[ENG.] Azazel - Lucifer's Son

3. Dulceață

The hours that day seemed to drag by with an infuriating inertia.

"From this point forward, I will be filling in for Professor Rockchester for a period of time that has yet to be determined. I would kindly ask you, you ignorant little brats, not to underestimate me by thinking you can tune out whatever I teach you, just because you're too caught up in your own egos - playing around with your notes like a bunch of crybabies."

The man's voice boomed through the classroom, sharp and cold as a winter wind, while his icy eyes scanned us one by one, as though he wanted to engrave us into his memory. When his gaze met mine, I instinctively looked down, holding my breath. My heart lurched in my chest, as if it had picked up on something deep and dark within him. I didn't like him. I didn't like him at all. I had always trusted my gut - that quiet inner voice that had guided me through my toughest choices, whispering in my ear whenever something was off. My grandmother used to call it "a gift from heaven," but I, too much of an atheist to believe that, saw it more as a survival mechanism, sharpened by the rough experiences I'd faced growing up.

Then he smiled. A smile as petty as it was sharp, curling his thin lips into an expression of pure satisfaction, as though he'd caught onto a secret no one else could see. In that moment, the alarm that had always rung inside my head went off - like a siren in a dark tunnel - warning me to keep this man as far away from me as possible.

"Straightforward. Now we know he doesn't lack a sense of humor. If you dig deep enough through the endless pile of asshole remarks he's got in his repertoire, you might get lucky and find something actually funny,"

Danielle hissed beside me, pushing her cat-eye glasses up her nose with a sharp flick of her wrist, her eyes rolling in an exaggerated show of contempt.

"Well, I think this is going to be... interesting," I murmured, trying to mask my nerves with a casual tone, but my voice betrayed me, breaking into a barely audible whisper.

We were cut off by his rough, booming voice, which ricocheted off the classroom walls like a sudden clap of thunder.

"It is my duty - and my obligation - to inform you that the grades assigned by Professor Rockchester may drop so drastically that you could fail my course. You could go from a very respectable B+ to a miserable F... Miss Jacketstone, isn't that right?" He crossed his arms over his chest, shifted his weight to one foot, and fixed Danielle with a cutting stare, as if he wanted to carve his words directly into her skull.

I was convinced I had completely lost my mind, because for a fleeting moment I wished that icy gaze were directed at me - just to find out what was hiding behind that mask of arrogance and control. I would have taken even the harshest insult if it meant I could decode that deep, authoritative tone, could uncover the truth behind those hard, chiseled features.

"And now that we've settled that, we can move on to the lesson."

I barely held back a laugh as Danielle started mimicking him - too offended to let it slide - her face flushing a bright red, lips pressed into a tight grimace of frustration.

"Now, we'll start from the beginning, because I want to make sure you all have a clear grasp of the concept and that you've at least absorbed the basics. Witchcraft is generally defined as a set of magical and ritualistic practices - often symbolic in nature - aimed at negatively affecting people or objects belonging to them, through the aid of supernatural and malevolent entities."

I started writing frantically, well aware that over the last two months I'd skipped so many classes I'd missed a huge chunk of old Professor Rockchester's lessons. Danielle leaned toward me, continuing to scribble in her binder with an almost compulsive fury.

"You know you're gonna let me borrow your notes later, right?" she whispered, without taking her eyes off her tangled scrawl, though the tension in her voice gave away her attempt to seem casual.

I gave her a sideways look and replied, "I know your pride is wounded, Dan, but you'd better not get caught. This one doesn't seem like he's playing around."

Danielle huffed, and I gave her a small, friendly pinch on the thigh - a gesture she knew well, our way of telling each other that everything was fine, even when it wasn't.

As the professor continued his explanation, my mind drifted to Transylvania, my homeland, with its history steeped in mystery and darkness. Sighișoara, in particular, had made me fall in love with its reputation as the epicenter of black magic - a land of tyrants and inquisitors who, paradoxically, exploited witches for their own ends.

A story passed down from generation to generation, reinforcing the belief that black magic had deep, tangible roots.

"Low magic..." I murmured, almost without realizing it, as I absentmindedly jotted down the thought on my paper.

"What was that, Miss...?" His voice thundered through the room, cutting through the air like a blade. Caught off guard, I felt Danielle kick me under the desk.

"Ow! What is wrong with you?" I protested under my breath, rubbing my aching leg.

"Stan!" she hissed, visibly terrified.

