Aidan
The rain fell in relentless sheets, a cold, biting downpour that soaked the stone courtyard of the Academy. I leaned against the window frame of my dormitory, arms crossed as I observed Nuel struggling below. His small frame hunched over the wooden tub, scrubbing at my shirt with trembling hands. The rain plastered his dark hair to his forehead, and his clothes clung to him like a second skin.
The sight should have been satisfying. I had ordered him to wash my clothes as punishment for his audacity earlier in the day, his stubborn defiance in dodgeball still fresh in my mind. Yet, as I watched him, my amusement flickered into something else—an irritation I couldn’t quite place.
Scott’s words echoed in my mind: You’re targeting him, and you know it.
I scoffed under my breath.
