Chapter Text
The wrought iron gates of the Korean Arcane Academy groaned open like they resented being disturbed so late in the afternoon. Golden light from the setting sun spilled across the marble path, catching on floating lanterns that bobbed lazily above the grounds as if they had nowhere better to be. Jeongguk stepped through with his worn leather trunk floating behind him, one scarred hand clenched around the strap of his satchel. The air tasted different here—thicker, sweeter, humming with layered spells woven into the very stones. It pressed against his skin like too many eyes watching at once.
He kept his chin high, jaw tight. The black cloak of a minor house hung from his shoulders, its once-vibrant silver threading now dull and frayed at the hems. Jeon. That was all that remained of his family name after the collapse. No one here needed to know the rest.
A tall professor in deep indigo robes waited at the top of the wide entrance stairs, flanked by two assistants whose badges marked them as senior enchanters. The head professor—Professor Min, according to the welcome scroll Jeongguk had barely skimmed—had a kind face that immediately set him on edge. Kindness was usually a trap.
“Jeon Jeongguk,” the man said warmly, consulting a floating parchment. “Fifth-year transfer. We’re glad to have you. The Sorting Ritual will help place you in the right residential tower and assign your initial mentors. It’s painless, I promise. Just a simple resonance with the academy’s founding crystals.”
Jeongguk stopped three steps below them. The trunk settled gently beside him.
“I’m not doing it.”
A ripple of surprise moved through the small group of staff gathered near the doors. A few late-arriving students paused on the path, curious.
Professor Min blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“I said I’m not doing the Sorting Ritual.” Jeongguk’s voice came out flat, edged with the same defensive bite he’d perfected over the last two years. “My magic doesn’t need sorting. I’ve managed fine without it.”
The professor’s assistant, a woman with sharp cheekbones and a floating quill already scribbling notes, leaned in. “It’s mandatory for all transfers, especially those from… less stable backgrounds. For your safety and the academy’s.”
Safety. The word almost made him laugh. His fingers twitched at his side, and a faint gust of wind stirred the fallen leaves at his feet before he clamped it down.
“I’ll take whatever room you give me. I don’t need crystals deciding where I belong.”
Professor Min studied him for a long moment, eyes gentle but assessing. Around them, the academy’s magic pulsed steadily—ancient, balanced, layered like centuries of careful hands weaving threads together. It made Jeongguk’s own power feel raw and jagged by comparison, like a wild river next to a tended garden stream.
“Very well,” the professor said at last, though his tone suggested this conversation wasn’t over. “We’ll assign you temporary quarters in the Eastern Spire for now. But I expect you to reconsider, Mr. Jeon. The academy thrives on harmony. Wild magic unchecked tends to… draw attention.”
Jeongguk gave a short nod, already turning away. He felt their stares on his back as he climbed the remaining steps and passed through the grand oak doors carved with protective runes that shimmered faintly at his approach.
Wild. He’d heard that one before.
Inside, the entrance hall stretched upward for what felt like miles, staircases spiraling in impossible directions, floating platforms carrying students between floors. The air smelled of old books, fresh rain, and the faint ozone of recent spellwork. Portraits of past headmasters watched him with varying degrees of disapproval.
He was almost to the corridor leading toward the residential towers when it happened.
A soft weight landed on his shoulder. Small, warm, trembling slightly. Black fur brushed his neck, and two long ears flicked against his jaw.
Jeongguk froze.
Not here. Not now.
He reached up slowly, fingers sinking into the rabbit’s soft fur. His familiar—his secret, his only real companion these past months—had materialized without warning, drawn out by the sheer density of magic in the hall. The little creature’s nose twitched rapidly, dark eyes wide as it took in the swirling energies around them.
“Go back,” Jeongguk whispered harshly under his breath, trying to nudge it toward the shadows of his cloak. “Now.”
But the rabbit only pressed closer for a second, then vanished in a puff of dark sparks, retreating to whatever pocket of space it lived in when it didn’t want to be seen. Jeongguk’s chest tightened. He glanced around quickly. A few students had noticed—whispers already starting.
“Did you see that? A black rabbit—”
“—transfer student—”
He kept walking, faster now, boots echoing on the polished stone.
In the seventh-year lounge overlooking the main courtyard, six bonded mages felt the shift at the same time.
Namjoon looked up from the ancient tome floating in front of him, glasses slipping down his nose. “Did you feel that?”
Seokjin paused mid-stir of the tea he was enchanting to taste like summer peaches. His eyes narrowed. “Raw. Unstable. Like someone dropped a thunderstorm into the entrance hall.”
Yoongi, sprawled on the wide velvet couch with his head in Jimin’s lap, cracked one eye open. “Elemental surge. Wind, mostly. Mixed with something earthy. Familiar?”
Hoseok stood by the tall windows, arms crossed, watching the last of the new arrivals trickle in. His usual bright energy flickered with curiosity. “Not just any familiar. Whatever that was, it felt… scared. Skittish.”
Jimin’s fingers paused in Yoongi’s hair. He sat up a little straighter, the elegant line of his shoulders tensing. “It called to us. Did you notice? Like it was looking for warmth.”
Taehyung, who had been doodling glowing runes in the air that turned into tiny sparkling otters, grinned slowly. “A stray. Interesting.”
