The robe’s fabric is heavier than the academy’s standard attire, lined with a faint, protective enchantment that feels like a second skin. Wearing it gives me an unusual sense of belonging and unease all at once.
As I walk deeper into the Vespera quarters, the lanterns burn low within their crimson glass casings, casting a warm, wine-colored glow over the walls and washing the corridorsin muted shades of red. The light softens the sharp lines of the old stone but also deepens the shadows between pillars and arches, creating pockets of darkness that seem to hold their breath. Tall windows line the gallery to my left, draped in velvet heavier than anything I have ever touched; the moon spills a pale, silvery light through the glass, blending with the lanterns until the entire corridor feels suspended between night and fire. It is quieter here than anywhere else I have wandered today, quiet enough that the faint sigh of fabric each time my robe brushes my legs sounds louder than it should.
My steps slow as I take in the architecture. Vespera’s wing bears the unmistakable weight of age, carved moldings, arched doorways, dark wood polished by centuries of hands, but beneath it all hums the faint throb of magic. It is subtle, but constant, like the lingering heat of embers beneath a bed of ash.
The portraits lining the walls depict past members of the house in rich colors and stern composure. Their eyes seem to follow me as I pass, not accusingly, but with a strange alertness, as though assessing how well I might one day fill their frames. I try not to let their silent scrutiny unsettle me, but after the fountain’s reaction earlier, everything feels more alive than it ever should.
The corridor turns, leading into a long passage lined on either side with shelves of ancient texts. The scent of old parchment and enchanted ink hangs faintly in the air, mingling with the cool draft drifting through the wing. Here, the silence grows thicker, deeper, so profound that I can hear the soft pad of my own footfalls even through the carpet runner beneath them. The tranquility is soothing, but in its depths lies something that prickles faintly along the back of my neck.
At first, I think it is simply the weight of the day settlingover me. I force myself to keep walking, letting my fingertips graze the spine of a heavy leather-bound tome as I pass. Yet the sensation does not fade. If anything, it sharpens. There is a presence here, unseen, perhaps even shifting just beyond the reach of my peripheral vision, but certain enough to stir the small hairs at my nape.
I pause mid-step, listening. The Vespera quarters remain outwardly still. No footsteps. No rustle of a robe. No distant murmur of conversation down a connecting hall. Yet something in the air feels taut, like a bowstring drawn back but not released. The lantern light flickers faintly across the shelves, its glow bending as though meeting resistance.
The sensation is familiar, unsettlingly so. It echoes the moment in the courtyard when I had felt eyes upon me before I ever lifted my head to confirm they were there. A quiet, deliberate attention. Assessing rather than intruding. Observing rather than announcing itself. The awareness sinks into my bones as surely as the damp stone chill seeps through my slippers.
I take another step, slower this time, letting the silence envelop me, letting my senses sharpen within it. My hand tightens around the sleeve of my robe, grounding me as I lift my gaze once more to the long corridor stretching ahead. The crimson-lit passage reveals nothing, but absence alone does not soothe the unease thrumming beneath my ribs.
The quiet in the Vespera wing shifts the moment a new voice curls into the air, smooth and self-assured, carrying just enough amusement to suggest he has been waiting for the right moment to speak.
“First day and already slipping away from the grand family banquet? A shame,” a voice drawls from the shadows, smooth, unhurried, and laced with a quiet amusement that feels almost intimate. “I had hoped I wasn’t the only one who finds those blasted sorting spectacles intolerable.”
The sound coils around me so unexpectedly that I go rigid. I turn, breath caught somewhere between my chest and throat, and there he stands, the same boy whose watchful gaze I had felt earlier in the courtyard. He is no longer distant, no longer safely tucked behind a column or half-hidden within a crowd. Instead, he leans with studied ease against the stone wall just beside the Vespera hall doors, as if this wing were built around him rather than the other way around.
Up close, he is far more striking than my fleeting glance had suggested. Freckles scatter across his face in a captivating constellation, softening the sharp angles of his jaw yet doing nothing to diminish the intensity of his expression. His eyes, brown touched with a faint, startling ring of green, hold mine with a focus so unwavering it feels like a hand at the base of my spine, steadying me and unbalancing me all at once. His hair falls in loose, dark curls across his brow, giving him the appearance of someone who has always existed just slightly out of order, but never out of control.
He is taller than I expected, easily a few inches above me, perhaps nearer Liam’s height, and the robe he wears hangs across his broad frame with an unsettling elegance. The black fabric, trimmed with the deep crimson threads of Vespera, seems almost sculpted to him, the crest at his chest catching a faint shimmer of lantern light.
Were I not still bruised with uncertainty and suspicion, I might have been tempted to simply marvel at him. But the way he looks at me makes admiration feel like a dangerous concession.
His lips curve into a subtle smile, barely-there yet unmistakably intentional, as though he is waiting, patiently, confidently, for whatever reaction he believes I ought to give.
“Shouldn’t I be asking you the same question?” I manage, folding my arms partly to warm myself and partly to reclaimeven the smallest sense of composure. “You seemed quite committed earlier to staring down every unfortunate student who approached the fountain. Why abandon your post now?”
His brows rise, the gesture smooth and unbothered. “Because,” he says, pushing himself from the wall with unhurried grace, “it isn’t every year this house gains a pair of siblings. And I admit I find myself rather curious.” He takes a slow step forward, drawn by some quiet, confident purpose that makes each inch of closing distance feel deliberate. “You are… not what I expected.”
The air between us draws tighter. His nearness is not oppressive, but it is potent, warmth radiating from his body, the faint scent of woodsmoke and ripe apple clinging to him, drifting with every subtle shift. It settles around me, coaxing an awareness I am entirely unprepared for.
“I wasn’t aware I was required to meet anyone’s expectations this evening,” I reply, lifting my chin as though doing so might guard me from the steady, consuming quality of his gaze. “Nor do I recall being asked to provide the story of my life upon first meeting.”
His smile deepens, though it never quite turns into anything bold or showy; it remains small, knowing, threaded with a quiet satisfaction that unnerves me far more than arrogance ever could. “I never asked for your life story,” he murmurs. “And I doubt you could surprise me with one. But I would like to know why you and your brother, have arrived at Vireldan now. Students do not simply appear in Vespera without reason, particularly not those who draw the attention of the fountain as you did.”
He tilts his head, studying me with a concentration that borders on intimate scrutiny. The lantern light plays along the green ring in his eyes, giving them a feral gleam. He peers down at me as though attempting todecipher something buried just beneath my skin, something I did not realize I carried.
My pulse quickens, not out of fear, but out of a tension so sharp it feels like electricity threading through the air between us.
“I imagine I am here for the same reason as anyone else,” I answer carefully. “To learn. To continue my studies. To understand magic.”
The moment the words leave my mouth, I feel the silent contest in his gaze, waiting, pressing, tempting me to look away first. I refuse. I do not allow my eyes to falter, do not grant him even the smallest victory.
He notices. Of course he notices.
And there is a shift, tiny, subtle, but undeniable, in the expression he gives me next. Not triumph, exactly. Something quieter. Something far more dangerous.
Interest.
Deep, simmering interest.
He holds my gaze for a moment longer than politeness should allow, the corner of his mouth lifting as though he has found something in my stare he had hoped to uncover. Then, without speaking, he closes the remaining space between us in one unhurried step.
