not bending to his will. But moving toward her, fusing with hers, drawn like a moth to an inferno.
His flames had intertwined with hers, wrapped around them in a searing embrace, responding to her like they had always belonged together. They had danced, merged, become something else entirely. Something neither of them had controlled.
And Bloom hadn't even noticed.
Valtor let out a sharp breath, his hands pressing against the ruined desk, his fingers curling into the scorched wood. A flicker of blue fire pulsed at his fingertips, wild and unsettled, like it, too, was trying to understand what had just happened.
This wasn't supposed to be possible.
His fire was his. Controlled, precise, an extension of his very being. It had never -never- acted without his command. It did not respond to emotion the way hers did. It did not rise and fall with feeling. It was pure, calculated destruction.
And yet, the moment his lips had met hers, his flames had broken free.
They had reached for her, fused with hers as though they had been waiting for the chance, as though they recognized something in her fire that even he had not. His fire had burned alongside hers, not in opposition, not in a clash of power, but in unity.
The way the flames had twisted and coiled together, seamless and perfect, still haunted him. The memory was burned into his mind, an undeniable truth that he could not ignore.
It hadn't been just her power raging in that moment. It had been both of them.
For the first time, he had felt something entirely foreign - a force neither of them controlled, something greater than either of them alone. And that terrified him more than he cared to admit.
Valtor's jaw clenched, his fingers dragging across the damaged desk as he forced himself to focus.
And she hadn't realized. She had been too lost in the moment, too wrapped up in the fire inside her, to notice that it wasn't just her Dragon Flame that had been burning between them.
And he was glad.
If Bloom had noticed, if she had even suspected the truth...
His fire flickered again, restless, and he clenched his fist, extinguishing the flames before they could betray any more of his thoughts.
This was dangerous.
He had set out to test her, to push her to the edge, to make her face her emotions and the power that stemmed from them. But he had never expected to find himself teetering on that same edge.
Never expected to lose control. Never expected to feel.
Valtor turned, his movements sharp, restless. The destruction around him was proof enough of his failure - proof that he had let something slip, something he could not afford to lose hold of.
This could not happen again. His fire had to be his own. His control had to be absolute.
And Bloom- she had to remain oblivious. Because if she ever realized that their flames could merge, that their power could become one...
The laughter of her friends swirled around her like distant echoes, their voices rising and falling in a steady rhythm, but Bloom barely heard a word. She sat curled up on the dorm's plush common room couch, her hands wrapped around a lukewarm cup of tea she hadn't taken a sip from in the last twenty minutes.
The room was warm, filled with the scent of vanilla candles and brewed tea, the fire in the hearth crackling softly. It should have felt safe, grounding. It should have felt normal.
But nothing felt normal.
Not after last night.
Not after what she had done.
She barely registered Stella's dramatic retelling of something that had happened in their potions class earlier that day. Musa was laughing, shaking her head. Flora was smiling in that gentle way of hers, and Tecna looked vaguely amused but unimpressed. A normal evening, just like any other.
Except that Bloom wasn't truly there.
Her mind was still back in that ruined office, still replaying everything in vivid, scorching detail.
Her fire.
The realization that had clicked into place like the final missing piece of a puzzle - how her magic wasn't just about control. It was about balance. About knowing her emotions, feeling them fully, but never letting them take the reins.
But that wasn't what had her stomach in knots.
That wasn't what had kept her awake long into the night, staring at her ceiling, heart pounding, body still thrumming with an energy she couldn't shake.
No, it was him.
Valen pressing her against the his chest, his lips against hers.
Valen whispering against her mouth, his voice thick with desire. "Tell me you're not feeling this, Bloom."
Her breath caught in her throat just thinking about it, her fingers tightening around the cup in her hands.
"You have no idea what you're doing to me."
Gods, what had she done?
Not just kissed him. No, it had been more than that.
