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poisonedace · 22 days ago

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Inferna Academy

8026 words | Mature | Part 3/12 Author's AO3: PoisonedAce Story Link: Inferna Academy Part One Part Two Summary: Blitzo refuses to fade into the background, even as his father demands he play shadow to his childhood friend Fizzarolli at Hell’s elite university. “Fizzarolli’s our ticket to the big time.” “Don’t screw up.” “You’ll never make it on your own." Everything changes when he reunites with Stolas, a Goetia prince shackled by suffocating expectations. What begins as a quiet connection blossoms into a love neither anticipated, built on stolen glances, whispered conversations, and study sessions full of laughter. But, their happiness is short-lived. Stella’s schemes threaten to tear them apart, straining their love and fracturing Blitzo’s friendship with Fizzarolli. A story of star-crossed lovers, broken trust, and fragile hope. Can Blitzo and Stolas find their way back to each other, or are they destined to remain distant souls, yearning for what could have been?

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Chapter Three The Weight of Shadows

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The following day, Blitzo trudged through the halls, his notebook tucked haphazardly under one arm, the edges crinkled from where he’d shoved it into his bag the night before. The castle buzzed with a low murmur of voices, punctuated by the sharp clack of hooves and claws against the stone floors, but he barely noticed. His focus was fixed on his first group lesson: “Hell’s Political Evolution.” Blitzo had never been to school before—Cash had insisted Tilla could handle homeschooling him, his sister, and Fizz. Blitzo had always wondered how true that was, what with his horrible reading and writing skills.

When he arrived, the lecture hall was already bustling. The tiered rows were packed with students—some chatting animatedly, others poring over dense tomes that made Blitzo’s notebook feel laughably inadequate. He slid into a seat at the back, slouching in the hopes that he would be noticed. He groaned when Fizz slid into the empty seat next to him and smiled at him tightly before turning to the front as the professor called their attention.

The professor, a towering demon with curling horns and a voice like grinding stone, launched into the lesson without preamble. “Hell’s political history is the foundation of our governance today,” he intoned, his words echoing ominously through the hall. “You’ll need to know this for the quiz on Friday.”

Blitzo barely had time to open his notebook before the professor began firing off dates, names, and convoluted alliances. His clawed hand struggled to keep up, the scratching of pencil against paper filling the space around him. Writing had never been his strong suit—his letters were always crooked and uneven, his spelling erratic at best. It took him twice as long as everyone else to get a sentence down on a good day, and the speed of the lecture only made it worse. By the time they reached The Rebellion of Lucifer, his notes had devolved into a chaotic mess of misspelled names, half-formed sentences, and random scratches where his pencil had slipped.

“Any questions?” the professor asked, his sharp gaze sweeping the room.

Blitzo sank lower in his seat, muttering under his breath, “Yeah, what the hell did any of that mean?” He avoided the professor’s eye, determined not to draw attention to himself.

Beside him, Fizzarolli turned his head, his metallic fingers drumming against the desk as he peered over at Blitzo. His grin was all teeth and mischief. “You alright over there, Blitzo? Looks like you’re fighting a losing battle with that notebook.”

Blitzo’s tail twitched at the sound of Fizz’s voice, and he hunched over his notes, trying to ignore him. “Fuck off, Fizz,” he muttered under his breath, his pencil scratching angrily across the page.

But Fizz wasn’t the type to let things go. He tilted his head, his hands making exaggerated writing motions in the air. “You need a hand, buddy? Or maybe two? I can slow down the prof for you—just say the word.” A smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Don’t strain yourself, Blitzo. We wouldn’t want you to overheat.”

The soft, mocking laughter from nearby students made Blitzo’s cheeks burn. His tail lashed again, narrowly missing the desk. “I said fuck off,” he snapped, his voice low but sharp. “Don’t you have better things to do than run your damn mouth?”

Fizz chuckled, leaning back in his seat with a shrug. “Just trying to help. You know, before your notes turn into—” He grabbed the notebook from the desk, holding it out of Blitzo’s reach and squinting at it like he couldn’t make sense of the words. “What’s this? A shopping list? A treasure map?”

Blitzo’s hand stopped trying to grab the notebook and dropped into his lap. He clenched his jaw, his voice trembling with barely restrained anger. “You know I struggle with reading and writing, Fizz,” he hissed, his eyes narrowing into slits. “So why don’t you take your ‘help’ and shove it?”

The room went uncomfortably quiet, the sharpness of Blitzo’s tone cutting through the air. Even the professor paused momentarily, glancing toward the back row before continuing with the lecture. Fizz’s smirk faltered, his fingers stilling as he raised his hands in mock surrender and gently threw the notebook back on Blitzo’s desk.

Blitzo felt the weight of stares from the students around them. He clenched his jaw, pretending he didn’t care, but the burn of embarrassment gnawed at him. He couldn’t stop his mind from spiraling—what were they thinking? That I can’t keep up? That I don’t belong here?

“Alright, alright,” Fizz said, his tone light but edged with awkwardness. “No need to bite my head off. Geez, someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”

Blitzo glared at him, his tail snapping sharply against the desk. “Just mind your own damn business, Fizz,” he muttered, slumping back in his seat. His claws dug into the edges of his notebook, his already messy notes blurring together in his vision.

