It was supposed to be a quiet lunch.
Sylas had carefully picked the least crowded corner of the cafeteria, away from high-traffic zones, surrounded by second-years too tired to care about gossip or duels. He was two bites into something that may or may not have once been poultry when a shadow fell over his tray.
He glanced up.
Three students stood there, all dressed in sharp Academy uniforms, looking like they belonged in some propaganda poster about discipline and excellence. One of them wore a badge with a crimson triangle—House Solmere. The others flanked him like well-groomed bodyguards.
"Vermund," said the leader, his tone clipped. "I heard you've been… useful."
Sylas slowly set down his fork. "That's a strong word. I prefer survivor."
"No need to play coy." The student folded his arms. "You leaked Professor Aelric's test scheme to Class B, didn't you?"
"I prefer the term 'redistributed academic expectations.'"
"Regardless," the student said, clearly not amused, "some are starting to talk. About how you manage to avoid conflict. About how you walk away from situations most people crawl out of."
That… was not the worst thing to be known for.
"So," Sylas said cautiously, "you're here to… congratulate me?"
"We want you to mediate."
Sylas blinked. "Sorry, what?"
"There's been an increase in factional conflict," the Solmere heir said. "Mostly among first and second-years. We suspect certain students are escalating tensions intentionally. You, with your recent… unconventional methods, might de-escalate without raising alarms.
"I'm not a diplomat," Sylas said. "I'm barely a functioning person."
"Which is why you're perfect. No one takes you seriously."
There it was. The backhanded compliment.
Sylas glanced at his tray, then back at the trio. "What's in it for me?"
"You get our protection," the heir said simply. "And access to the Solmere network. That's not something we offer lightly."
Protection. Influence. Potential allies. In a place like Aetherhold, that was as good as having a loaded wand.
Still…
"I want meal priority," Sylas said.
The trio exchanged looks.
"No more of this rehydrated cardboard. I want access to the professors' kitchen. You get me food that's not trying to kill me, and I'll babysit your angry teenagers."
The Solmere heir stared at him, then—slowly—nodded.
"Done."
A few hours later, Sylas found himself in the middle of a negotiation between two rival dormitories, one accusing the other of spell tampering during a mock duel.
He didn't use magic.
He didn't need to.
Just a few dry comments, some exaggerated shrugs, and one very dramatic sneeze that caused someone's potion to spill over themselves.
By the end of it, neither side wanted to deal with him again—and that, in Sylas's book, was a flawless victory.
Back in his room that night, Sylas collapsed onto the bed, arms splayed.
"From public nuisance to unofficial peacekeeper," he muttered. "Is this what character growth feels like? Or am I just collecting weirder problems?"
"Either way," he yawned, "I'm still alive. And that's what counts."
Then the door creaked open.
Not knocked. Not kicked. Just… slowly opened.
Sylas sat up immediately.
It was his roommate. Stellan. The quiet one.
Except now, his eyes were glowing faintly. And in his hand was a scroll sealed with something old and dangerous.
Stellan didn't speak. He just walked over, set the scroll on the desk, and left.
Sylas stared at the scroll like it might bite him.
"…Yep," he muttered. "Definitely collecting weirder problems."