I let my gaze settle on him, trying to mask my discomfort, but his stare - piercing as a dagger - seemed to leave me no way out.

"So then, Miss - your name?"

"Vladă, Jolie Vladă..." I stammered, uncertain, as if I were asking myself for confirmation. My name, my identity, suddenly felt like a weight pressing down on me, making me feel exposed.

"It's a little hard for me to place your background with a French first name and a Romanian last name," he continued, raising his eyebrows with an expression of almost theatrical bewilderment, as though he had just stumbled upon an unsolvable riddle.

"I'm Romanian, with a French mother, but I'm Romanian," I explained, a bit more steadily - though his sarcastic tone still left me feeling off-balance, as if I were about to buckle under the weight of his judgment.

"That explains the blue eyes and the soft features, then. So - what did you have to say a moment ago, dulceață?"

Dulceață. The word made me shiver, though I couldn't figure out why. I looked at him for a moment, nearly dazed, but he seemed to be enjoying himself as he watched my reaction. I glanced sideways at Sebastian, who looked back at me with a puzzled expression, as if he too was trying to make sense of that strange inflection.

I pulled myself together, refusing to give in to his provocation. "I was wondering what low magic was."

His gaze sharpened instantly, like a predator catching the scent of blood.

"Where did you hear that term?" he asked, his voice now lower and harder, as though he were trying to probe every corner of my soul.

"Well, it's a term you hear a lot back home, but no one's ever really bothered to explain to me what it actually is or why it's considered so dangerous," I replied, trying to keep my tone even - though his challenging stare burned against my skin.

"Oh well, it doesn't surprise me that a country full of fanatics would struggle to take topics like this seriously. How's good old Vlad doing? Or should I call him Count Dracula?" I heard him mock my homeland, my people, with a sneer that made me clench my hands under the desk.

I could no longer hold back my anger. "Well, it surprises me that a professor who teaches applied witchcraft takes these subjects so lightly." My voice was hard - a statement meant as a challenge. I could feel the tension rising in the air like a storm about to break.

Danielle, watching us, couldn't suppress a little smirk. Her hands moved nervously on the desk, but the atmosphere between me and Stan had become palpable by now - almost electric.

He raised an eyebrow - a quick, subtle movement that betrayed no emotion. But then his smile widened, as if he had finally figured something out that I still couldn't decode. He lifted one corner of his mouth in an almost imperceptible smile that, rather than putting me at ease, made me feel even more at risk.

"Alright then. Between Low Magic and Witchcraft, even though they're similar, there's a substantial difference. Witchcraft is a practice carried out by a witch or warlock who possesses knowledge - even if limited - that allows them to dominate, or at least regulate, the flows of negative magic gathered and directed toward a target. Low magic, on the other hand, is performed by people who are completely - or nearly - ignorant of the subject, like yourselves, but who know certain practices because they were passed down to them by someone, like a mother, father, or grandparent. Those who practice low magic only know that by doing specific things with certain materials and formulas, they can achieve results - but they are not actually capable of managing those results. In 80% of cases, it's the very person performing the practice who ends up suffering the side effects."

His voice had dropped lower and more menacing, the words sharpening like blades. The lesson had turned into a minefield.

"Well, I still don't understand why there's so much..." I didn't get to finish the sentence before his hand slammed down on the desk with a dull, brutal c***k that made me flinch.

"There's nothing to understand, Miss Vladă. It's a simple equation: no low magic, no negative consequences. Low magic and witchcraft are tied together by one simple factor - they are both generally used to commit harmful, malicious, and damaging acts. And they inevitably trace back to the foundations of Black Magic. Think about it, Miss Vladă. How exactly do you think you'd be able to use low magic without then being consumed by Black Magic - with no way back? You can't, because there is no way to stop it from undermining your existence in every possible way."

He paused for a moment, letting his words hang heavy in the air. Then, with a shrug, he muttered - just quietly enough that everyone could still hear - "No love spells for you, Miss Vladă." And he laughed - a dry, cruel sound.

A wave of embarrassment hit me, but I refused to let it take over. I shot to my feet, ready to walk out, but his voice stopped me cold.

"Don't you walk out that door, or I swear your grade will be so low that three full semesters won't be enough to pull it back up."

I exhaled loudly, and with that same energy dragged my chair back to my seat. Stan's smirk spread wider, as if he had just gotten exactly what he wanted from me. And yet, something stirred inside me - a fire I had never felt before. One thing was certain: this professor was going to be my greatest challenge, and I had no intention of letting him win.