They weren’t a loud group, not usually. Their bond had settled years ago into something deep and quiet and fiercely protective. Seven years together through trials, losses, and countless nights of shared magic had woven their signatures into something greater than the sum of its parts. But this new pulse—sharp, powerful, and edged with defiance—had cut straight through their calm like a misplaced blade.
Namjoon closed his book with a soft snap. “The transfer from the fallen minor house. Jeon Jeongguk. I saw the file this morning. Refused the Sorting already, apparently.”
Seokjin hummed, setting down his teacup. “Proud one, then. Or terrified. Sometimes it’s the same thing.”
Hoseok turned from the window, a small smile playing on his lips despite the concern in his eyes. “He’s going to be a handful.”
Jimin leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Good. We could use someone who shakes things up.”
Yoongi grunted, already closing his eyes again, but his fingers tapped a restless rhythm against Jimin’s thigh. “As long as he doesn’t blow up the tower. I like my naps quiet.”
Taehyung laughed softly, the sound warm and rolling. “Too late. I think the whole academy just felt him arrive.”
Outside, the floating lanterns flickered brighter for a moment, reacting to the unsettled magic still lingering in the air. In his newly assigned room in the Eastern Spire—a modest circular chamber with a single tall window overlooking the Forbidden Forest—Jeongguk dropped his trunk and sank onto the edge of the bed.
His hands were shaking. He pressed them flat against his thighs.
The black rabbit appeared again, this time on the windowsill. It watched him with those too-knowing eyes, ears drooping slightly.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Jeongguk muttered. “I’m not here to make friends. We keep our head down, finish the year, and get out. No covens. No bonds. No pity.”
The rabbit thumped one back foot once, then hopped closer, pressing its small body against his side. For a moment, Jeongguk let himself rest a hand on its back, feeling the rapid heartbeat beneath the fur.
Down in the courtyard, a group of students passed by, their voices carrying up on the evening breeze.
“—heard he’s the one they’re calling the Wild Stray already. Refused Sorting like he thinks he’s better than the academy itself.”
Laughter followed.
Jeongguk’s jaw clenched. He stood up abruptly, crossing to the window and yanking the heavy curtains shut. The rabbit vanished once more.
Let them talk. Let the famous bonded coven in their perfect tower notice his messy power and whisper about it. He’d survived worse than gossip and curious stares.
He was Jeon Jeongguk. Alone. Unsortable. And he planned to stay that way.
Even if the academy’s magic already felt like it was reaching for him, warm and insistent, like hands offering something he no longer believed existed.
𝓼𝓳
The Great Hall of the Korean Arcane Academy shimmered under a ceiling charmed to mimic the early autumn sky—soft blues bleeding into gold where the sun would soon crest the enchanted horizon. Thousands of floating lanterns drifted in slow spirals, their warm light catching on the deep crimson and silver banners of the seven major houses. Students filled the long oak tables arranged in a wide crescent around the central dais, voices buzzing with excitement and the occasional spark of accidental magic. First-years clutched their new robes nervously; upper years traded summer stories while levitating pastries from the breakfast platters that refilled themselves endlessly.
Jeongguk sat alone at the very end of the Eastern Spire table, shoulders hunched under his faded black cloak. The bench felt too smooth, the air too thick with layered spells. He hadn’t touched the food in front of him. Every time someone glanced his way—which happened far too often—he felt it like a pinprick against his skin. The nickname had already spread: Wild Stray. He could hear the whispers slithering between tables like minor familiars.
He kept his eyes fixed on the grain of the wood in front of him, jaw locked. Just get through this stupid ceremony. Sit still. Don’t react. His fingers curled around the edge of the bench, nails digging in. The magic in this place kept tugging at him, warm and curious, like invisible hands trying to smooth down his edges. It made his own power churn restlessly in his chest—wind and earth and something sharper that he refused to name.
Up on the dais, Headmaster Choi cleared his throat, the sound amplified by gentle wind runes that carried his voice to every corner of the hall. He was a tall man with silver-threaded hair and robes embroidered with living constellations that shifted slowly across the fabric.
“Welcome, students new and returning, to another year at the Korean Arcane Academy,” he began, smiling broadly. “Here we weave not just spells, but bonds. Not just power, but harmony. Let us begin with the traditional Opening—”
A sudden gust whipped through the hall.
It wasn’t supposed to happen. Jeongguk felt it building a second too late—the pressure in his ribs, the way the academy’s ambient magic seemed to poke at the raw spots in his own. He tried to clamp down, but the wind answered faster than thought. It roared up from nowhere, centered right around him. Banners snapped violently. Lanterns spun wildly out of their careful orbits, colliding in showers of harmless golden sparks. A stack of floating welcome scrolls scattered like startled birds. Students gasped as their hair whipped across their faces and half the breakfast platters overturned, sending enchanted fruits rolling across the floor.
Jeongguk shot to his feet, heart hammering. The wind died as abruptly as it had come, but the damage was done. Every eye in the hall turned toward the Eastern Spire table. Toward him.
Silence stretched for one heavy beat.
Then the whispers exploded.
Headmaster Choi raised a hand, steadying the remaining lanterns with a casual flick of practiced magic. His expression stayed calm, but his eyes sharpened as they landed on Jeongguk.
“Mr. Jeon,” he said evenly, the wind runes still carrying his voice clearly. “Is there something you’d like to share with us this morning?”
Jeongguk’s cheeks burned, but he lifted his chin, forcing every ounce of defiance he had left into his posture. His voice came out sharp, louder than he meant it to.