She had felt something in that moment. A pull, a spark -no, a blaze- that went beyond just attraction. Beyond just fire and magic and temptation. It had felt like their very essence had merged, like their magic had responded to each other, had fused together in perfect sync.
That thought alone was insane. Her flames had burned, but it hadn't been just hers.
There had been something else, something unfamiliar yet achingly familiar at the same time. Like a song she had never heard before but somehow knew every lyric to.
And then, reality had come crashing down on her.
She had pushed away from him so fast she barely remembered how she'd even gotten out of that office. One second, she had been burning in his arms, and the next, she had fled like a coward, her heart slamming against her ribs.
And now, she was here. Sitting in the common room, surrounded by the people who knew her best, pretending that she wasn't coming apart at the seams.
And worst of all- Sky. She had a boyfriend. A good one.
A kind, noble, wonderful boyfriend who loved her, who had stood by her side through so much, even when things between them had felt... off.
It wasn't Sky's fault. He was everything she should want. Steady, safe, constant.
And yet, last night, she hadn't thought about him. Not once.
A sharp pang of guilt twisted inside her. What kind of person did that make her? What kind of girlfriend kissed someone else -let alone her own professor- and then sat here, silently drowning in the memory of it?
Bloom pressed her fingers to her temple, forcing herself to breathe. She could see it -feel it- like it was happening all over again. She needed to stop thinking about it.
Needed to stop feeling the ghost of Valen's hands on her waist.
Needed to stop remembering the way he had groaned against her lips, when he had lost control just as much as she had.
The heat of his body pressed against hers. The way his hands had tangled in her hair, his fingers firm, almost possessive. The sound of his voice, rough and wrecked, whispering words that had made something inside her snap.
Because if she thought about it too long, she might start to wonder what would have happened if she hadn't run away.
And she couldn't let herself wonder that. Ever.
But her body betrayed her.
Her skin still tingled, still ached with the phantom feel of him. The warmth of his breath against her ear. The way he had looked at her, like he had been just as wrecked as she was.
And gods, it wasn't just desire that terrified her. It was the truth she had felt deep in her bones, the truth she refused to acknowledge.
That what had happened between them had been real. That she hadn't just lost control - he had, too.
Bloom was unraveling.
Not just from the kiss itself, or the way her fire had responded to him, but from the terrifying realization that she had crossed a line she could never uncross.
And worse, she didn't regret it.
She should. She should be sick with regret, drowning in it.
But instead, all she could think about was how it had felt. How his lips had claimed hers, how her body had pressed into his, how she had wanted to be closer, to lose herself in the flames of something she couldn't even name.
It was reckless. It was wrong.
And yet, sitting there, surrounded by her friends, trying to be normal, all she wanted was to feel it again.
That thought alone made her stomach churn. Because what did that mean? What did it say about her? What the hell was she supposed to do now?
She had to face him.
The realization made her pulse stutter. She would see him again.
She would have to walk into his class, sit there like nothing had happened, meet his gaze as though she hadn't let him kiss her, hadn't kissed him back.
Would he look at her the same way? Would his voice still hold that sharp, knowing edge when he challenged her in front of the others?
She would have to be alone with him again.
The thought sent a shiver through her, one that had nothing to do with the warmth of the common room fire or the weight of the tea she still hadn't touched.
It was bad enough that she would have to sit through his class, pretending that everything was normal - pretending that she hadn't let herself burn for him.
But during the training sessions...
She swallowed hard.
There would be no distractions in those moments. No classmates. No friends laughing around her. No one else to act as a buffer between them.
Just her and Professor Valen.
Just the two of them, alone.
The last time they had trained together, she had been fighting for control - of her flames, of her emotions. And she had thought, foolishly, that he was simply testing her, pushing her to unlock the truth of her power.
Now, she knew better.
He had been testing her, yes. But he had been testing himself, too.
And he had failed. Just like she had.
What was she supposed to do when they were alone again? When he stood too close, when his voice dipped into that low, knowing murmur that made her pulse race?
