Sebastian beating the man until breath left him.
Sebastian holding me when I swayed and whispered for him to get me out.
I don’t know which of those moments unsettles me most.
Now, as the world settles into quiet, the medical wing of Vireldan feels cavernous. Vast. Hollow in a way that amplifies the faint hum of the enchanted sconces on the walls. Daylight pours through the high arched windows, chasingaway shadow but not the chill that has burrowed into my bones.
Most students are already drifting toward their morning classes. The halls outside are muffled with distant chatter and footsteps, but here, the silence is profound. No healers pacing between beds. No injured students groaning in pain. No professors waiting to interrogate us about why two first-years, two Vespera, no less, returned to the school by dissipation before sunrise.
If not for the unsteady rhythm of my own breathing, the room would feel almost abandoned.
Sebastian brought me here.
Not Liam.
Not Trevor.
Not Theo.
Sebastian.
He had been silent since the moment the spell released us onto the cold stone floors of the medical wing. He did not ask if I was hurt again. He did not ask what the man had done. He did not demand answers to the promise I’d made him in a whisper: “Get me out of here.” But silence does not equal indifference, not with him. With him, quiet is something sharp, a blade waiting to be turned one way or another.
During the dissipation, he had gripped my waist firmly, his hand spanning far more of me than I expected, fingers hot even through my clothing. The spell requires stability, requires touch, requires grounding. But the moment we arrived, he withdrew as though contact burned him. He stepped back so fast I felt the ghost of his warmth vanish before my mind fully caught up.
Now, he stands several paces away near one of the tall windows. His back is to me, one hand gripping the stone ledge, the other flexing and curling at his side, his knuckles still raw and torn. Dried blood stains the ridges of his fingersand the sleeve of his uniform. The faint tremor in his hand tells me the adrenaline hasn’t worn off.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
My thoughts churn instead.
Did heseemy eyes change?
Did he witness that flicker of power I cannot control?
What did he think when he saw me cornered, when he saw me frighten the man with something that wasn’t quite magic?
And why did he come after me?
Of all the students in the pub, of all the people in Anvaris, whyhim?
The questions coil and uncoil, restless and sharp-edged.
Finally, Sebastian shifts. Slowly. Deliberately. The kind of movement made by someone trying to keep anger from spilling over the rim. He draws a breath that tightens the lines of his shoulders, as though the air itself is difficult to swallow. When he turns toward me, his expression is unreadable, too composed, too calm, too carefully arranged for someone who nearly beat a man unconscious minutes earlier.
For a heartbeat, his gaze flicks to my side, where the torn skin still stings beneath my shirt. A muscle twitches in his jaw before he looks away again.
He does not move closer.
He does not speak.
He simply stands there, rigid and simmering, as though the truth is a beast pacing behind his ribs and he hasn’t decided whether to let it loose.
Sebastian moves through the medical wing like a caged storm, quiet but charged, every step threaded with purpose he refuses to explain. He stands near one of the tall medicine cabinets built into the stone wall, the wooden doors creaking as he rifles through bottles and tins with impatient hands.His hair is a mess, curls falling across his forehead in untamed waves. His hands look even worse. The dried blood, the split knuckles, the way he flexes his fingers as if they still ache from each blow he delivered… it all paints a picture he is too proud or too furious to hide.
He stripped off his robe not long after we arrived. Now he stands in a black shirt that clings to him in the soft morning light, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the top buttons undone to reveal a broad stretch of chest dusted with faint curls of dark hair. His tie hangs loose around his neck, crooked enough to suggest he either put it on in a hurry or abandoned the attempt altogether. The image is disarmingly raw, intimate in a way that feels almost intrusive to look at.
My own vulnerability feels equally exposed. I ditched my robe minutes after he did; it was too heavy, too suffocating, and far too stained with splinters and blood. Now only my white blouse remains, its fabric torn along one side, smeared with streaks of dirt and faint traces of my own blood. My arms feel cold, my breathing uneven, and the tattoo that marks the length of my spine, twisting up like a serpent guarding my scars, peeks faintly over my shoulder where the blouse has slipped.