From the far side of the lecture hall, a voice broke the tension, calm and steady. “Fizzarolli, perhaps some silence would better suit this part of the lesson?” The tone was polite, but the underlying authority carried weight.

Blitzo looked up sharply to see the tall, elegant figure perched a few rows away. Stolas. His glowing eyes rested on Fizz for a brief moment, not unkindly, before flicking toward the professor, signaling for the lecture to continue. The professor nodded, resuming the topic without missing a beat.

Fizz huffed but returned his attention to the front, his fingers drumming faintly against the desk in restless irritation. Blitzo caught the faintest flicker of a smirk as Stolas’s gaze shifted briefly to him, though there was no malice in it—only a kind of quiet understanding.

For the remainder of the class, Blitzo kept his head down, his claws clutching his notebook tight enough to leave rips in the pages. He tried to focus on the professor's droning voice, but the words blurred together, drowned out by the sting of mocking laughter still echoing in his mind. He tapped his claws against the desk in an uneven rhythm, a futile attempt to ground himself.

The moment the lecture ended, he bolted from his seat, his tail flicking sharply behind him. The scrape of his boots against the stone floor reverberated in the hall as he moved faster than necessary, desperate to escape before anyone could stop him—or worse, laugh at him. His claws tightened around his crumpled notebook, the edges of the pages bent and torn.

“Blitzo.” The sound of his name froze him in his tracks. His shoulders tensed instinctively, his tail coiling tightly around his leg. Turning slowly, he found Stolas standing a few feet away, his tall frame poised yet approachable. The faint glow of the overhead torches caught the silver in his feathers, making them shimmer in the dim light.

“I noticed the lecture pace could be… demanding,” Stolas began, his voice thoughtful, deliberate. He extended a slip of parchment toward Blitzo, the edges of the page curling slightly under his fingers. “I took the liberty of summarizing the key points. Perhaps you’ll find these useful.”

Blitzo’s eyes flicked to the parchment, then back to Stolas. His initial reaction was suspicion—was this some kind of joke? Another way to patronize him? But there was no mockery in Stolas’s expression, no sly grin or condescending tilt to his head. Instead, his wide, glowing eyes were steady and sincere, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his beak.

“Uh… thanks,” Blitzo muttered, taking the parchment gingerly. His tail flicked uncertainly behind him, and he turned the page over in his hands, scanning the neat, precise handwriting. The notes were clearly structured in a way that made sense, with key dates and names highlighted. For a moment, his throat tightened. “You didn’t have to,” he added, his voice softening despite himself.

“No,” Stolas said with a small, warm smile, tilting his head slightly. “But I wanted to. I know how overwhelming these lectures can be.” He paused as if considering whether to say more, then added, “It seemed like you were having a hard time, and I thought this might help.”

Blitzo blinked, caught off guard by the gentle honesty in Stolas’s tone. It wasn’t pity—that much he could tell. And it wasn’t the smug, self-satisfied “help” he was used to from others who looked down on him. It felt genuine, like Stolas actually cared.

“Yeah, well,” Blitzo muttered, his ears twitching as he glanced away. “Don’t go thinking I need a babysitter or anything.”

“Of course not,” Stolas replied smoothly, his tone unruffled. He gave a slight bow of his head, his feathers shifting faintly with the motion. “I’ll see you later, Blitzo.” With that, he turned and walked away, his movements as graceful as ever, his silhouette soon blending into the shadows of the corridor.

Blitzo watched him go, the parchment still clutched in his hand. He looked down at it again, this time noticing the effort Stolas had put into the notes. The lines were crisp and clean, and the handwriting was elegant yet easy to read. His claws traced the edges of the page, and his mind whirred with conflicting thoughts.

Why’d he do this? Nobody does something for nothing. Blitzo shook his head, his tail flicking sharply. It didn’t make sense. But even as he told himself it was probably just some weird noble obligation, something in Stolas’s voice lingered—a warmth that didn’t feel fake.

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, his shoulders loosening slightly. Carefully, he slid the notes into his battered notebook and walked down the hall, the sound of his peers’ mocking laughter still echoing faintly in his memory. But now, it was quieter, like a distant hum instead of a sharp sting. For the first time that day, the weight on his chest felt a little lighter.

Blitzo glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting to see Stolas again, but the corridor was empty. He snorted under his breath, shaking his head. “Weird bird,” he muttered, though there was no real venom in his voice.

As he continued toward his next class, his tail swished behind him in a more measured rhythm, and his grip on his notebook wasn’t quite as tight.

~o0o~

At lunch, the dining hall was a cacophony of noise. The clatter of trays, the scrape of chairs, and the overlapping chatter of students all grated against Blitzo’s frayed nerves. He grabbed a tray of food—though he barely looked at what he was taking—and slumped into a seat at the far edge of the room, hoping for a moment’s peace.

It didn’t last.

Nearby, a group of students were talking loudly, and their conversation was impossible to ignore.

“Fizzarolli’s latest project is insane,” one student said, practically bouncing in their seat. “Did you see the prototype? It’s genius.”

“He’s amazing,” another chimed in. “He’s gonna be on the council, no doubt about it.”

“Of course he is,” a third added with a laugh. “They’d be stupid not to pick him. He’s, like, the best thing to happen to this academy.”

Blitzo clenched his jaw, his claws digging into the edge of the table. His appetite faded as the words grated against him, each one driving home a point he didn’t want to acknowledge. He stabbed at the food on his tray, not even sure what he was eating.