“No. It was an accident. If your precious academy wasn’t so heavy with everyone else’s magic pressing in, maybe it wouldn’t have happened.” He gestured vaguely at the floating debris. “You wanted a show for the Opening Ceremony? There. Hope it was entertaining.”
A few gasps. Someone near the front actually laughed in disbelief.
From the center table, where the most powerful seventh-years sat, six pairs of eyes locked onto him with varying degrees of intensity.
Namjoon’s brow furrowed, one hand resting on the table as if physically steadying the coven bond. “That wasn’t just a slip,” he murmured. “It resonated.”
Seokjin leaned forward slightly, lips parted. “It felt like it was reaching. Testing the air around us.”
Yoongi’s dark eyes narrowed, but there was no anger there—only a quiet sort of recognition. He didn’t speak, but his fingers flexed where they rested on Jimin’s wrist, their bond thread humming.
Hoseok’s usual bright energy crackled. He sat up straighter, a small, fascinated smile tugging at his mouth. “Did you feel that pull? Especially on the dance-weave side. Like my charms wanted to answer it.”
Jimin’s hand had come up to press lightly over his own sternum, right where the coven’s central knot of magic lived. His voice was soft, almost breathless. “It sang with mine. Wind and water like they recognized each other. Jungkook-ssi… he’s hurting. Can’t you tell?”
Taehyung tilted his head, the playful light in his eyes deepening into something more thoughtful. “Our magic likes him. A lot. That’s rare.”
The six of them shared a look—the kind that needed no words after years of perfect resonance. Their coven bond glowed faintly beneath their skin, visible only to each other as threads of soft gold and deep indigo. For the first time in a long while, something new had brushed against it and hadn’t recoiled. It had pushed back. Hard. And it felt… right. Dangerous, but right.
Back at the Eastern table, Jeongguk remained standing, glaring at anyone who dared meet his eyes. A senior from one of the major houses called out, half-laughing, “Nice entrance, Wild Stray. Planning to knock down the whole tower next?”
Jeongguk’s response was immediate and biting. “Better than hiding behind perfect little groups and pretending you earned what was handed to you.” His gaze flicked unconsciously toward the center table for a split second before snapping away. “Some of us don’t need covens or rituals or whatever performance you all put on to feel strong.”
Headmaster Choi sighed, the sound carrying. “That will be enough, Mr. Jeon. Please sit. We will discuss control and responsibility in due time. For now, let us continue the ceremony with a little more… stability.”
Jeongguk dropped back onto the bench, ears ringing with his own pulse. His hands were clenched so tightly under the table that his nails left crescents in his palms. The wind inside him still whispered, restless and embarrassed and furious at itself. He hated how exposed he felt. Hated that the academy’s magic seemed to lean in closer now, almost soothing, like it wanted to apologize for crowding him.
He wanted none of it.
Across the hall, Hoseok’s fingers drummed lightly on the table in an absent rhythm, the beginnings of a stabilizing charm forming unconsciously. “We should keep an eye on him,” he said under his breath. “That kind of power doesn’t stay contained. And the way it reached for us…”
Jimin nodded, eyes still fixed on the lone figure at the far table. Jeongguk was pretending to ignore everyone, but his shoulders were too rigid, his jaw too tight. “He’s scared. Behind all that snapping. I can almost taste it on the air.”
Namjoon hummed thoughtfully. “Unstable elemental cores often come from trauma or suppression. The file mentioned a fallen house. We don’t know the details.”
Seokjin clicked his tongue softly. “And he’s already decided we’re the enemy. Charming.”
Yoongi finally spoke, voice low and raspy from disuse. “Let him snap. Walls that high don’t come down easy. But that rabbit familiar we felt yesterday… it’s bonded to him. And it wanted to come closer to us.”
Taehyung grinned, though it was gentler than usual. “Then we wait. Strays need time to realize the hand isn’t going to hit them.”
The ceremony continued around them—speeches, house anthems sung with floating harmony runes, the annual welcoming of new professors—but the six of them kept stealing glances toward the rigid fifth-year who sat like he expected the entire hall to turn on him at any moment.
Jeongguk could feel their attention like a physical weight. It made his skin prickle and his magic twitch again, smaller this time, just enough to make the lantern above him sway gently. He didn’t look back at them. Wouldn’t.
They were everything he wasn’t: established, powerful, adored. A perfect coven of seven—no, six now? No, everyone said seven, but he only ever counted six. It didn’t matter. Their kind of warmth was a trap. He’d learned that lesson young.
As the Headmaster dismissed them for the day’s schedule, Jeongguk was the first out of his seat, cloak swirling behind him as he headed for the side doors. He ignored the way a few lanterns followed him for a couple of steps before drifting back, as if reluctant to let him leave the light.
Behind him, the famous bonded coven rose more slowly, their movements in sync without even trying.
Hoseok bumped Jimin’s shoulder lightly. “Think he’ll let us get close before he bites?”
Jimin smiled, small and determined. “We’ve handled worse. And something in him… it fits, hyung. You felt it too.”
They all had.
Outside the Great Hall, autumn leaves danced across the courtyard in a sudden playful swirl that had nothing to do with the natural breeze. Jeongguk paused for half a second, staring at them, then shoved his hands into his pockets and kept walking.
He told himself it was just the academy’s stupid magic acting up again.
He almost believed it.
