Lyra kissed him back. She didn’t know what she was doing, she had never done this before, so she imitated his movements against her lips. Her hand rested on his shoulder, but part of her remained elsewhere, caught between old silences and new corrections. The kiss tasted like safety and something sharper: opportunism wearing comfort’s face.
Adrian pulled back just enough to speak against her lips, voice rough.
“Lyra… you don’t have to keep going back to him.”
She stepped away, unsteady. Guilt arrived sharp and immediate.
She turned—and froze.
Caelum stood at the far end of the passage.
He was perfectly still. Even at that distance sheunderstood he had seen everything: the kiss, her hand on Adrian’s shoulder, the way she had leaned in while her mind fractured.
His expression had not changed. That was what made it terrifying.
Caelum turned without hurry and walked away. The corridor swallowed him.
Lyra remained where she was, guilt twisting like a knot. She had broken no agreement. Yet his gaze lingered like a brand on her skin.
She moved past Adrian and continued down the corridor. She did not look back at the North Tower.
* * *
Back in her room she closed the door and leaned against it.
The space felt too still. She crossed to the basin and splashed cold water on her face, trying to wash away the taste of Adrian and the memory of Caelum’s hands from that morning. It didn’t help. In the mirror her lips looked faintly swollen, her cheeks carried a flush that had nothing to do with the water. Her body remembered both touches, and the conflict sat low and heavy inside her.
She changed her blouse. The new one buttoned higher, but the fabric still whispered against skin that felt too aware. Every small movement reminded her she carried two different claims, and neither felt entirely hers.
Later she tried to go to the library, seeking the comfort it had always given her, but the corridors felt narrower. Students glanced at her a fraction too long. She turned back before reaching the doors.
She did not want to explain herself to anyone.
Still, the room felt too small, too watchful. She gathered her books and left again, heading for the library after all.
The library at this hour was quiet, the light low and golden through the high windows. She found a table in the back alcove and openedher notes for Corven’s next lecture, but the words blurred. Every line reminded her of the fragments—white walls, enforced stillness, the low voice that had once told her a girl’s body was never truly her own. She pushed them down. They rose again, softer, more insistent.
She could not focus.
Lucian appeared first, dropping into the chair across from her with his usual orchestrated disorder—three books already open, one balanced precariously on his knee.
“You look like someone who just swallowed bad news and is pretending it tastes fine,” he said.
Gideon arrived moments later, setting his bag down with a quiet thud and giving her a long, steady look.
Lyra tried to smile. It didn’t reach her eyes.
Lucian leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Let me guess. North Tower again?”
She didn’t answer.
Gideon spoke instead, voice flat but kind. “You don’t have to talk about it.”
Lucian sighed dramatically. “Fine. Then I’ll talk. Did I ever tell you about the time Seraphine dumped me for that Veilcraft prodigy with the perfect jawline?”
Lyra looked up despite herself.
Lucian grinned, but the humor didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Oh yes. We were together for almost six months. I thought it was serious. She said I made her laugh. Turns out she preferred someone who made her look good in front of the faculty. One day she just… moved on. Told me I was ‘too chaotic’ for her refined tastes.” He gave a theatrical shrug. “Broke my poor little heart. I wrote terrible poetry for three whole days. Gideon can confirm.”
