The Blackthorn Academy for Non-Humans did not welcome surprises.
Built between dimensions, the school existed where magic folded neatly into order. Demons, hybrids, shadowkin, elemental beings—all learned here under strict rules. Power was allowed. Chaos was not.
That morning, the gates trembled.
Azrael felt it instantly.
He sat at the highest tier of the lecture hall, one leg crossed lazily over the other, dark uniform untouched by dust or effort. Whispers rippled through the room as students sensed it too—something other had entered the grounds.
A presence that did not belong to Hell.
"Young Master," a low voice murmured.
Azrael didn't look away from the doors. "I know."
Lyria stood beside him, her shadow-wings barely visible against the stone wall, eyes narrowed. "She didn't come through the usual paths."
Kora frowned. "And she's not masked."
That was the problem.
The massive doors at the front of the hall opened.
The principal entered first—tall, ancient, unreadable. And behind her walked a girl who looked completely human.
No glowing hair.
No wings.
No visible magic.
Dark hair fell simply down her back. Her uniform was plain, her posture calm. But the moment she stepped inside, the air shifted.
Students stiffened. Some instinctively bowed. Others felt their powers recoil.
Azrael's eyes darkened.
So it's true, he thought. She remembers herself.
The principal's voice cut through the tension. "Students, you will show respect. Our guest is not a student, nor is she here to be monitored."
That caused murmurs.
Important guests were usually shielded. Protected. Guarded.
This one wasn't.
Hestia stood silently, her gaze steady, taking in the room with clear awareness. Not fear. Not confusion.
Recognition flickered briefly in her eyes.
Straight to Azrael.
Their gazes locked.
The world seemed to narrow.
"So that's him," she thought calmly.
The Prince of Hell.
Young Master Azrael.
He rose slowly to his feet.
Around him, the room reacted instantly.
"Y-Young Master—" someone whispered.
Azrael inclined his head slightly—not to the principal, but to Hestia.
A challenge.
A greeting.
A warning.
Interesting.
Hestia did not bow.
She did not flinch.
She simply looked at him—measuring, ancient, and alert.
Lyria leaned closer to Azrael, her voice barely audible. "She's not under protection. That means—"
"She's dangerous," Azrael finished softly.
The principal gestured toward an empty seat near the front. "You will observe today. Nothing more."
Hestia moved forward, unhurried.
As she passed Azrael, a pulse of restrained power brushed against him—controlled, disciplined, unmistakably divine.
His lips curved into a slow, unreadable smile.
So the heavens sent their own, he thought. And they sent her unarmed.
Class resumed, but no one listened.
Because balance had just walked into Blackthorn Academy.
And both worlds felt it