𝓼𝓳
The Great Hall buzzed with the comfortable chaos of a regular academy lunch, the kind that settled in after the first-day frenzy. Sunlight filtered through the ever-shifting ceiling, today painted with drifting white clouds and the occasional flock of illusory starlings that swooped low enough for first-years to reach up and watch their feathers dissolve into sparks. Long tables groaned under platters of steaming food—honey-glazed rice cakes that refilled themselves, grilled meats infused with mild strength charms, bowls of soup that stayed perfectly warm no matter how long you took between spoonfuls. Laughter and overlapping conversations filled the space, punctuated by the soft pop of minor spells and the occasional excited squeak of a student’s familiar.
Jeongguk sat at the far end of the Eastern Spire table again, a deliberate gap of empty seats on either side of him. He poked at a bowl of doenjang jjigae with his spoon, the steam curling up in lazy spirals that he kept unconsciously guiding with tiny threads of wind magic. It was the only thing keeping his hands occupied so they wouldn’t tremble. The whispers had only gotten louder since the Opening Ceremony. Wild Stray. Unstable. Probably dangerous. He kept his head down, black cloak draped over his shoulders like armor, hood half-pulled up even though it was warm inside.
He didn’t belong here. Not with these people who moved in easy groups, whose magic flowed smooth and practiced like they’d never once had it beaten back or starved.
Across the hall at the central table, the six seventh-years ate with the relaxed confidence of people who had claimed their space years ago. Their presence created its own subtle gravity—students from other years occasionally drifted over to ask questions or just bask in the warmth that seemed to radiate from their bonded circle.
Namjoon was deep in conversation with Seokjin, gesturing with a half-eaten rice cake as he explained some new theory about ley line convergence. Seokjin listened with a fond smile, occasionally flicking a charm to keep Namjoon’s juice from spilling when he got too animated. Yoongi sat with his back against Jimin’s side, eyes half-lidded like he might fall asleep any second, one hand resting loosely on the table. Hoseok was telling a story that had Taehyung laughing brightly, the sound carrying like bells across the hall. Jimin’s fingers played idly with the ends of Yoongi’s hair, a small, unconscious gesture of connection that spoke volumes about how deeply their coven was woven.
Their magic hummed together in a low, steady resonance that most students had grown used to. It felt like a hearth fire—warm, steady, inviting if you knew how to approach it.
Jeongguk didn’t notice the small black shape at first.
His rabbit familiar had slipped out without warning, drawn by something far stronger than caution. The little creature’s ears twitched as it hopped silently along the edge of the Eastern table, keeping to the shadows cast by benches and hanging banners. Its dark fur blended almost perfectly with the stone floor, but its small nose worked furiously, scenting the air. Warmth. Safety. A pull like sunlight after endless gray. It moved faster the closer it got to the center table, instincts overriding the usual skittishness it had learned from Jeongguk’s own guarded heart.
It darted between legs and under tables until it reached the open space near the bonded coven. For a moment it hesitated, one tiny paw lifted. Then it hopped straight to Yoongi’s feet and curled up against the side of his boot with a contented sigh, ears folding back as it soaked in the deep, steady pulse of shadow-and-rest magic that radiated from the older boy.
Yoongi went very still. “Well, hello there,” he murmured, voice low and rough like he’d just woken up. A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t move his foot, just let the rabbit settle, feeling the small, rapid heartbeat against his ankle.
Jimin leaned over to look, eyes widening in delight. “Is that—? Oh, it’s so small. Look at its ears.”
Hoseok’s grin broke wide and bright. “It came to us. That’s adorable. Hey, little one.” He sent the softest thread of dance-weave magic toward it, a playful ripple that made the air around the rabbit shimmer like gentle ripples on water. The familiar’s nose twitched happily.
Taehyung cooed quietly, already pulling a small piece of carrot from his plate and levitating it down. “You hungry? Come on, we won’t bite.”
Seokjin’s expression softened immediately, maternal instincts kicking in. “Don’t crowd it. Let it decide.” But he was already mentally cataloging what kind of treats a shy rabbit familiar might like, recipes forming in his head.
Namjoon adjusted his glasses, studying the creature with open curiosity and warmth. “That’s a strong bond. Pure. But… it feels like it’s been hiding for a while.”
The rabbit pressed closer to Yoongi, clearly in no hurry to leave. A few students at nearby tables had started to notice, murmuring and pointing. A black rabbit familiar wasn’t common, especially one bold enough to approach the academy’s most famous coven.
Jeongguk felt the absence like a hook yanking in his chest. His head snapped up, spoon clattering against the bowl. His eyes scanned frantically until they locked onto the small black shape curled trustingly against Yoongi’s foot.
No. No, no—
He was on his feet before he could think, cloak flaring behind him as he stormed across the hall. The sudden movement drew even more eyes. Conversations quieted. Floating trays paused mid-air.
“Get away from it,” Jeongguk snarled, voice loud enough to carry across half the Great Hall. He reached down and grabbed the rabbit by the scruff—not hard enough to hurt, but sharp with panic. The familiar let out a startled squeak, ears flattening. “Don’t touch what’s mine.”
The rabbit vanished from his grip in a puff of dark sparks, retreating back into the pocket dimension of their bond, but the damage was already done.
Yoongi’s eyebrows rose slightly, more surprised than offended. Jimin’s hand had come up to his mouth, eyes wide with concern rather than anger. Hoseok straightened, smile fading into something more careful.
