The Demon Lord and his Hero (BL)

"So you're the person he was saving a seat for?"

Syryn turned to look at Magnus and then back at the female classmate.

"You want this seat? Let's exchange." Syryn replied. Magnus still pretended deafness.

"You know who I am after all." A smug smile graced her pretty face and Syryn didn't care enough to ask.

He sat up to leave when Magnus finally reacted by pulling him back down to the seat. "Syryn, you're hurting my feelings here," Magnus drawled. The fire mage leaned back in his seat with deceptive laziness. Magnus then threw an arm around Syryn's chair and only then did he deign to look at the girl.

"Alamandra, leave." It was a tone that Syryn had never heard Magnus use.

"No, Magnus please, I'm sorry! Just let me-"

"Settle down class." The professor had arrived.

Syryn raised a brow at his friend who merely shrugged in a way that was designed to appear casual. He had a belly full of questions but if Magnus wasn't willing to explain then there was no sense in pushing.

The day was spent attending classes and avoiding the insistent female classmate that Syryn was frankly considering disposal of. To his relief, the last bell rang and they were out like lightning.

"Where are we heading?" Syryn was getting pulled along by Magnus past several corridors and an entire garden filled with black roses and purple ivy.

The mage grinned at Syryn. "Did you forget about the annual friendship meet?"

"It's coming up soon, isn't it?" Syryn smiled. His heart began to beat faster when he thought about a match against Rowan.

"Very soon. The representatives for King Hill will be narrowed down to 7 fighters through a competition next week. Apart from me and four other seniors, there will be two free slots for newcomers like you." Magnus explained.

"So this is just between King Hill and Winter Fortress? What about Saint's Moon?"

Syryn and Magnus had arrived at an open metal gate that was at least 10 feet high. Embedded into the rock face of a mountain, it looked very intimidating with how thick the gate was. Magnus led him inside while continuing to explain.

"You already know what it can get like with mages and anti mages being on opposite poles of the magical spectrum. This friendship meet is just one of the few methods that have been employed to foster healthy competition and understanding between the two." Magnus rattled off like he was giving a speech to a junior. "Saint's Moon and a few other schools will arrive to spectate only."

Magnus then changed the topic and spoke with more weight in his tone, "Syryn, because of your Insistence at keeping the contract with King Hill unannounced, only a small percentage of the students know about it. The fact that you're a scholarship student who was allowed to jump directly to 7th class will soon draw negative attention to you from the ambitious students." Magnus seriously told the boy, "do not hesitate to assert dominance. Humility is not a trait that is appreciated inside these walls."

Syryn understood his friends meaning. King Hill was the school to the cream of Sigil kingdom's mages. Ambitious, ruthless, and powerful, these three words could be used to describe the students of King Hill. They would eat up the weak alive.

"I'm not asking you to let the demons out. But are you good enough without having to resort to your demonic strengths?" Magnus asked.

Syryn almost felt insulted at that but he remembered that Magnus had yet to see him manipulate his elemental energies. Syryn had mastered the energies of ice and darkness. They would not cause him grief but he wasn't very sure about fire. The latest attribute that had shown up for some reason was still an unbroken beast and it tended to try Syryn's control, often calling out the slumbering demonic affinities.

"I'll try not to disappoint you, Magnus," Syryn replied

When Lord Peltner, the Head Magister of King Hill, arrived at the Hall of Wisdom, Syryn let out a breath of surprise at Lord Peltner's companion. It was that anti mage who had schooled Syryn.

"What is Artemus doing here?" Syryn heard Magnus' question but Lord Peltner's words cut off anything else he wanted to say.

"Young mages, allow me to introduce to you your new trainer for the class of Arcane Combat, professor Artemus. You might be thinking he's too young to be teaching you but don't let these looks fool you." Lord Peltner swept a satisfied look around the gathering.

"Artemus is an anti mage, the best of his generation. He will only be here temporarily so strap your boots and learn all that you can during his brief stint with us."

The rest of Lord Peltner's words turned into background noise when pitch-black eyes found Syryn.

"Artemus, he looks very young" Syryn mouthed loud enough for Magnus to hear.

"Like Peltner said, don't let it fool you," Magnus replied.

"You know him then."

"Yep. He's Alka's older brother." Magnus grinned after dropping that bomb. "This is going to be one hell of a year."

Alka's older brother?! Syryn looked at the young professor and stared. He was starting to see a few similarities between them.

"How old is he?"

