Still, the unease remained.
It was not even large enough to merit naming. Only a thin, persistent tension at the base of his sternum, as if something in the structure he had built was now bearing weight at a slightly wrong angle. Not enough to crack. Enough to make the shape feel altered.
He watched her as she smoothed the skirt of her uniform and reached for her gloves.
“Your fitting yesterday went well,” he said, testing nothing, sounding as casual as the words allowed.
Lyra glanced up. “It did.”
“The gown suits you.”
A faint smile. “You chose it.”
“Yes.”
Her eyes held his for just a fraction too long before dropping again.
“Then I suppose it does.”
The answer was flawless. The timing of it was not.
Caelum stepped closer and lifted one hand to the side of her face. “Look at me.”
She did. Instantly. Softly. The same warm, open expression he had taught her into.
Perfect.
Too perfect.
His thumb brushed once over her cheekbone. “If anything feels wrong today,” he said quietly, “you tell me.”
A pause.
Not hesitation.
Calculation so small that anyone else would have missed it.
Then: “Of course.”
He kissed her forehead and let it go.
The fracture in his chest widened by another hair.
* * *
She moved through the Collegium like a woman learning the dimensions of a stage.
The black corridors of North Tower had changed since the blood oath. Students no longer stared with the old open fear or the ugly curiosity reserved for unstable anomalies. Now the looks were more controlled. More formal. She felt them sliding over her coat, her collar, her face. Measuring. Reassessing.
Some lowered their eyes when she passed.
Others whispered anyway.
“…confirmed.”
“…high tier placement.”
“…untouchable until the ceremony.”
