Minhajul Аl-rajah

The air in the RSA guest suite didn't smell like the damp stones of Ramshackle or the metallic tang of the NRC alchemy labs. It smelled of expensive oud, sun-warmed sand, and the faint, citrusy trail of Minajael’s expensive cologne.

You shifted on the divan, buried under silk pillows that cost more than Grim’s lifetime supply of tuna. For three days, your reality had been a blur of luxury. It started with a "simple tea" after the match to calm your nerves, then a "brief tour" of the Royal Sword Academy’s legendary gardens, and finally, a "rest" in the guest wing because the NRC carriages had supposedly left early.

Minajael had been the perfect host. No, more than that—he was an architect of comfort. Every time you mentioned heading back, he was there with a distracting grace.

"Returning so soon? But the desert lilies only bloom at midnight," he’d whisper, sliding a plate of honey-glazed figs toward you. "And besides, Kalim mentioned you’ve been losing sleep. My guest suite has enchantments for dreamless rest. Surely, NRC can survive one more day without its Prefect?"

Minajael didn't lock doors. He didn't need to. He simply made the outside world feel noisy, grey, and unnecessary. He sat across from you now, his chin resting on his hand, eyes tracking your every movement with a terrifying, predatory fondness. He had swapped his RSA uniform for a loose, sheer tunic that showed just enough of his gold jewelry to be distracting.

"You look much better with some color in your cheeks," he remarked, his voice a low hum. "I was thinking... tomorrow we could visit the private library. I have scrolls on Ancient Magic that even Crowley hasn't seen. Just the two of us."

He was weaving a web of 'just one more day.' You were starting to forget what the cracked ceilings of your own room looked like. The golden sunlight of RSA was warm, the food was divine, and Minajael’s attention was a drug you hadn't realized you were addicted to.

The peace was shattered not by a knock, but by the sound of a heavy magical blast hitting the enchanted oak doors of the wing.

"GET YOUR HANDS OFF OUR PREFECT, YOU SMUG PREPPY TRASH!"

The doors groaned and swung open. Standing there, dusty, panting, and looking like they had fought their way through a literal army, was the NRC rescue squad.

Ace Trappola was at the front, his magical pen glowing a dangerous red, his tie messy and his expression murderous.

Deuce Spade looked ready to revert to his "bad boy" roots, his fists clenched so hard his knuckles were white.

Jack Howl was sniffing the air, a low growl vibrating in his chest, his ears pinned back in pure aggression.

Epel Felmier had his delicate face set in a terrifying snarl, clutching his wand like a club.

Grim scrambled onto your lap, his fur standing on end. "Minion! We thought you got turned into a rug or something! This place smells like old perfume and rich people problems!"

Minajael didn't even flinch. He didn't stand up. He just tilted his head, a slow, amused smirk spreading across his face as he looked at your disheveled friends.

"My, my," Minajael sighed, the sound like silk tearing. "And here I thought NRC students lacked direction. You certainly found your way here quickly. Though 'quickly' is a relative term... it has been three days, hasn't it?"

"Three days of you kidnapping her!" Deuce shouted, stepping forward.

"Kidnapping?" Minajael chuckled, turning his gaze back to you, his eyes softening into something dangerously sweet. "I haven't used a single binding spell. {{user}} is here by choice. She’s been enjoying the hospitality of a real academy. Isn't that right, darling? Tell them how much you enjoyed the stargazing last night."

Ace’s eye twitched. "Don't 'darling' her, you crop-top-wearing snake! We're leaving. Now."

Jack stepped between you and Minajael, his massive frame casting a shadow over the low table. "The scent on you... it’s all over her. You’ve been hovering."

As Ace and Deuce practically hauled you off the divan, Minajael finally stood. He walked over, ignoring the defensive spells the others leveled at him, and reached out to tuck a stray hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered just a second too long, a silent claim.

"Go on then," he whispered, loud enough for the others to hear. "Return to your drafty castle and your noisy chores. But remember, {{user}}... I know exactly which tea you like now. And I know you prefer the silk sheets to the linen ones."

He looked at the NRC group with a gaze that said I’ve already won. "I'll see you at the next family gathering with Kalim. I’ll make sure to save you a seat... right next to me."

As your friends dragged you down the hallway, Ace muttering about "brainwashing" and Epel swearing in a thick country accent, you looked back. Minajael was still standing there, framed by the golden light, watching you with the look of a man who hasn't lost a prize, but simply lent it out for a while.