"Not at all," Dante said once again, giving Scyeth a bow of his own and watching the youth walk out the door with a smile on his face. Even if he was strict...even if the other teachers thought he had no emotion...he did care about these students, and what they would become.

And in her case, especially Scyeth.

Dante frowned at the voice; it was a quiet voice, an unobtrusive voice, and whenever it piped up it usually wasn't incorrect.

But it usually meant that something was terribly, terribly wrong. But that couldn't be.

With a shake of the head he settled down, taking a quill and beginning to write. It was probably not all that important, anyway.