“Because… an unclassified alignment is unpredictable. It doesn’t follow the expected patterns, so the wards can’t compensate properly. It might weaken the foundations without anyone noticing until it’s too late.”
The silence that followed was heavy and suffocating.
Professor Harrow’s lips thinned into a razor-sharp line. She stepped closer to Lyra’s desk, robes whispering against the warmed stone floor.
“A vague and thoroughly unsatisfactory answer, Miss Voss. Predictable, yet disappointing. One might wonder whether you will be ready for the gala at all. The institution does not tolerate uncertainty on public display—especially not when the eyes of influential outsiders will be upon us. Perhaps the North Tower’s… special arrangements have left you too distracted to focus on actual scholarship.” Her gaze flicked meaningfully toward Caelum for half a second before returning to Lyra. “Or perhaps unclassified means simply unprepared. The Collegium has invested considerable resources in you. It would be a shame if those resources were wasted on someone more interested in warming a Dominus’s bed than mastering theory.”
Humiliation burned hot across Lyra’s face and down her throat.The words landed like stones in her stomach. A few students shifted uncomfortably in their seats, some averting their eyes, others leaning forward with morbid fascination. Lucian raised an eyebrow, his smirk fading into something more neutral, while Gideon’s jaw tightened visibly, his disapproval clear. Whispers rippled through the back rows.
The Collegium, however, did not share the discomfort. The stone beneath Lyra’s feet grew warmer still, a gentle, almost comforting heat that seeped upward through her shoes, as though the building itself was offering silent reassurance. The walls hummed softly—low, approving—reinforcing the strange new reality: she might be isolated from the others, but she was no longer unwelcome here.
Professor Harrow wasn’t finished. She paced slowly in front of the class, her voice rising with each pointed question directed solely at Lyra.
“Tell me, Voss—if your alignment continues to defy classification, how exactly do you propose to demonstrate control during the gala presentation? Or will you simply stand there and hope the wards hold while the entire assembly watches you unravel?”
Lyra’s hands tightened in her lap. She tried to formulate a better answer, but the potion’s soft haze made her thoughts feel thick and slow. Every attempt felt inadequate. The humiliation settled deeper, heavy and familiar, yet strangely muted at the edges.
Caelum, seated two rows behind her, remained perfectly still throughout. But his gray eyes lingered on her for a long, unreadable moment—not with judgment, not with pity, but with that cold, possessive certainty that made the distance from everyone else feel almost… safe.
The rest of the lecture passed in a fog of pointed questions, sidelong glances, and the constant low hum of the Collegium’s quiet approval beneath it all.
* **
Later that afternoon, when Caelum had been called away for a brief faculty meeting, Adrian found her.
He stepped out from behind a pillar in a quiet side corridor, his usual easy charm tempered by something sharper, more urgent. The fog outside the narrow windows pressed close, muffling sound and turning the stone passage into a private, shadowed pocket of the Collegium. The air felt heavier here, the walls cooler than they had been in the lecture hall, as though the building itself held its breath.
“Lyra,” he said, keeping his voice low but insistent. “You’re really not allowed to speak to me anymore?”
She glanced around, the potion’s calm making the spike of nerves feel distant, almost manageable. “He made it very clear. I’m not supposed to.”
Adrian’s jaw tightened. He stepped closer, eyes serious and searching. “This isn’t just about him claiming you, Lyra. He’s isolating you. Look around—you used to have space to breathe, to talk to people, to figure things out on your own. Now every corridor, every class, every meal is under his watch. He’s cutting you off from everyone who might actually help you see what’s happening.”
Lyra felt a small, unexpected flare of defensiveness rise through the potion’s haze. “He doesn’t look at me with judgment,” she said quietly, the words slipping out before she could stop them. “Not like the others. Not like Lucian or Gideon or Seraphine or any of them in that lecture hall today. They all stare like I’m some broken thing that doesn’t belong. Caelum… he just sees me. He doesn’t pity me. He doesn’t look away.”
Adrian’s expression softened with something close to pity himself. “That’s exactly how manipulation works, Lyra. He makes you feel seen so you stop looking anywhere else. He’s the only one who getsto define you now. And the gala—they moved it up for a reason. The missing students… every single one of them had ties to North Tower evaluations or deferred alignments. They presented something unusual, something the Collegium wanted to study, and then they simply vanished from the records. No trace. No explanations. And the guest list this year includes people who have no business being here—outsiders with influence, people who make problems disappear quietly. Whatever Caelum is planning, you’re meant to be the centerpiece. I don’t think the presentation is just for show. I think it’s when decisions get made. Permanent ones. Decisions about people like you.”
He lowered his voice even further, urgent now. “If you need help—if you need somewhere safe when the gala arrives—my family still has pull. Just say the word. You don’t have to—”
Footsteps echoed down the corridor, steady and unhurried.
Caelum appeared around the corner, expression calm, gray eyes sharp as fractured glass. He took in the scene without surprise or haste, black hair catching the dim light, his tailored uniform impeccable.
“I’ll take it from here,” he said smoothly, the words carrying that velvet edge of absolute command.
Adrian tensed, mouth opening, but Caelum’s gaze pinned him in place for half a second—cold, warning, final. Adrian stepped back. Caelum placed a hand at the small of Lyra’s back—possessive, steady—and guided her away without another word. The corridor seemed to narrow behind them, the fog outside thickening as though the Collegium itself approved of the separation, the stone floor warming faintly beneath her feet once more.
Back inside their room, the heavy door closing with a soft, final click, Lyra turned to face him. The potion’s warmth still lingered, making the question feel safer than it should.
“What’s really happening at the gala?” she asked.
Caelum regarded her steadily, crossing the room until he stood close enough that she could feel the heat of him. “You don’t need to worry about that.”
She hesitated, searching his face. “Can I trust you?”
His lips curved in a small, cold smile. One hand cupped her face, thumb brushing her lower lip with deliberate gentleness.
“Trust is simple, Lyra,” he said, voice low. “You trust me, and everything stays manageable. Calm. Safe, even. You trust Adrian instead…” His gray eyes darkened, the smile never reaching them. “And I will make sure you never speak to him again. Do we understand each other?”