“Fizz is so smart; Fizz is so special,” he muttered under his breath, his voice low and bitter.

He shoved his tray aside, the clang of metal against the table startling the demon sitting closest to him. Blitzo didn’t care. He leaned back in his chair, his tail flicking sharply against the floor as he stared at the bustling dining hall around him.

Across the room, a burst of laughter drew his attention. He spotted Fizz at a table surrounded by adoring students, his metallic fingers whirring as he gestured animatedly. Whatever he was saying earned him another round of laughter, the sound grating against Blitzo’s ears like nails on a chalkboard.

Fizz must have felt his gaze because his eyes darted across the room and locked onto Blitzo, his bright smile softened as he tilted his head slightly in concern. With deliberate movements, Fizz raised his hands and began to sign. You okay? His hands moved gracefully, the movements as natural as breathing for him.

Blitzo blinked, caught off guard. He glanced around briefly, but no one was paying attention to their silent exchange. With a sigh, he lifted his hands to reply, his movements stilted but clear enough. Fine. Don’t worry about it.

Fizz frowned, his lips pressing together as he signed again. You sure? Come sit with me. You don’t have to be alone.

Blitzo hesitated, his claws tapping against the table. The sincerity in Fizz’s expression was almost enough to cut through the bitterness curling in his chest. He raised his hand, his reply slower this time. I’m fine. Really.

Fizz held his gaze for a moment longer, his concern plain. He gestured subtly toward the empty seat at his table, his fingers emphasizing the invitation. If you change your mind, we’re here.

Blitzo forced a small, tight smile and nodded. Thanks, he signed back, his motions jerky and half-hearted. He quickly dropped his hand to the table, avoiding Fizz’s gaze.

The weight of the conversation pressed heavier than he expected, a faint ache settling where his usual confidence sat. The chatter and laughter resumed, but Blitzo could still feel Fizz’s occasional glances in his direction.

The torchlight seemed to flicker harder, shadows twisting in sync with the frustration boiling inside him. They eat it up, don’t they? Blitzo thought, his claws curling tighter around the edge of the table. Back then, it was my ideas he ran with. Funny how nobody remembers that now.

The bitterness rose like bile in his throat, twisting his chest. His breathing quickened, and his tail lashed out, causing the chair beside him to slide back and hit the wall behind him. Across the room, Fizz looked over again and began to sign, but Blitzo didn’t wait to see what it was.

“Screw this,” he muttered, his voice barely audible over the noise of the cafeteria. Shoving back his chair with enough force to make it scrape loudly against the floor, he grabbed his notebook and stormed toward the exit.

“Blitzo—!” Fizz called urgently, his hands flashing in the torchlight as he held his hands up in hopes to stop his friend. For a fleeting second, guilt twisted in his chest, sharp and unfamiliar. He hadn’t meant to upset Blitzo, hadn't meant for his usual teasing to cut so deep. He pushed back his chair and tried to follow, but the moment he stood, a group of students swarmed him, firing off questions about his project and jostling for his attention.

“Wait,” Fizz said aloud, his voice carrying over the din, but the students didn’t relent.

By the time he managed to shake them off, Blitzo was gone.

Fizzarolli stood in the middle of the busy cafeteria, his fingers drumming against his thigh in a rhythm too quick and erratic. His gaze lingered on the door Blitzo had stormed through. The faint echo of retreating footsteps still rang in his ears.

He hadn’t meant to push that far—not this time. Teasing was their thing, wasn’t it? Banter, back-and-forth jabs, a way to keep things light even when the weight of everything else threatened to crush them. But today... today had been different. He’d seen it in the way Blitzo’s tail lashed too hard, the way his voice cracked under the sharpness of his words.

Blitzo always snapped back—it was their thing. But the look in his friend’s eyes, the tightness in his gestures—it wasn’t just frustration this time. It was something heavier, and Fizz hated that he’d missed it. Hated that he hadn’t known when to stop.

Fizz’s fingers twitched, their rhythmic clicking slowing as guilt settled like a stone in his chest. He should’ve stopped—should’ve pulled back before the jokes turned into barbs. This wasn’t how it used to be—back when their rhythm had come naturally when they lifted each other up instead of tearing each other down.

Back when things had been easier. The circus, the spotlight, the synchronized flips, and daring stunts—it was simple. They knew each other’s rhythms and trusted each other’s instincts. Blitzo was more than the backup then; he was the anchor, the one who kept the act together even when everything else was falling apart.

Fizz’s jaw tightened, and he took a step toward the cafeteria door before stopping short. What was he supposed to say? Sorry for being an ass? Sorry for forgetting how hard this place would be for someone like Blitzo? Sorry that he forced him here, that it was selfish and wrong? He could hear Blitzo’s voice now, sharp and defensive: “Don’t need your pity, Fizz. Save it for someone else.”

His shoulders slumped as he turned back to the group of students still vying for his attention. His hand hovered for a moment before clenching into a fist. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow, he’d say something. But for now, he stayed where he was, the sound of Blitzo’s footsteps already lost to the noise of the dining hall.

The hallway outside was quieter, a stark contrast to the chaos of the dining hall. Blitzo exhaled sharply, his breath fogging faintly in the cool, still air. He leaned against the wall behind him, his claws flexing against the rough stone. The cold bit at his back, grounding him slightly, but not enough to shake the frustration building in his chest. “Always him,” he muttered, his voice low and bitter. “Always Fizz.”