“Jeongguk-ssi,” Namjoon started, voice calm and reasonable, “we weren’t trying to—”
“You think I don’t see what you’re doing?” Jeongguk cut him off, breathing hard. His hands were shaking at his sides, magic crackling faintly around his fingers—tiny uncontrolled gusts that made nearby napkins flutter. “All of you with your perfect little coven, acting so warm and welcoming. You felt my magic the other day and now you’re trying to steal my familiar? Lure it away so you can complete your set or whatever it is you people do?”
The hall had gone almost completely silent now. Even the ceiling clouds seemed to have stopped drifting.
Taehyung’s expression flickered with genuine hurt. “Steal? We were just sitting here. It came to us on its own.”
“Because your magic is so loud and pushy,” Jeongguk shot back, the words bitter and defensive. “Acting like you’re better than everyone else, drawing things in. I don’t need you. My familiar doesn’t need you. Keep your hands and your charms and your fake kindness away from us.”
Seokjin’s voice was gentle but firm. “Kid, no one is trying to steal anything. Familiars seek what they need. That one looked like it needed a moment of peace.”
Jeongguk laughed, short and ugly. “Peace. Right. From the golden coven everyone worships. Save your pity for someone who wants it.” He stepped back, glaring at all six of them, cheeks flushed with a mix of fury and something deeper—fear, raw and exposed. “If I see any of you near my familiar again, I won’t be this polite.”
He turned on his heel and stalked out of the Great Hall, the heavy doors slamming behind him with a bang amplified by his unsteady wind magic. The silence broke into a storm of whispers the second he was gone.
“Did you hear that? He accused them—”
“—of trying to steal his familiar? That’s insane.”
“Wild Stray is right. He’s completely unhinged.”
At the central table, Hoseok let out a long breath, running a hand through his hair. “That went well.”
Jimin looked genuinely troubled, fingers twisting together. “He’s terrified. Did you see his face? He really believes we’d do that.”
Yoongi leaned back, staring at the spot where the rabbit had been. His voice was quiet. “Poor kid. That familiar’s half-starved for affection. Came straight to the warmth like it was dying for it.”
Namjoon closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the echo of Jeongguk’s raw power still lingering in the air like static. “We’ll have to be careful. Pushing will only make the walls higher.”
Seokjin was already mentally preparing a quiet meal charm for later, something unobtrusive left at the Eastern Spire door. “He’s been hurt. Badly. You don’t get that defensive without reason.”
Taehyung poked at his food, unusually subdued. “I just wanted to give it a carrot.”
The six of them shared a look, their bond threads glowing faintly as they drew comfort from each other. The misunderstanding sat heavy in the air, thick as smoke, but beneath it was the same strange resonance they’d felt since Jeongguk arrived—stronger now, because the little rabbit had chosen them without hesitation.
Outside in the corridor, Jeongguk leaned against a cool stone wall, breathing hard. His rabbit reappeared on his shoulder, pressing its small body against his neck in silent apology. He reached up and stroked its ears with shaking fingers.
“I know,” he whispered, voice cracking just slightly. “I know you were just looking for… but we can’t. We can’t trust that. They’ll take everything if we let them.”
The rabbit nuzzled closer, but its dark eyes held a quiet longing that Jeongguk refused to acknowledge as he pushed off the wall and headed back toward his lonely room in the Eastern Spire.
Behind him, the Great Hall slowly returned to normal, but the story of the Wild Stray publicly accusing the bonded coven of familiar theft was already spreading like wildfire through every tower and corridor. The rift had widened, and Jeongguk had dug it himself, terrified of the very warmth that kept reaching for him.
𝓼𝓳
The summons came via a floating parchment that slipped under the door of Jeongguk’s room in the Eastern Spire just after dawn two days later. It glowed with the academy’s official seal—a swirling constellation that pulsed gently like a heartbeat—before unfolding itself mid-air with a soft chime.
Jeon Jeongguk, Fifth Year
Report to the Mentorship Tower, Chamber 7, at the ninth bell.
Regarding stabilization of elemental core.
Jeongguk stared at it for a long moment, jaw tight. He hadn’t slept much. The rabbit familiar had curled against his side all night, small body trembling every time distant echoes of the coven’s warm magic drifted through the stone walls. He’d spent half the night reinforcing the wards on his door with clumsy, stubborn threads of wind and shadow, even though he knew they wouldn’t hold against real power.
“Figures,” he muttered, flicking the parchment away with a sharp gust. It hovered stubbornly for another second before settling on his desk. “Can’t even leave me alone after that mess in the hall.”
By the time the ninth bell rang across the academy grounds—a deep, resonant tone that made the floating lanterns brighten in response—he was already climbing the spiral stairs of the Mentorship Tower. The tower stood separate from the main halls, its walls covered in living ivy that shifted colors based on the emotional states of the people inside. Right now the leaves near the entrance were a cautious mix of deep green and anxious yellow.
Professor Min, the same one who’d greeted him on arrival, waited inside Chamber 7 alongside two other senior mentors and—Jeongguk’s stomach dropped—a neat row of six familiar faces seated along one side of the long oak table.
The bonded coven.
Namjoon offered a small, polite nod. Seokjin’s expression was carefully neutral but kind around the eyes. Yoongi looked half-asleep but alert in that quiet way of his. Hoseok smiled, small and hopeful. Jimin watched him with those soft, searching eyes that made Jeongguk want to bolt. Taehyung leaned forward slightly, curious and open.
