CHAPTER 125: FLIPPED

The scent of ink and aging parchment filled the air like a slow, familiar fog, wrapping around Lor as he wandered the aisles of the town’s library with quiet purpose.

His hazel eyes darted over the spines of heavy tomes, fingers trailing along dusty edges, the midnight-dark oak shelves looming tall around him, carved with intricate runes that whispered of centuries past.

The stack under his arm was heavy—Witchfire and Forbidden Flame, The Lost Sisterhood: A History of Banished Magicks, The Lustroot Lineage: Witchblood Through the Veins—titles about witches, their bloodlines, forbidden rituals, ancient betrayals.

He wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking for.

Truth? Reassurance? Warnings? His mind churned with questions about Kiara, her glowing eyes, her witch blood, and the bond that tethered them.

He turned toward one of the side alcoves, candlelit and quiet, the flickering light casting long shadows across the stone floor—and paused.

At the far end, crammed behind a leaning pile of books, sat a familiar mop of blonde hair done up in twin tails, glinting like spun gold in the candlelight.

A petite frame leaned forward, nose buried in a page, lips moving silently as she read, her blue eyes sharp with focus.

Sophia.

She’d tormented him for months—snide remarks, mock applause, the occasional exaggerated sigh whenever he answered a question wrong.

She had a talent for cutting people down with a single glance or a muttered insult, and Lor had been one of her favorite targets.

She rarely missed a chance to call him a loser or a dimwit, whether she was breezing past him in the corridor or he’d somehow ended up in the spotlight during class.

She always made sure everyone heard it too, her voice laced with amusement, like it was all some harmless joke.

But lately, things had shifted.

She’d fallen from grace—bad test scores, inconsistent spellwork, assignments returned with more red ink than ink of her own.

Now she was fighting to climb her way out of the academic basement of Class D, where all the underperformers were quietly sorted and largely forgotten.

And what probably stung the most wasn’t just her own decline, but the sudden, steady rise of the very people she used to sneer at—Nellie, Viora, Myra... and himself.

The ones she’d once dismissed as hopeless were now surpassing her, easily.

The smirk that had once come so easily—so casually cruel—was gone.

In its place was something tighter, tenser.

A hard line of focus that looked more like desperation than confidence.

Lor said nothing, his hazel eyes lingering a moment before he walked past her table, nodding politely when her blue eyes flicked up, catching his briefly.

He settled quietly at the next table over, sliding into a chair, the wood creaking softly under his weight.

He opened his books, the scent of old leather and ink grounding him, but his gaze kept drifting—once, twice—back to Sophia.

Her lips were pursed in a tight, focused line, her fingers clutching her quill like a sword, her petite frame hunched slightly, her small breasts rising with quick, focused breaths under her uniform.

Another figure appeared, nearly tripping over her own boots—a redhead with curls and freckles bursting across her cheeks like sunspots, her curvy figure barely contained by her disheveled uniform.

Lia.

She dumped a stack of books on spell theory and equations onto Sophia’s pile, the thud echoing in the quiet alcove.

"Did I overdo it?" she whispered, her voice bright but nervous, her green eyes wide as she adjusted her skirt, her plush thighs shifting.

"You brought four copies of the same book," Sophia snapped back under her breath, her blue eyes narrowing. "Just sit down and read."

Lia flopped into the seat beside her, grumbling, her curls bouncing as she leaned forward.

"You’re the one who said we had to score better this year. I just want to make sure we’re not humiliated again."

Lor smirked softly into his pages, his hazel eyes glinting with amusement.

So that’s what this was—Interclass Academic Tournament prep.

Good for them, he thought, his mind drifting back to Nellie’s similar desperation, his cock twitching faintly at the memory of her thick thighs and trembling moans.

He turned his attention back to the books on witches, flipping through the brittle pages.

"Witch: A woman of dangerous lust, often imbued with stolen magic, feeding on the vitality of men."

"Witches should not be reasoned with, but cleansed with fire."

Each passage sounded more like holy panic than reason, paragraph after paragraph painting witches as seductresses, manipulators, monsters cloaked in flesh.

Lor’s brow furrowed, his fingers pausing on the page, his heart caught between the words and the memory of Kiara—her icy blue eyes, her full breasts pressed against him, her voice whispering devotion and vengeance in equal measure.

But Kiara didn’t feel like that.

Or... did she?

He frowned, leaning back, fingers drumming on the page, the candlelight flickering across his face.

What if she was manipulating him?

What if the sex, the acceptance, the encouragement to pursue others—it was all part of her witch magic?

What if her story about her mother’s burning and the royal families’ betrayal was a crafted lie to keep him bound, open, defenseless?

What if he wasn’t her partner, but her prey?

His hazel eyes stared down at the book, at the way the ink bled through thin parchment, his heart caught between two truths—one whispered with firelit kisses and glowing eyes, the other etched by men long dead and terrified.

Then—

A movement.

A soft sound from the other table, a rustle of pages.

Lor looked up.

Sophia was staring at him, her cheeks faintly red, one blonde twin tail slipping over her shoulder, her blue eyes sharp with what was either irritation or uncertainty.

Her fingers tapped the side of her book nervously, her small breasts rising with a quick breath under her uniform.

A nod.

Lor blinked, his hazel eyes narrowing slightly. "...What?"

She cleared her throat, not looking directly at him, her voice low but steady. "Hey... Lor."

He tilted his head, still caught in the web of doubts about Kiara. "Yeah?"

She hesitated—then narrowed her eyes like it was painful to speak, her cheeks flushing deeper.

"...Is the Guiding Light real?"