Blitzo closed his eyes tightly, trying to shake the frustration gnawing at his chest. But no matter how hard he tried, the words from the dining hall lingered, echoing in his mind like a cruel taunt.

Fizzarolli’s latest project...

genius...

the council...

Blitzo punched the wall, the sharp sound echoing down the empty corridor. “Let them have their perfect star,” he spat bitterly. “See if I care.”

But the words felt hollow, their weight settling heavily in his chest. He paced the corridor, his footsteps uneven, wrestling with his thoughts. The faint laughter drifting from the cafeteria only made it worse, scratching at his nerves like claws on stone.

One day, he thought fiercely, his claws scraping against the wall as his pace quickened. One day, I’ll prove them all wrong. Let’s see how much they’re laughing then.

Blitzo’s pacing slowed as he reached the end of the corridor. His chest heaved with uneven breaths, and for a moment, he stood still, staring blankly at the shadows twisting under the flickering torchlight. The distant hum of activity from the cafeteria faded, replaced by the rhythmic pounding of his heartbeat in his ears.

He needed to move. To hit something. To do anything other than stand there drowning in his thoughts.

His feet carried him forward, though he didn’t have a destination in mind. The hallway stretched endlessly before him, each step echoing faintly against the stone. Then, a large door loomed ahead. Beside it was a sign labeled Gymnasium, and he quickly pushed forward, wrapping his hand tightly around the iron handle and pushing the door open.

The faint creak of the doors echoed as Blitzo slipped inside, the sound bouncing off the walls—crimson light filtered through high windows, casting bloodred shadows across the polished floor. He felt his shoulders fall and his breath lighten as his gaze swept over the room.

Dropping his bag by the door, Blitzo rolled his shoulders, letting his jacket slip off and hit the floor in a heap. The taut muscles in his arms and legs hummed with restless energy like they were waiting for permission to move. He took a deep breath, the scent of the gym filling his lungs, and let it out slowly.

Then, without hesitation, he ran forward, his boots pounding lightly against the polished floor. He launched himself into a series of backflips, the movement fluid and precise, each arc of his body perfectly calculated. The air rushed past his ears, the gym spinning in his peripheral vision as he flipped again, landing lightly on his hands in a perfect handstand. The burn in his arms was sharp but familiar, like the ache of an old friend.

“Still got it,” he muttered under his breath, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He transitioned into a slow, controlled walk on his hands, his tail curling behind him for balance. The ache in his muscles grew, but he pushed through it, flipping back to his feet in one smooth motion. His boots scuffed lightly against the floor as he sprinted toward the uneven bars at the far end of the gym.

With a leap, he caught the higher bar, his claws digging into the cool metal as he swung his body into a rhythm. The rhythm of the bars beneath his hands wasn’t just movement; it was control. The sharp ache in his muscles, the burn in his lungs—it felt like proof that he was still here, still fighting, even if no one noticed. Each swing, each flip, was a conversation between him and the silence. The gym wasn’t mocking him, wasn’t demanding anything from him. It was just... there. Listening.

But the silence also bore weight. Every empty second between his moves was filled with the echoes of laughter, the kind that used to lift him up but now sank into his chest like stones. He’d always thought the applause was enough, a shield against the world’s indifference. But now, in this empty gym, its absence pressed harder than the bars beneath his hands.

Blitzo twisted mid-air, landing a dismount with a precision he hadn’t felt in years. His boots scuffed against the polished floor as he straightened, breathing hard. He tried to imagine the roar of the crowd, the way it used to wash over him and fill the cracks he kept hidden. Instead, the only sound was the faint creak of the bars behind him settling.

Was this better? The silence? Or did it just make the inadequacy louder? Fizz would’ve nailed that last flip without breaking a sweat. Fizz wouldn’t need an empty gym to remind himself of who he was.

Blitzo ran a hand through his sweat-damp spikes, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “Yeah, real star material,” he muttered, his voice bouncing off the walls.

A soft clap broke the quiet, startling Blitzo mid-thought. He whipped around, his chest tightening as he spotted Stolas standing near the door, his tall frame silhouetted by the dim light. The sound of the clapping wasn’t the roaring approval Blitzo was used to imagining. It was softer, steady, directed solely at him—and somehow, that made it worse.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Blitzo snapped, crossing his arms over his chest like a shield. The knot in his chest twisted tighter, his heart thudding painfully against his ribs. “How long were you watching?”

A fleeting memory tugged at him: He could still see the lopsided, legless horse balloon he'd worked so hard to make, his heart sinking as the auditorium fell quiet. Until Stolas’s genuine, joyous laughter had cut through the silence. It hadn’t been mocking; it’d been real. And even though it didn’t fill the cracks Blitzo kept hidden, it had lingered, faint but steady, like a stubborn ember refusing to die. That feeling now returned with Stolas’s quiet, deliberate clapping.

Blitzo’s cheeks burned, and he clenched his jaw. His tail flicked sharply, and his voice came out rougher than he intended. “Well? You gonna stand there all silent all night, or what?”

Stolas chuckled softly, stepping further into the gym. His feathers fluffed slightly, catching the crimson light as his gaze lingered on Blitzo with a strange intensity. “Long enough to see something extraordinary,” he said, his voice warm and sincere. “I apologize for intruding, but I couldn’t help myself. It’s been so long since I’ve seen anything so... breathtaking.”