Jeongguk stopped just inside the doorway, arms crossed tight over his chest.
Professor Min cleared his throat. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Jeon. Please, sit.”
“I’ll stand.”
A faint sigh moved through the room, but the professor didn’t push. “Very well. As you know, your arrival has caused some… noticeable fluctuations in the academy’s ambient magic field. The incident during the Opening Ceremony, combined with the unstable readings we took from your arrival scan, suggest your elemental core—particularly the wind and latent earth aspects—requires structured guidance this year.”
Jeongguk’s fingers dug into his own arms. “I’m managing.”
“With respect,” one of the other mentors said gently, a woman with silver streaks in her hair and a calm water-affinity aura, “your familiar bond also shows signs of strain. Familiars don’t usually hide as aggressively as yours unless the mage is suppressing shared energy flow.”
Jeongguk’s rabbit chose that exact moment to peek out from the shadow of his cloak, ears trembling, before ducking back in. The little display didn’t go unnoticed.
Professor Min continued, “After careful discussion with the headmaster, we’ve decided to assign you a dedicated mentorship group. Given the unique resonance noted between your signature and theirs—” he gestured toward the six seated mages “—the bonded coven of Kim Namjoon, Kim Seokjin, Min Yoongi, Jung Hoseok, Park Jimin, and Kim Taehyung has agreed to serve as your official mentors for the semester.”
The silence that followed was heavy.
Jeongguk’s eyes flicked across all six of them, heart hammering so hard he was sure they could hear it. Their combined magic filled the chamber like a living thing—steady, layered, warm in a way that made his own raw edges ache. It pulled at him. Invited. Promised things he’d stopped believing in years ago when his family house fell and the survivors turned on each other.
“No,” he said flatly.
Professor Min blinked. “Mr. Jeon, this isn’t optional. Mentorship for unstable transfers is mandatory when—”
“I said no.” Jeongguk’s voice rose, sharp and cold. He took a step back toward the door. “I’m not some broken project for your golden coven to fix. Pity charity. That’s what this is. You saw me make a scene, heard the rumors, and now you want to play heroes and absorb the Wild Stray so everyone can clap about how kind and powerful you are.”
Hoseok leaned forward, voice gentle. “It’s not pity, Jeongguk-ah. Your magic felt ours and ours felt yours. There’s something there worth exploring. We can help stabilize the flares before they hurt you.”
“Don’t call me that,” Jeongguk snapped. The wind in the chamber picked up slightly, rustling papers on the table. “You don’t know me. None of you do. You sit up there in your perfect tower with your perfect bond, everyone falling over themselves to be near you, and now you want to add me like I’m some missing piece? I’m not interested in joining your little collection.”
Jimin’s expression crumpled with quiet hurt. “We’re not collecting anyone. We just… we felt how scared your familiar was. How tired you seem. We’ve been through rough patches too. We could—”
“Save it.” Jeongguk’s laugh was bitter, hollow. “I saw how my rabbit went straight to you. You think I don’t know what that warm magic of yours does? It lures things in. Makes them dependent. Then what? You get to feel good about yourselves while I lose the only thing that’s actually mine?”
Seokjin spoke then, voice soft and steady like warm broth on a cold night. “Kid, no one wants to take anything from you. Mentoring doesn’t mean ownership. It means shared knowledge, shared meals sometimes, help when your magic spikes. We’ve stabilized worse.”
“I don’t need your shared anything.” Jeongguk’s hands were shaking. He shoved them into his pockets. Deep down, terror clawed at his ribs—sharp, familiar, suffocating. Attachment meant dependence. Dependence meant pain when they inevitably decided he wasn’t worth it. His own blood had taught him that lesson too well. “Keep your charity. I’ll train alone. Control it alone. Just like I’ve done since my house fell apart.”
Namjoon adjusted his glasses, calm but clearly thinking several steps ahead. “The academy won’t allow unsupervised training if the risk to others is high. We’re not here to control you, Jeongguk. We’re here because your power called to ours. That kind of natural resonance is rare.”
“Then tell the academy to assign someone else.” Jeongguk turned toward the door. “Anyone else. I don’t care who. Just not you six.”
Yoongi’s low voice cut through the tension for the first time. “Running from help doesn’t make you stronger. It just makes the crashes harder when they come.”
Jeongguk paused with his hand on the doorframe, back stiff. For a second the mask slipped—just a fraction—and raw fear flashed across his face before he slammed it back down. “Watch me.”
He left the chamber without another word, the ivy on the walls flashing bright red and anxious orange in his wake. The door shut harder than necessary, wind magic slamming it with a bang that echoed down the spiral stairs.
Inside the chamber, the six mentors sat in heavy silence for a moment.
Taehyung exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. “He really believes we’re after something. Like we’d hurt him on purpose.”
Jimin looked down at his hands. “His rabbit keeps trying to come to us. The poor thing is exhausted from fighting the pull. Jeongguk must be clamping down so hard it’s painful.”
Hoseok stood and paced a few steps, energy restless. “We’ll have to go slow. Really slow. He’s like a feral cat that’s only ever been kicked.”
Seokjin was already thinking practically. “I’ll still leave food. Nothing obvious. Just enough that he knows someone’s thinking about him without it feeling like pressure.”