Would he address what had happened? Would he pretend it never did?
She wasn't naive enough to believe he didn't want her. Not after the way he had kissed her, after the way he had groaned against her lips like he was losing himself in her just as much as she was in him.
But Valen was her professor. And she was his student.
And he was bound to be furious with himself.
Bloom squeezed her eyes shut, trying to push the thought away, but it only made the memory sharper - his hands gripping her waist, his breath against her lips, the way his fire had intertwined with hers, as if they had never been separate at all.
She needed to get a grip.
"Bloom?" She jerked at the sound of her name.
Stella was watching her, brows furrowed in concern. "You okay?"
Bloom forced a smile. "Yeah, I'm-" She cleared her throat, hoping her voice sounded steadier than she felt. "Just tired."
The excuse was weak, but Stella didn't push. None of them did.
And yet, she felt Flora's gentle gaze linger on her a second too long, as if sensing the storm raging inside her.
Bloom looked away.
Because if anyone could see through her, it was Flora. And right now, Bloom wasn't sure she could handle being seen.
She had to act normal. That was the only thing she could do.
She had to pretend nothing had happened.
Pretend she hadn't shattered the thin line between them with a single, desperate kiss.
Pretend that when she walked into his classroom tomorrow, she wouldn't still feel the imprint of his hands on her skin.
Bloom sat stiffly in her seat, hands clenched into fists beneath the desk as she forced herself to look anywhere but at Professor Valen.
His voice, deep and smooth like rolling thunder, filled the lecture hall, weaving through the air like a spell all on its own. Magiphilosophy had become her favorite class this year. She had always loved philosophy - asking questions, pushing theories, getting lost in discussions about magic and existence and the unknown.
And Valen made it fascinating.
The way he spoke, the way he challenged them, the way his words seemed to carry some deeper knowledge - she could listen to him for hours, could fall headfirst into every debate, every question, every idea.
Usually.
But not today.
Today, she couldn't focus.
Today, she couldn't even look at him.
Her pulse thundered in her ears as she stared at her open notebook, her pen held motionless between her fingers. She wasn't even pretending to take notes, wasn't even trying to look engaged. And what was worse - she had yet to raise her hand.
It was unnatural.
For weeks now, she had been the first to shoot her hand into the air whenever he introduced a new concept. She had challenged his explanations, debated his theories, argued just for the sake of pushing further.
But today, her hand remained frozen in her lap.
And she knew he noticed.
She could feel it.
That same pull, that same awareness that she had tried desperately to ignore since last night.
Valen continued to lecture as though nothing had happened, his voice smooth and unwavering, but Bloom knew better. She felt it - felt his gaze flicker toward her more than once, felt the question hanging in the space between them.
She didn't know how to be normal around him anymore.
Because every time she so much as looked in his direction, her mind betrayed her - flashing back to the way he had whispered her name like it meant something more.
She squeezed her eyes shut for half a second, her breath unsteady. She needed to stop thinking about it. Needed to stop feeling it.
But how could she, when the moment had seared itself into her like a brand? The memory wasn't fading. It was only growing stronger, more vivid, more unbearable.
She bit her lip hard, grounding herself in the sting of pain, forcing herself to focus on the steady rhythm of his voice instead.
"Emotion is the root of power," Valen was saying, his hands clasped neatly behind his back. His presence alone was magnetic - intense without being overbearing, confident without being forceful."
"Magic is not some separate, detached force to be tamed through willpower alone," he continued, his sharp gaze sweeping across the lecture hall. "It is not a neutral energy that exists outside of us, waiting to be harnessed." His voice dipped lower, softer. "No. Magic is alive, and it is deeply, inextricably tied to who we are. To what we feel."
Was he doing this on purpose? Bloom's stomach twisted violently.
Surely he wasn't. Surely this wasn't some cruel joke, wasn't some veiled message meant for her alone. And yet, every word felt like it was burrowing straight under her skin, twisting inside her chest.