Blitzo blinked, caught off guard by the honesty in Stolas’s tone. His tail flicked sharply behind him as he looked away, his face heating even more. “Yeah, well, don’t get used to it,” he muttered, trying to sound dismissive. “Fizz can do it better, anyway.”

Stolas tilted his head, his eyes narrowing as though considering the words carefully. “Perhaps,” he replied, stepping closer with deliberate grace, “but what you just did was uniquely yours. It had... soul. And it was mesmerizing.” He hesitated, “and I hope one day everyone else gets to see it too.” The sincerity in his voice made Blitzo’s chest tighten, and he quickly looked away, his tail flicking sharply behind him.

Mesmerizing. The word echoed in Blitzo’s head, foreign and uncomfortable. Praise like that wasn’t something he got—not without strings attached. He snorted, but the sound lacked its usual bite. “Mesmerizing, huh? You need your eyes checked, birdbrain,” he muttered, gruff, but the faint heat creeping up his neck betrayed him, and he avoided Stolas’s gaze, focusing instead on the floor. What does he know about me, anyway?

Stolas’s beak curved into a small, genuine smile. “Would you like to join me for dinner in the cafeteria?” he asked, his tone casual but hopeful. “I find myself in need of good company tonight.”

“Dinner…?” He glanced up at the clock above the entranceway and realized that he had been in there for close to four hours. He had missed two of his classes. “You wanna eat with me?” Blitzo asked instead, his voice cracking slightly. His tail flicked in surprise, and for a moment, his usual sharpness faltered. Why me? What does he even want? His tail coiled tight around his waist, a reflexive barrier against the unfamiliar warmth creeping into his chest.

“I think I’d enjoy your company,” Stolas replied steadily.

Blitzo hesitated, the words sticking in his throat. His instincts screamed at him to push back, to make some kind of snarky comment and move on. But the way Stolas was looking at him—calm, patient, like he actually wanted him there—made his usual walls harder to put up. He rubbed the back of his neck again, his fingers brushing against the fraying edge of his collar. “Uh, yeah,” he muttered finally. “I guess.” The words felt awkward and heavy, like trying on a jacket that didn’t quite fit. What’s his game?

Stolas’s smile widened, a soft warmth spreading across his features. “Wonderful,” he said, gesturing toward the door. “Shall we?”

Why the hell did I say yes? Normally, he’d have tossed out a snarky comment and walked away. But something about Stolas—the calm, unflinching way he’d asked—made it harder to say no.

He nodded and grabbed his stuff from the floor before leading the way to the cafeteria. As they walked together through the dimly lit halls, the tension in Blitzo’s shoulders began to ease, though his tail still flicked nervously. The quiet between them wasn’t heavy or awkward—it felt almost... nice.

As they reached the cafeteria, the hum of voices and clinking dishes grew louder, breaking the tension. Stolas held the door open for Blitzo, his movements as poised and deliberate as ever.

Blitzo muttered a quick “thanks” as he stepped inside, but he couldn’t shake the strange, warm feeling that had settled in his chest. His tail flicked restlessly as his eyes darted around the room, relaxing more when he saw that Fizz wasn’t there.

What the hell am I doing? he thought, his tail twitching sharply behind him. He tensed up, about to turn around and leave, but when he glanced at Stolas, who was standing patiently beside him with that stupidly calm smile, he sighed and shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. “Let’s just get this over with,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

“Come on,” Stolas said gently, his voice pulling Blitzo from his thoughts after they had gotten their dinner trays. The owl demon gestured toward a small table near the corner, tucked away from the main crowd. His expression was calm and patient, as if he had all the time in the world.

Blitzo nodded stiffly and followed, his boots scuffing lightly against the polished floor. As they reached the table, Stolas pulled out a chair for him, earning a surprised glance. “What, you think I’m royalty or something?” Blitzo quipped, but he sat down quickly, crossing his arms as his tail coiled around the leg of the chair.

Stolas chuckled softly, his feathers fluffing ever so slightly. “It’s simply good manners,” he replied, taking his seat with practiced grace. “Besides, it seems only fair after you dazzled me with your performance earlier.”

Blitzo’s cheeks flushed, and he busied himself, adjusting the tray in front of him. “Yeah, well, don’t expect an encore,” he muttered. He grabbed a piece of bread from his plate, tearing it into uneven chunks without eating.

Blitzo picked at the edge of his tray, his claws scratching faint lines into the plastic. The calm way Stolas watched him—it wasn’t judgmental or mocking. It wasn’t even pity. It was steady, like he actually cared about what Blitzo had to say. The realization made his chest tighten, his tail curling tighter around the chair leg. What the hell does he want from me? People don’t just look at me like that for no reason. His gaze darted to the door, but the warmth in Stolas’s expression kept him pinned to his seat, uncomfortable and rooted all at once.

“So,” Stolas began, lifting his steaming mug of tea to his beak. “Is Fizzarolli always like that?”

Blitzo froze mid-motion, his tail twitching slightly. “Like what?” he asked, his tone casual but not convincing. The tension in his shoulders betrayed him.