Namjoon nodded, though his brow stayed furrowed. “The headmaster won’t budge on the mentorship assignment. We’ll have to work around his refusal. Quiet support where we can. He’s terrified of attachment, that much is clear. Whatever happened in his old house… it left deep marks.”
Yoongi leaned back in his chair, eyes half-closed but thoughtful. “Let him push. The kid’s got walls a mile high, but that familiar of his is already voting against him. Nature finds a way.”
Outside, Jeongguk stormed across the courtyard, cloak whipping in a wind that wasn’t entirely natural. Students gave him a wide berth, whispers following like shadows. He didn’t care. Let them talk. Let the whole academy think he was ungrateful and arrogant.
Better that than letting anyone close enough to break what little he had left.
His rabbit pressed tight against his neck, heart racing in sync with his own. Jeongguk reached up to stroke its ears with trembling fingers, voice barely a whisper.
“We don’t need them. We don’t need anyone. Just us.”
But even as he said it, the academy’s magic brushed against him gently, warm threads of possibility lingering in the air where the coven’s resonance had touched his own. He shoved it away harder, walking faster toward the Eastern Spire.
The walls felt a little colder than they had that morning. The loneliness, a little heavier. And somewhere deep inside, a tiny, traitorous part of him wondered what it might feel like if he stopped pushing for just one second.
He buried that part as deep as it would go.
𝓼𝓳
The moon hung low and silver over the academy grounds, casting long shadows across the trimmed lawns and floating lanterns that dimmed themselves after midnight curfew. Most students were tucked into their tower rooms by now, either deep in spellbooks or already dreaming under self-warming blankets. Jeongguk moved like a shadow himself, black cloak blending with the night as he slipped past the outer wards of the Eastern Spire. His boots made almost no sound on the dew-wet grass—years of practice sneaking around unstable family estates had taught him that much.
His rabbit familiar huddled inside his cloak, pressed tight against his chest like it could sense the storm building under his skin. The mentorship meeting from earlier still burned in his mind. The way they’d all looked at him with those careful, pitying eyes. Like he was some wounded animal they wanted to coax into their perfect circle. He clenched his jaw so hard it ached.
“I’m not training where they can watch,” he whispered to the night air, or maybe to the rabbit. “Not where they can report back how unstable the Wild Stray is this week.”
The Forbidden Forest loomed at the edge of the academy grounds, its ancient trees twisted and tall, their branches heavy with glowing moss and protective runes carved into the bark by generations of professors. Students weren’t supposed to enter after dark. Warnings about rogue spirits, wild mana surges, and creatures that fed on uncontrolled magic were posted on every notice board. Jeongguk didn’t care. The deeper and wilder the magic, the better it matched the chaos inside him right now.
He crossed the invisible boundary line where the neatly trimmed grass gave way to thick undergrowth. The air changed instantly—thicker, alive, humming against his skin like a hundred curious fingers. The trees seemed to lean in, whispering in languages older than the academy itself. His pulse quickened, but so did his magic. For the first time since arriving, it felt like he could breathe without everyone else’s polished, harmonious power pressing down on him.
He found a small clearing about twenty minutes in, ringed by silver-barked trees whose leaves shimmered with faint illusion charms. Perfect. Isolated. No golden coven watching, no professors ready to assign more “help.”
Jeongguk rolled his shoulders, letting the cloak drop to the mossy ground. The rabbit poked its head out, ears twitching nervously at the dense ambient magic swirling around them.
“Stay back,” he told it quietly. “I need to push tonight. Just… don’t get too close if it gets bad.”
He started slow. Basic elemental forms—pulling wind into tight spirals around his arms, then grounding it with threads of earth magic drawn up from the roots beneath his feet. At first it worked. The wind answered cleanly, forming translucent blades that sliced through low-hanging vines without touching the trees. He moved through the katas he’d taught himself during the worst months after his house fell, body and magic flowing together in the only rhythm that ever made sense.
But the academy’s magic lingered even here, faint threads of it woven into the forest’s own wild power. It felt too much like them. Warm. Reaching. Curious.
His next pull went too deep.
The wind roared up suddenly, far stronger than he intended. Trees bent sharply, leaves tearing free in a whirlwind that howled around the clearing. Earth magic surged in response, cracking the ground under his boots as thick roots burst upward like startled snakes. Jeongguk tried to rein it in, teeth gritted, sweat already beading on his forehead. His rabbit squeaked in alarm and vanished into their bond space.
“Come on,” he growled, forcing his hands down. “Settle. I control you, not the other way—”
It backfired. The unstable core he’d been ignoring since the Opening Ceremony flared violently. Wind and earth tangled into something sharper—raw, electric arcs of uncontrolled energy that lit up the clearing like green-white lightning. One arc struck a nearby tree, splitting its trunk with a deafening crack. Another lashed toward Jeongguk himself, burning across his left forearm before he could dodge.
Pain flared hot and bright. He staggered, breath catching. The storm around him only grew worse, feeding on his panic. The air howled so loudly he almost didn’t hear the approaching footsteps.
“Jeongguk!”
Two voices cut through the chaos—familiar, bright with worry.
Hoseok and Jimin burst into the clearing, robes slightly disheveled from running. Hoseok’s eyes were wide, hands already moving in fluid dance-weave patterns that sent calming ripples of rhythm magic into the storm. Jimin’s water-affinity aura bloomed around him like liquid moonlight, reaching out to soothe the jagged edges of Jeongguk’s flare.
