The Lion Of Sirius

Of Ranks and Roomates

Sani's gaze lingered on Headmaster Drācor, his golden eyes narrowing with quiet curiosity. With a practiced flick of his fingers, he slicked his dreads back, the crimson-tipped strands catching the soft candlelight of the office.

Drācor chuckled lightly, folding his hands behind his back. "I've lived more years than most can count, witnessed the rise and fall of kings, gods, and things far older than either. But you, my friend..." He paused, eyes twinkling. "You're a truly exceptional discovery."

Sani glanced around the room as if looking for something to anchor him. The space was a paradox—modern technology hidden behind gothic elegance. Mahogany floors soaked up the shadows of flickering wall sconces. The air carried the faint scent of burning incense and leather-bound history. Brass-studded chairs creaked subtly with every shift, and a towering bookcase loomed in the corner like a silent sentinel.

His fingers absentmindedly traced the armrest's smooth edge, until a particular spine caught his eye:
"The Mythological Occurrences of the Holy War."

Something about it gnawed at the edge of memory—but the weight of the day pressed in too heavily for him to follow the thread.

"Anyway," Sani said, rising to his feet with deliberate ease. "It's getting late, Headmaster Drācor."

Drācor sighed, more to himself than anyone else. "He doesn't even realize..." he muttered, almost wistfully. Then, louder, "Yes, yes. Ironically, you were meant to meet me before the school day ended, but your brief and... entertaining scuffle with Maria took priority."

He stepped around the desk and straightened his emerald green suit. The fabric shimmered faintly under the low light, and his matching shoes made no sound against the wood as he gestured toward the door.

"Let's get you to your quarters. The day's nearly done."

⸻

The Academy Halls

The walk through the Academy's corridor felt eternal.

Headmaster Drācor hummed a slow, cryptic tune—almost like a hymn or a lullaby—as if they weren't walking past relics of long-dead wars and stained glass depictions of angelic massacres. Every few steps, he would pause, eyes flitting over aged suits of armor, some clearly restored, others left tarnished as grim reminders.

Sani remained quiet, gaze flickering between painted battlefields and long-forgotten saints and devils. He couldn't tell if the paintings were memories or prophecies. Too much of what he'd seen lately blurred the line between the two.

As they passed a statue of a cloaked warrior, his mind wandered to his recent fight with Maria El Dagu.

It wasn't the first time.

Time and time again, he'd fought to the brink of death—yet, when the killing blow should have come, he would black out. A moment of emptiness. Then consciousness returned, and the enemy was gone. Defeated. Sometimes, erased.

The first time it happened, it was with a small pack of demons weeks ago. He had shouted at them to "die already," exhausted, desperate... and they had. Without resistance. Without mercy.

Was that his power? Manifesting words into reality? Or was something darker at play?

⸻

A sharp thud shook him from thought. He had walked straight into Drācor's back.

"Could've warned me you were stopping," Sani muttered.

Drācor smirked. "We've arrived."

The dorm room door stood tall and ornate—its dark wood carved with swirling sigils of celestial runes and battle crests. Drācor pressed a palm to its center. The sigils flickered faintly.