“The way he spoke to you earlier,” Stolas clarified, setting the mug in his hand down delicately. His gaze remained steady, not accusatory but curious. “It seemed... intense,” Stolas said gently, tilting his head as he studied Blitzo’s reaction. “You didn’t seem very happy.”

Blitzo snorted, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. “That’s just how we are,” he said with a shrug, though the flick of his tail suggested otherwise. “It’s how we play. Been like that forever.”

Stolas tilted his head, studying him with a patience that felt both unnerving and comforting. “And is it always fun for you?” he asked, his voice soft but pointed. “I only ask,” Stolas continued softly, “because I know what it’s like to pretend everything’s fine when it isn’t.” His voice carried a weight that surprised Blitzo—a kind of understanding that felt too personal to be fake. “And... no one deserves to carry that alone.”

The question caught Blitzo off guard. His bravado faltered, and he averted his gaze, staring down at the half-torn bread on his plate. His tail curled tighter around the chair leg. “It’s fine,” he said after a moment, his tone defensive. “Fizz is... Fizz.” Blitzo shrugged, though his tail flicked sharply behind him. “That’s just how it is,” he muttered, but his stomach tightened. He’s the star; I’m just the backup. Always was, and always will be.

“Friendship shouldn’t feel like a chore,” Stolas said softly, his gaze steady on Blitzo. He tilted his head slightly, his feathers shifting in the low light. “You deserve that, don’t you?”

“Oh great, now you’re my therapist too?” Blitzo snorted, smirking faintly. “What’s next? You gonna start charging me by the hour? ‘Cause let me tell ya, you ain’t getting a dime outta me.” His tone carried a sharper edge, but the bitterness softened as he glanced at Stolas’s calm, unflinching gaze. Something about it was too steady, too warm, and it made him shift uncomfortably in his chair.

Stolas smiled gently, his eyes softening. “Merely an observation,” he replied, his tone calm. “And a hope, I suppose.”

His tail uncurled slightly, and for the first time in a while, the knot in his chest didn’t feel quite as tight. Kindness always came with strings. He reminded himself. He stole a glance at Stolas, catching the owl’s steady, unflinching gaze, and the knot in his chest coiled tighter again. Don’t fall for it, Blitz. You know how this ends.

Blitzo scoffed, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, well, don’t hold your breath,” he said, though the usual sharpness in his voice had dulled.

The conversation shifted to lighter topics after that—Stolas asked about the food, Blitzo cracked a joke about the fancy tea, and for a moment, it felt like they weren’t just two strangers forced into an awkward arrangement. It felt... easy. Comfortable.

As they finished their meal, Stolas leaned back in his chair, his feathers shimmering faintly in the warm light. “You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I’d love to see more of what you can do in the gym sometime,” Stolas said, his voice warm. “Watching you reminded me of when I was a child, seeing you perform for the first time. It’s... magical, in a way that stays with you.”

Blitzo blinked, caught off guard by the compliment. “Uh... maybe,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “If you’re lucky.”

Stolas chuckled, the sound soft and musical. “I hope that I am very lucky, then,” he said, his tone light but sincere.

Blitzo rolled his eyes, but the heat rising to his cheeks betrayed him.“Yeah, well, don’t get too excited, birdbrain,” he muttered, stuffing his hands into his pockets as they rose to leave. “It’s not that big of a deal. Anyone who performs in a circus can do it.”

As they walked back through the quiet corridors, Blitzo caught himself glancing at Stolas’s calm expression. It was strange—how easily Stolas’s words lingered. Remarkable. Lucky. Mesmerizing. Blitzo stuffed his hands in his pockets, muttering under his breath. Maybe this wasn’t so bad. But don’t get used to it, birdbrain.

~o0o~

Later that evening, Blitzo trudged back to Room 305, his shoulders weighed down by the day. He paused briefly at the door, claws lingering on the handle before he shoved it open, expecting silence.

Instead, Stolas sat by the window, framed by the faint crimson glow of the Hellish storms outside. A thick, glowing tome rested on his lap, its faint hum blending with the ever-present buzz of Inferna’s wards.

“Good evening?” Stolas asked lightly, not looking up from his book.

Blitzo hesitated, caught off guard. “Yeah,” he muttered, tossing his bag onto the bed with a thud. “You?”

Stolas closed his book with careful deliberation, placing it on the windowsill before turning his gaze to Blitzo. “Better with you here now.”

Blitzo flopped onto his bed, the springs groaning under his weight. He scoffed, turning his burning face away from Stolas’s gaze. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Is your interaction with Fizzarolli still bothering you?”

Blitzo blinked, thrown off by the sincerity. “Yeah, well,” he muttered, scratching at one of his horns. “Don’t go getting ideas about me spilling my guts or anything. This isn’t that kind of arrangement.”

Stolas chuckled softly. “Of course not. I wouldn’t dare. Though, if you’d like, perhaps a bit of impromptu therapy is in order?”

Blitzo snorted, his tail flicking sharply against the bedframe. “Hard pass.”

Stolas smiled faintly, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Just an offer. You can scream into a pillow if that’s more your style.”

Blitzo rolled his eyes but couldn’t entirely hide the smirk tugging at his lips. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The room fell quiet for a moment, and Blitzo rolled onto his side, resting his head on his hand. “You ever feel like you’re just spinning your wheels?” he asked suddenly, his voice quieter now. “Like no matter what you do, you’re stuck in the same damn place?”

