"Deal," Malakor barked, snatching the digital stylus and signing the contract Sinthia smilingly slid toward him.

  As soon as the signature was verified and the seal of House Aethelgard shimmered on the document, Tyren began to tremble even more. He stared at his account on the datapad, where the advance payment and the confirmation of the future annuity had just landed.

  "Director... I... I've never seen so many zeros in my life," the boy whispered, tears welling in his eyes.

  Anaris leaned down to him, her face—hard as diamond only moments ago—softening into an expression of absolute pride. She ignored Malakor, who was gathering his things, and devoted all her attention to the student.

  "This is just the beginning, Tyren," she said softly, embracing him. "You are brilliant. And the Academy takes care of its own. Now go. Buy your mother something nice. Maybe a new house."

  "Thank you... thank you all," Tyren stammered. He bowed deeply to Lyrahel—who responded with a gentle, encouraging nod, completely breaking protocol—and backed out of the room, clutching the datapad to his chest like a treasure.

  Anaris waited. She watched the heavy crystalline doors close behind the student. She waited until the soft hiss of the hermetic seal sounded, signaling that the room was once again soundproof and cut off from the world.

  Malakor rose from the chair. "So, now that the charity work is done, Director, I will be going and—"

  "Sit."

  Anaris didn't raise her voice. She didn't shout. She said it with the tone used to command a disobedient beast.

  Malakor froze mid-motion. He looked at her, confused by the sudden shift in atmosphere. The student was gone. The theater was supposed to be over.

  "Excuse me?" he asked, offended.

  "I said sit, Malakor," Anaris repeated, slowly walking around the desk. Her eyes, which had warmed with kindness for Tyren a moment ago, were now two wells of liquid nitrogen. "The contract is signed, the deal is closed. Now we will talk about what just happened. Without witnesses. Just us and your conscience."

  Malakor hesitated, looked at the door, then at Lyrahel—who stood motionless like a statue of vengeance—and slowly sat back down. Suddenly, the office felt very small, and the three women very dangerous.

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  "This isn't the first time I've had to throw House representatives off my campus," Anaris began quietly, leaning her palms on the desk and looming over him. "You tried to bypass the Patent Office. You tried to corner a child who doesn't know how to defend himself. You wanted to rob him of his future."

  "It was a standard business offer..." Malakor started to defend himself.

  "It was theft!" Anaris hissed, her voice cracking through the room like a whip. "And you know it. I stayed silent in front of Tyren because I don't want him to see the filth that rules the politics of his world. I want him to keep the illusion that the Houses are honorable. But we know better."

  She pointed a finger at him. "Listen to me closely. If you have an interest in a project, you come to me. You present an offer. You go through the approval process. If I ever find you bypassing my authority in the hallways with disadvantageous contracts again, I will revoke House Aethelgard’s access to the Academy. Permanently. No interns. No research. No patents. You will build with mud while the rest fly to the stars. Do we understand each other?"

  Malakor opened his mouth, but Lyrahel stepped forward.

  "And just so we understand each other politically, Lord," Lyrahel added coldly. "Your attempt to 'rob' the Academy isn't just an insult to the Director. It is an attack on the strategic interests of the race. Every patent you try to hoard for yourself through back-alley deals is a betrayal of progress."

  Her gaze was crushing. "The Royal Family will not tolerate Houses that prioritize their profit over the survival of the race. Respect the hierarchy, Malakor. Anaris protects the students. I protect the Law. Do not try to bypass either of us."

  Sinthia, who had been sitting on the desk peeling her apple, hopped down. She walked right up to Malakor and dusted a non-existent speck of lint from his shoulder.

  "And be grateful we waited until the boy left," she whispered in his ear, sweetly but with chilling intent. "Because if we had made a fool of you in front of a first-year student, your authority in the city would have collapsed within the hour. We saved face for you, Malakor. Now get out, and try not to give us a reason to smash that face next time."

  Malakor swallowed hard, his throat tight. He grabbed his copy of the contract with a trembling hand, the arrogance stripped away like old paint.

  "I recognize the... oversight," he managed to choke out, unable to meet Anaris’s frozen gaze. "House Aethelgard acknowledges your jurisdiction. It will not happen again."

  "It won't," Anaris said, her voice dropping to a whisper that carried more threat than a shout. "Because next time, I won't be using words. Get out."

  Malakor vanished so quickly the door barely had time to hiss shut behind him.

  Silence reigned in the office, broken only by Anaris’s deep exhale. She poured herself a glass of water, her hands trembling slightly—not from fear, but from suppressed rage.

  "You did well to send the boy away," Lyrahel said, her formal posture finally relaxing. "Malakor is a parasite, but he is a High Lord. If we had humiliated him publicly, he would have declared a silent war on us. This way... this way, he will be afraid."

  "That was the point," Anaris nodded. "Students need to see that the system works. And Malakor needs to see that the system has teeth."

  "And I added a small clause about an 'administrative fee' for our nerves to the contract," Sinthia chimed in, waving the signed document.

  Anaris laughed and embraced both sisters. "To Tyren. And to the fact that dirty laundry is best washed at home."