Her throat tightened, and she forced her eyes onto the blank page of her notebook, onto the untaken notes, the empty lines where her words should be.
"The greatest mages in history," Valen continued, "were not those who shut out their emotions, but those who learned to harness them, to wield them like a blade, rather than letting them run wild like an uncontrollable fire."
Her fingers clenched around her pen, and for a moment, she swore she could still feel it - the heat of his magic against hers, the way her fire had intertwined with his magic, the way it had danced together.
She exhaled sharply, gripping the edge of her desk like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.
She couldn't do this. She wasn't ready for this. Not after last night.
Valen moved to the large enchanted chalkboard behind him, where a magical diagram was already forming at his command. Arcs of energy twisted across the surface, words and symbols forming as though drawn by invisible hands.
"Emotion fuels magic, but it does not define it." His voice remained smooth, but Bloom thought she caught the faintest shift in it, like a hidden current beneath calm waters. "Emotion is a spark, a raw force. But raw power, without direction, is destruction."
She felt the words like an accusation.
Like a truth she had already learned firsthand.
Fire without control burned everything in its wake.
And last night, she had burned.
Not in destruction, but in something just as dangerous.
Her breath came a little too shallow, a little too fast. She pressed her palms against the desk, willing herself to focus, to listen, to not feel.
Because the way he spoke, it was too much. The way his words wove themselves around the room, seeping into the minds of every student, into her - it felt like magic of its own.
"The discipline of magiphilosophy," Valen continued, his pacing slow, measured, "is not just about understanding magic as an energy, but as a relationship. It is the bridge between want and power, between instinct and control. Every spell you cast, every surge of magic you unleash - it is a dialogue. A conversation between yourself and the very forces that make up this universe."
A faint murmur of understanding rippled through the class. Some were taking notes furiously, others sitting back with thoughtful expressions.
Bloom just stared at her blank notebook, her knuckles white around her pen.
A dialogue.
A conversation.
But last night, she hadn't spoken to her magic.
She had felt it.
Was he thinking about it now, as he spoke of control, of emotion, of balance?
"True mastery of magic," Valen said, his voice soft, "comes not from suppressing what you feel, but from knowing it. Accepting it. And using it, without letting it use you."
His words hung heavy in the air.
A pause.
A heartbeat.
And then, his gaze flickered across the room.
For the first time since the lecture began, Bloom risked looking up.
And the moment her eyes met his, she knew.
Knew that he was thinking about it.
Knew that he felt it, too.
A slow, unbearable second stretched between them.
Her pulse pounded against her ribs, heat creeping up her neck, her breath shallow.
And then, just as quickly, she looked away.
Back to her empty notes.
Back to her clenched hands.
Back to the weight in her chest.
The moment passed, but it didn't dissolve. It lingered, thick and suffocating.
She needed to get out of here.
The second class was dismissed, Bloom was gone.
She shot up from her seat so fast she nearly knocked over her chair, stuffing her notebook into her bag with frantic, clumsy fingers. She didn't wait to see if he was watching. Didn't dare glance in his direction.
She just bolted.
She was the first out the door, weaving through the hallway like her life depended on it, her heart hammering, her breath uneven.
She knew she was being a coward.
Knew that running away wouldn't fix anything.
But what else was she supposed to do?
She wasn't ready to face him.
Wasn't ready for whatever expression he might wear, wasn't ready for whatever words he might say - whether they were sharp and cutting, or worse, soft and filled with something she wasn't sure she could handle.
"Bloom." Her name, spoken in that voice, sent a shiver straight through her.
She heard him behind her.
Felt him.
Too close, too dangerous, too much.
He was calling for her. Probably asking her to stay.
But she didn't stop.
Didn't turn around.
Didn't give him the chance.
Instead, she walked faster, pretending she hadn't heard him at all.
And by the time he could reach for her, she was already gone.