"19 years old. Artemus is a member of the Sanguine by the way. Something must have happened to bring him back from his missions." Magnus observed.

Mage Hunter, Syryn thought with a feeling of revulsion and fear that crawled up his throat. Flashes of a red cloak, like their namesake, appeared in Syryn's mind. Rowan too would join the Mage Hunters soon.

"Syryn Nigh'hart, I did not expect to see you here young man." Lord Peltner suddenly brought the spotlight to Syryn, drawing attention to him from every eye in the Hall. "Come meet us at my office after you're done submitting your entry." The Head Magister beamed at him and then turned to Artemus to exchange a quiet word. The 19-year-old had a faint reaction - a subtle twitch of his dark brow - to what Lord Peltner had just told him. He then turned and looked at Syryn with interest in his eyes.

"Is there something you haven't told me?" Magnus raised his brow at Syryn.

"I fought with Artemus this morning."

"...."

"That's why I was late... "

Syryn and Magnus had submitted their entries so they headed off together to Lord Peltner's tower office. Magnus parted ways at the tower to rendezvous with Alka who was watching Lucien. The little boy had been under the care of the school's best babysitter while his big brothers attended class.

With a gentle knock on the office door, Syryn pushed the door open and allowed himself entry. Lord Peltner was conspicuously absent in the luxuriously upholstered office. Artemus though was seated on a comfortable long chair with his head tipped back, getting some much-needed snatches of sleep if the blue bruises under his eyes were anything to go by.

"Professor Artemus," Syryn called softly. The man slowly opened his onyx eyes and took in the sight of Syryn.

"You're here." Artemus sat forward in a graceful motion that belied the tiredness he was exhibiting. "Take a seat. The Head Magister has left us to use his office for its privacy wards."

Syryn was puzzled as to why they would need privacy wards. He took a seat on the opposite side of the professor and waited for him to speak.

"I've been told that you're a very accomplished alchemist. Is that right?" Dark eyes assessed Syryn with an intensity that made him uncomfortable.

"I'm good enough." He replied with a dash of the humility that Magnus had warned him about. "Are you in need of a potion?"

"Not quite. Before I explain further, I'll need your complete secrecy and discretion."

Artemus then leaned forward and pressed long fingers to his elegant brows. The dark circles under the hollows of his eyes stood out starkly against the high pale cheekbones that shared a resemblance with Alka's. And despite the apparent bone-weariness, the obvious lack of energy, there was not a shred of vulnerability in the man.

"Are you okay? Professor?" Syryn called with a frown.

Artemus' entirely aristocratic hands - pale, long-fingered and showing the faintest of blue veins delicately curving up his corded wrists - began unbuttoning his shirt. With fluid practised movements, he took off his snowy shirt and exposed a dark scar that ran underneath where his left ribs were.

Like this, with everything on display, Syryn got an eyeful of strong shoulders that dipped into a delicate clavicle, a perfectly smooth chest without blemish or freckle. Even the angry scar that stood out as a dark ridge served as an aesthetic touch to the man's pleasing body.

To Syryn's wandering eyes, the wound had healed but only superficially. Under his scar, an insidious poison was festering. It all began to make sense to Syryn then.

"How?" He asked the young man.

"A demon attack." Artemus replied with a soft sigh. "2 months ago, I was injured by a demon that carried a sword made of glacial metal. He left me with this wound and I haven't found a cure so far." There would be none until many years later, Syryn remembered.

"My primary healer has informed me that I have little time before paralysis sets in." The anti mage spoke in a clinically detached manner so much so that it seemed like he was reading out a report.

"I might be able to help you," Syryn replied tentatively. His heart was in tatters at the moment because of the demon that Artemus had mentioned. Syryn knew who it was and if this demon was on the move then it meant that Traxdart had begun to make overtures to the human world.

Shaking away those dark thoughts for later, Syryn turned back to the present situation. "This cold poison has a cure but I need blood from a demon with a fire attribute." Did Syryn count as a demon with a fire attribute? He had no idea.

A thick silence followed his words while Artemus digested said words. "You're the first person to tell me that there is a cure," he replied raising his head just enough to meet Syryn's eyes. The weight of the anti mage's heavy gaze had Syryn feeling like his existence was coming into sharp focus.

"Can you get me the ingredients? I can guarantee your recovery." Syryn lowered his lashes and looked away from Artemus. If the anti mage asked him how he possessed such knowledge, Syryn had no sellable excuse, at least not for someone as astute as the man before him.