“Easy,” Hoseok called, voice steady despite the wind whipping his hair. “You’re feeding it. Breathe with me—match the beat.”
Jeongguk snarled, trying to push them back with a sharp gust. “Get out! I didn’t ask you to come!”
But his magic was too wild. The blast barely reached them before Hoseok’s charm softened it into harmless breezes. Jimin stepped closer, graceful and careful, one hand extended as gentle waves of stabilizing energy wrapped around the worst of the lightning arcs, guiding them down into the earth where they fizzled out harmlessly.
“You’re hurt,” Jimin said softly, eyes locked on the burn on Jeongguk’s arm. “Let us help before it gets worse. Your core is spiking—please.”
The concern in their voices only made Jeongguk’s chest tighten harder. They moved together without even looking at each other, years of bonded practice making their magic complement perfectly. Hoseok’s bright, rhythmic energy found the erratic pulse in Jeongguk’s wind, smoothing it. Jimin’s cooler touch grounded the earth surges, turning chaos into something almost manageable. Within moments the storm began to die, leaves settling, roots sinking back into the cracked soil.
Jeongguk stood in the sudden quiet, breathing hard, arm throbbing. The rabbit reappeared on his shoulder, trembling.
He yanked his arm away when Jimin reached for it. “Don’t touch me.”
Hoseok lowered his hands slowly, though his body stayed tense and ready. “We felt the flare from the edge of the grounds. It lit up half the forest on our resonance threads. We weren’t spying, Jeongguk. We were worried.”
“Worried,” Jeongguk repeated bitterly. He laughed, the sound raw and ugly in the quiet clearing. “Right. Because you just happened to be out here at this hour, right where I snuck off to train alone. After I told you all to stay away. After I rejected your stupid mentorship.”
Jimin’s expression stayed gentle, but there was real pain behind it. “The forest is dangerous at night, especially for someone whose magic is unstable. We’ve trained here before. We know the signs when someone’s in trouble.”
“You followed me.” Jeongguk’s voice rose again. The wind picked up once more, weaker but still defiant. “You think I believe this is coincidence? Your perfect little group can’t stand not knowing everything, can’t stand someone saying no to you. So you track me out here, wait for me to slip up, and then swoop in like heroes. Playing the kind mentors again.”
Hoseok ran a hand through his hair, frustration and concern mixing on his face. “We’re not playing anything. Your magic called out. Loudly. Our bond reacts to that kind of pain—especially Jimin’s and mine. It’s not something we can just ignore.”
Jeongguk stepped back, cloak swirling as he snatched it off the ground. The burn on his arm stung worse with the movement, but he refused to show it. “Pain? You don’t know anything about my pain. You think because your coven is all warm and connected and everyone loves you that you can just insert yourselves into my life? I don’t want your help. I don’t want your rescue. Go back to your tower and leave me the hell alone.”
Jimin looked like he wanted to say more, fingers twitching as if he could still feel the echo of Jeongguk’s unstable magic in his own chest. “At least let us walk you back. That burn needs a proper healing charm before it scars.”
“I can heal myself.” Jeongguk turned sharply, heading toward the treeline. His rabbit pressed close to his neck, small heart racing. Every step sent fresh pain up his arm, but the anger felt bigger. Safer. “If I see either of you following me again, I won’t hold back next time. Tell the rest of your group the same. I’m not your project. I’m not your charity case. And I’m definitely not becoming your seventh.”
He disappeared into the trees before they could respond, cloak snapping behind him like an angry banner. The forest seemed to close ranks after him, branches shifting to hide his path.
Hoseok let out a long breath, shoulders slumping. “That could’ve gone better.”
Jimin stared after the spot where Jeongguk had vanished, expression troubled. “He was really scared. Even through the anger. His familiar looked exhausted. I hate that we make it worse just by existing near him.”
“We can’t force it,” Hoseok said quietly, reaching out to squeeze Jimin’s shoulder. Their bond threads glowed softly between them, offering comfort. “But we also can’t pretend we didn’t feel that flare. He’s going to hurt himself badly one of these days if no one gets through.”
They started back toward the academy grounds together, steps in sync without effort. Behind them, the cracked clearing slowly began to heal itself—roots knitting, moss spreading—as the forest’s ancient magic smoothed over the damage. But the rift between Jeongguk and the coven had widened again, deeper this time, carved by his own defensive terror.
Back in his room in the Eastern Spire, Jeongguk slammed the door and slumped against it, sliding down until he sat on the cold floor. His rabbit hopped into his lap, nudging at the burned arm with a worried nose. He pressed his forehead against the small furry body, eyes squeezed shut.
“I know,” he whispered, voice cracking just slightly in the quiet. “I know you wanted them to stay. But we can’t. People like that… they take everything eventually. Better to stay alone.”
The burn throbbed angrily. He fumbled for a basic healing salve from his trunk, applying it with gritted teeth. Outside, the moon continued its slow path across the sky, and somewhere in their private tower, six bonded mages sat together feeling the fresh sting of another rejected attempt to reach the stray who kept pushing them further away.
Jeongguk curled up on his bed later, rabbit tucked under his chin, and tried not to think about how much steadier his magic had felt when their combined power had wrapped around his chaos. He failed. The loneliness pressed heavier than ever, but the walls stayed firmly up.
For now, that was all that mattered.