Stolas tilted his head, his expression genuinely contemplative. “More often than I care to admit,” he said. “But what’s the alternative? Stopping entirely? That doesn’t seem like your style.”

Blitzo huffed out a breath. “No, guess it’s not. Gotta keep pushing, even if you’re pushing against a wall.”

Stolas’s smile softened, his gaze distant. “That’s ambition for you. Exhausting, frustrating, but it keeps us moving forward.”

Blitzo let out a long breath, his tail curling loosely around his leg. “Yeah, ambition,” he muttered. “Real fun.”

Stolas chuckled, leaning back slightly in his chair. “It’s not meant to be fun.”

Blitzo glanced at him, his brow furrowing slightly. “You’re weird, you know that?”

“Thank you,” Stolas replied with mock seriousness, inclining his head slightly. “I take that as a compliment.”

Blitzo let out a small, reluctant laugh, shaking his head.

Stolas returned to his book, his feathers rustling as he flipped a page. Blitzo lay back on his bed, his arms folded behind his head, staring at the ceiling. The hum of the wards and the soft rustle of paper filled the space, creating a quiet rhythm that, for now, felt almost peaceful.

Meanwhile, in room 330, Stella stood frozen in front of the tiny closet, glaring at its rickety frame as though it had personally insulted her. The warped wooden rod creaked under the lightest touch, making her recoil as though it had stung her.

“This is... impossible,” she muttered, her voice low and venomous. She reached out cautiously, her manicured claws brushing the rod again before quickly pulling back. “Back home, my wardrobe could encompass this entire room—twice over. And now, I’m expected to rely on... this?” She gestured dramatically toward the closet as though presenting evidence in a trial.

From across the room, Millie glanced up, her expression more amused than concerned. “What’s wrong with it?” she asked, walking over to give the rod a firm shake. It wobbled precariously but held. “See? Steady as a mule in the mud.”

Stella gave her a look so sharp it could have cut glass. “Sturdy? This thing could collapse if I so much as breathe near it.”

Millie chuckled, stepping back and crossing her arms. “It’s got charm, that’s what. A little wobble never hurt nobody.”

“This isn’t character,” Stella snapped, turning back to the offending closet. “This is a disgrace. I can’t believe I’m being subjected to this. And without so much as a maid to assist me!”

Her claws dug into the frame as she glared at the closet, the sharp bite of wood grounding her. She hated how small the room felt, how suffocatingly ordinary it was. But it was more than the closet—it was everything. She could feel it, this creeping sense of mediocrity gnawing at the edges of her pride.

Her gaze shifted to Millie, who was humming a cheerful tune as she folded her clothes with practiced efficiency. Stella’s lip curled as she turned away. How could she be so... content? It was absurd—laughable, even—that anyone could find peace in this dump. And yet, a small part of Stella couldn’t ignore the ease with which Millie adapted. It was infuriating but... admirable, too. No, Stella thought fiercely, gripping the edge of the closet door until her claws bit into the wood. Adaptability was just a fancy word for settling. And Stella would never settle.

Millie leaned casually against the doorframe, unfazed. “Sounds rough,” she said lightly, though her tone wasn’t unkind. “Guess that makes me your maid today. Don’t worry, Your Highness—I’ll be sure to curtsy.”

Stella stared at the closet for a long moment. It wasn’t perfect—it wasn’t even adequate—but it was hers, for now. “I... suppose it’s better than nothing,” she said stiffly, the words sour in her mouth. She turned sharply toward the window, her claws brushing against the smudged glass. The reflection staring back at her looked far too much like someone who didn’t belong.

Her mind wandered back to her wardrobe at home—gilded doors that swung open to reveal rows of silken gowns arranged by shade and season. She could almost hear the soft rustle of fabric as maids adjusted her attire, the faint scent of lavender sachets lingering in the air. Every detail had been precise, elegant, her rightful due. Here, everything smelled of damp stone and sulfur.

Even the soundscape was wrong. At home, orchestras practicing in distant halls had been her background music, punctuated by the laughter of nobles at her father’s soirées. Now, the muffled chatter of students grated against her nerves, a constant reminder that she was no longer among her equals. She could still hear it echoing in the hallways earlier—those quiet, almost conspiratorial voices murmuring about “Stolas and that little imp boy.”

She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but the snippets stuck. A Goetian prince getting involved in the affairs of someone from the lower orders. It was absurd. And yet, she’d caught a fleeting glimpse of Stolas handing the imp several pieces of paper. His expression softened into something Stella could only describe as... tender. Her claws dug into the windowsill at the memory. It wasn’t just inappropriate; it was insulting. Stolas, her equal, lowering himself for—no, this couldn’t stand.

It wasn’t fair. It was wrong. They didn’t belong talking to each other any more than she belonged here.

“I don’t belong here,” she muttered finally, more to herself than to Millie.

Millie grinned wider, leaning against the doorframe. “Oh, I’ve heard. You’ve told me once or twice, sugar. Don’t you worry—I’m keepin’ score. So far, we got ‘unacceptable,’ ‘barbaric,’ and ‘impossible.’ You settlin’ on a favorite yet, or you still testin’ ’em out?”

Of course, she’d mentioned it. Over and over. Because every creak of the bed, every wobble of the closet rod, every musty breath of this place screamed that she didn’t belong. Stella turned back to the window, her feathers bristling. “You don’t get it,” she said softly, frustration edging her voice. “You weren’t dragged out of your life and dropped into... this.”

