Sylas Vermund was not smart.
He had smart moments. Occasionally. When the stars aligned and his blood sugar was balanced.
But now? His secret society thought he was a genius.
And that was dangerous.
Because if there was one thing worse than being underestimated, it was being overestimated by people with magical resources and slightly unhinged ambitions.
"So, Jester," said the masked girl—codename Nightshade—as she paced in front of a floating chalkboard. "How would you sabotage the Academy without leaving evidence?"
Sylas, mid-bite of a stolen cinnamon roll, paused. "…Is this a hypothetical?"
"Of course," she said. "Mostly."
"Right. Okay. Hypothetically, I'd start by giving every noble student magical lice."
Someone gasped. Another member clapped.
"I like him," whispered the one called Whisper.
Sylas blinked. "Wait, are we really considering this?"
Tall, stoic Obsidian, who hadn't spoken since their first meeting, muttered, "Too messy. We prefer clean psychological warfare."
"Define 'clean,'" Sylas said. "Because someone here definitely carries poisons recreationally."
Nightshade smiled. "Correct. That would be me."
"…Neat."
He still had no idea what Arcanum Obscura actually wanted.
Some of them seemed to be political exiles. Others were ambitious spellcrafters testing forbidden theories. At least one (Whisper) might've just joined for the drama.
And Sylas?
He was their new Wildcard.
It was a cool title until he realized it meant: "Please be unpredictable on command."
They threw problems at him—ethical dilemmas, puzzles, magical riddles—and waited for his "brilliant solutions."
He made stuff up. Constantly. And they ate it up like candy.
Example:
Nightshade: "How would you escape the Tower of Enigma?"
Sylas: "Pretend to be an intern and walk out during lunch."
Nightshade: "…Genius."
Sylas (internally): "Help."
Outside the club, life got… suspiciously normal.
Caelan avoided him now, probably nursing his ego in a bath of privilege and hair serum.
Professor Marrin even gave Sylas a nod of approval during spell theory class—though she followed it up with, "Stop improvising glyphs unless you want to explode again."
Eren, meanwhile, watched Sylas with increasing concern.
"You're glowing," he said one night.
"It's confidence," Sylas replied.
"It's probably hex residue."
"Same thing."
"No. No, it's not."
Then came the Letter.
Not from the cult. Not from the Academy.
From the Headmaster himself.
An invitation to a private meeting.
Sylas stared at it for a long time, then licked it, just in case it was poisoned.
It wasn't.
(Unless the poison was slow-acting. Which… fair.)
He dressed in his least suspicious outfit (black, slightly wrinkled, probably cursed) and made his way to the tallest spire in the Academy: the Headmaster's tower.
A single staircase. No guards. No warning.
Inside, everything was silent.
Until the Headmaster—an old man with too many rings and not enough eyebrows—turned and said, "Sit."
Sylas sat.
The old man poured tea.
Which, honestly, made Sylas more nervous.
"I've heard rumors," the Headmaster said. "About your… rise."
Sylas cleared his throat. "Look, if this is about the cinnamon rolls, I returned—"
"Not the pastries, Mr. Vermund."
"Right. Obviously."
"You're… charmingly unstable."
"Thanks?"
"But clever."
"Still confused if this is praise or a death sentence."
The Headmaster sipped his tea. "There are factions here. Many. Some visible. Some not. You've attracted attention from both."
Sylas tried not to visibly panic. "That's because I sparkle with trauma."
The Headmaster didn't laugh. Not even a twitch.
"Be careful," he said. "There are worse things than being underestimated. And far worse things than being overestimated."
He stood.
Meeting over.
Sylas left with trembling hands and zero idea what just happened.
Back in the dorm, Eren was playing cards with himself.
"How'd it go?"
"I was offered tea and vague threats."
"So… standard noble conversation?"
"Exactly."
Sylas flopped onto his bed. "Also, I think I'm officially on someone's watch list."
"Whose?"
"Everyone's."
Eren paused. "Sylas?"
"Yeah?"
"Whatever happens next… I didn't see it."
"Thanks."
The "next" thing was a heist.
Of course it was.
Arcanum Obscura summoned him again, this time to an old observatory on the far edge of campus. It was storming. Naturally.
Nightshade looked way too excited.
"We're going to steal something," she said, eyes glowing behind her mask.
Sylas squinted. "You're aware that I can barely pick a lock, right?"
"We don't need a thief. We need a distraction."
"…Oh."
Oh no.
The plan was simple:
Break into the Department of Magical Theory.
Steal a sealed artifact from the forbidden archives.
Leave no trace.
Sylas's role? Wander into the hallway during the heist, loudly babble nonsense, and draw the guards' attention.
Easy.
Terrible.
But easy.
He rehearsed in his dorm mirror.
"Help! There's a boggart in my sock drawer!"
Or: "Why is the ceiling bleeding?!"
Or just scream "FIRE" in nine different languages.
He had options.
But when the night came, and the Obscura slipped into the shadows, and he took his place outside the archive…
The guards weren't there.
Which meant—
"Oh no."
An alarm rang.
The door blew open.
And Sylas, standing right outside, holding a sandwich (don't ask), looked extremely guilty.
He did the only logical thing.
Dropped the sandwich and yelled, "IT WASN'T ME!"
Then ran.
Two hours later, covered in soot and guilt, he arrived at the Arcanum Obscura's hideout.
They were laughing.
"We saw your sprint," said Whisper. "Impressive form."
"I almost died," Sylas hissed. "That hallway exploded."
"You were never in danger," said Nightshade.
"You didn't tell me that!"
"Would you have run the same way if you knew?"
"…Maybe not."
"Exactly."
Sylas sat on a crate, breathing hard.
"So… what'd we steal?"
Obsidian handed him a box.
Inside: a crystal vial, humming with power.
"What is it?" Sylas asked.
Nightshade smiled.
"A secret."
Of course.
Back in bed, Sylas stared at the ceiling.
He wasn't smart enough for this.
He wasn't brave.
He wasn't even particul
arly magical.
But he was stubborn. And sarcastic. And way too deep in this mess now.
If the world wanted a villain?
Fine.
He'd give them one.
But on his own chaotic, snack-fueled terms.