Millie shrugged. “Nah, I came here ‘cause I wanted to. Still, I get it—feelin’ outta place’s no fun. When I first got here, I was like a tick on a hound—didn’t have a clue where I fit in.” She shot Stella a knowing look. “But you’ll get it figured out. Just takes a little time and some grit.”

Stella stiffened, her feathers ruffling slightly. “I don’t need to ‘figure it out,’” she said, the words brittle. “I need to go back to where I belong.”

Her gaze drifted back to the smudged glass. The chipped dresser, the uneven floorboards, the single flickering torch—it all screamed mediocrity. This was not her life. This was not her destiny.

Millie smirked, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “You sure ’bout that? Folks who don’t belong don’t usually fight, so dang hard to say they do.”

She turned away with a scoff, the dim glow of Inferna’s wards casting eerie patterns across the sky. Her reflection in the smudged glass looked smaller, almost insignificant, but her gaze lingered on the empty horizon. For a fleeting moment, her claws tightened on the windowsill.

Some people thought they could rise above their station. But Stella knew better. It never lasted. And when it crumbled, when that fragile facade of ambition gave way to reality—well, some lessons had to be learned the hard way.

Her lip curled. She’d see to it that Stolas remembered exactly who he was—and that the imp learned where he belonged.

~o0o~

As the night deepened, the quiet settled over Inferna Academy like a heavy shroud. Shadows pooled in corners, and the ever-present hum of magic softened to a low thrum. Somewhere down the hall, muffled voices lingered, but in Room 305, the silence pressed in, thick and unyielding.

Blitzo lay awake in the dark, staring at the uneven stone ceiling. The faint, flickering light of the torches outside seeped through the small window, casting jagged shadows that twisted and writhed like they were alive. Like they were mocking him. His tail flicked restlessly against the mattress, curling and uncurling as his thoughts churned.

Fizz’s grin, the crowd’s laughter, and now Stolas, with his dumb sincerity, acting like he cared. Yeah, sure, Blitzo muttered bitterly. Easy to say when you’ve got a castle to go home to.

He turned sharply onto his side, the mattress creaking beneath him. His tail snapped against the edge of the bed, the motion sharp and erratic. “Maybe this place ain’t so bad,” he said aloud, the words tasting bitter as they left his mouth. “Or maybe it’s just Hell like everywhere else.” He let out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “And now I’m talking to shadows. Real stable, Blitzo.”

The shadows on the wall twisted and stretched with the flickering torchlight, their shapes jagged and mocking. “You got something to say?” he muttered, glaring at them. They didn’t answer, but the way they danced made him feel small, as if they were trying to tell him something he didn’t want to hear.

He sat up suddenly, the blanket falling to his lap. His claws flexed against the coarse fabric, the motion grounding him, if only slightly. “Fizz gets all the glory, all the praise. What do I get?” His voice cracked, raw and bitter. His tail lashed again, the frustration boiling over. “A pity pat on the head from the Goetia bird and a seat in the shadows.”

The shadows shifted again, and for a brief, maddening moment, it felt like they nodded in agreement. Blitzo let out a bitter snort, dragging a hand down his face. “Yeah, keep laughing. Bet you think this is funny, too.”

His claws scraped lightly against his skin, exhaustion pulling at him like a tide, but his mind refused to quiet. The memory of Fizz’s laughter echoed in his ears, sharp and relentless. Back then, the applause was enough—enough to drown out the doubts, the failures. But now? “They’ll see,” he muttered fiercely, his voice low and sharp. “One day, I’ll show them. I’ll show all of them.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and hollow. He leaned back against the wall, the cold stone biting into his skin, but it didn’t numb the ache in his chest. “Yeah, right,” he muttered, the sarcasm laced with something too close to hurt. “Who’s gonna notice?”

For all his talk, he didn’t just want them to see him. He wanted them to feel it—the pull, the thrill, the weightless moment before the catch. Its perfection is what he and Fizz used to share. His chest tightened at the memory of their last routine together, the daring flips and catches, the way the crowd roared like nothing else mattered. Not a screw-up, he thought fiercely. A star. Something they’ll remember long after the lights fade.

One shadow stretched high, towering like the Fizzarolli of his memories—effortless, graceful, always ahead. Another slumped low, gnarled, and indistinct, a reflection of himself clawing at the edges for something more.

Blitzo’s claws tightened on the coarse blanket, his tail flicking sharply. They don’t know me, he thought, his chest tightening. They don’t see what I see.

As the silence pressed in, the shadows slowed, their restless flickers softening into stillness. The quiet wasn’t oppressive anymore; it felt steady, solid, like the walls around him weren’t closing in but holding him up.

He pulled the blanket over himself, slumping back onto the mattress. The silence settled heavier this time, but it wasn’t the same oppressive weight—it was something quieter, colder, like a truce. His claws curled into the fabric, holding on as the last threads of the day unraveled around him.

But even as his eyes drifted shut, the promise lingered like a spark in the dark. One day, they’ll see. One day, Fizz. You’ll see I’m not just a shadow. The words echoed in his mind as the room fell into stillness. They weren’t heavy—they were sharp, like the edges of something unfinished but unyielding. Ambition, frustration, hope—they tangled, sharp and unyielding, as sleep took him.

Part Four

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