The calming potion wrapped her thoughts in warm, glowing layers.Everything felt pleasant and distant, like watching the world through honey. She was not bothered by the stares. She was not bothered by being alone. Caelum’s presence still lingered in small, comforting ways—in the rich breakfast that appeared before her without her needing to ask.
Instead of the plain porridge and fruit most students received, the server placed a plate in front of her that was unmistakably prepared for her alone: warm, flaky pastries filled with spiced cream and drizzled with honey, fresh berries glistening with sugar, thick slices of perfectly cooked bacon, soft scrambled eggs folded with herbs and cream, and a small silver pot of rich hot chocolate scented with vanilla and cinnamon. The kind of breakfast Caelum had fed her bite by bite in their room.
She smiled faintly as she sat at a small table near the wall. The food smelled like him. Tasted like him. Warmth bloomed in her chest. Even when he was not physically here, he was still taking care of her. The thought made her feel safe, cherished, dreamy. She ate slowly, savoring every bite, lost in the pleasant haze where nothing felt urgent and everything felt right.
She had barely taken three bites when Seraphine approached.
The older girl moved with clipped, irritated purpose, her pale shoulder-length hair swaying with each sharp step. Her eyes—a cool, icy blue—were narrowed, her mouth pressed into a thin, unhappy line. She stopped directly in front of Lyra’s table, arms crossed tightly over her chest, making no attempt at subtlety or politeness.
“Don’t misunderstand,” Seraphine said, voice low and sharp. “I’m not doing this for you.”
Lyra looked up slowly, fork paused halfway to her mouth. The potion made the confrontation feel distant, almost dreamlike, like watching a play from several rows back.
Seraphine’s gaze flicked over the dark hickey on Lyra’s throat, thelow neckline of the emerald silk blouse, the way she sat alone with her expensive, intimate breakfast. “I’m doing this for my brother. And for the others who don’t deserve what North Tower does to people.”
She leaned in slightly, voice dropping. “One of the missing students… his name was Joseph Knightly. I liked him. More than liked him, if I’m honest. He was kind. Quiet. Gentle in a way most people here aren’t. We used to meet in the restricted archives late at night and talk about stupid things—books, music, the stars we could see from the observatory when the fog cleared. He made me laugh. He wasn’t supposed to disappear after his evaluation. He was supposed to come back to me.”
The words landed with unexpected force. Seraphine’s controlled anger was real—restrained, but raw and trembling just beneath the surface. This wasn’t rumor or gossip. This was personal. Painful. The kind of loss that left scars.
“I told you not to get too close to North Tower,” Seraphine continued, her voice growing tighter, more agitated. “You didn’t listen. And now you’re walking around with his marks on you like some kind of trophy slut while the rest of us wonder who’s next. There are only three weeks until the gala, Lyra. Three weeks. Whatever they’re planning, it’s happening soon, and you’re walking straight into it with your eyes closed.”
Lyra’s fingers tightened around her fork. The dreamy haze fractured just enough for irritation to spark hot and defensive.
“You’re all the same,” she said, voice quieter than she expected but edged with steel. “You don’t like that he chose me. You’re trying to turn me against him because you can’t stand that I belong to him now.”
Seraphine’s expression hardened further, her pale hands clenching at her sides. “You think this is about jealousy? Please. People likeyou don’t get chosen, Voss. They get used. They get studied. They get broken and then they vanish. And when they do, no one comes looking because the Collegium already decided they were expendable. Joseph was expendable. And you will be too if you keep letting Caelum blind you.”
The trigger line hit like a slap.
Lyra felt the pressure surge—conflicting thoughts crashing violently against the calming potion’s softening veil. Seraphine’s words, the missing students, the gala looming only three weeks away—all of it pressed against the neat, perfect narrative Caelum had built around her. Her chest tightened. Her pulse spiked. The dreamy daze began to crack.
“You’re trying to steal him away from me,” she snapped, voice rising. “You and Adrian and all the rest of you—you can’t stand that he picked me. That I’m the one he wants. You’re just jealous and bitter and you want to ruin the only good thing I have!”
Seraphine’s agitation grew with every word, her pale cheeks flushing, hands trembling. “This isn’t about stealing him! This is about survival! There are only three weeks left and you’re sitting here eating his special little breakfast like everything is perfect while Joseph is gone and more people are going to disappear—”
The pressure inside Lyra snapped.
She shot to her feet, fury burning through the haze like fire through fog. “Shut up!” she yelled, voice loud enough that nearby tables went silent. “You don’t know anything about us! You don’t know what he is to me!”
In one violent motion, Lyra’s hand shot out, fingers tangling harshly in Seraphine’s pale shoulder-length hair. She yanked hard, slamming the older girl’s face down onto the table with shocking force.
The impact was sickening. Seraphine’s cheek and nose hit the edge of the plate and cutlery. Blood bloomed instantly—bright reddroplets splattering across the silver fork, the knife, the half-eaten pastry, spreading in thin rivulets over the white tablecloth. A low, pained groan escaped Seraphine as her body jerked.
Lyra saw none of it.
She was only focused on her rage—hot, protective, all-consuming. The determination to shield Caelum, to protect what they had, burned brighter than anything else. Her grip stayed tight in Seraphine’s hair, blood dripping from the other girl’s face onto the cutlery, and she felt nothing but the fierce, unwavering need to make sure no one took him away from her.
The room didn’t explode.
It split—a controlled, terrifying fracture that radiated outward from Lyra’s table like cracks spreading through thin ice.
Glass shattered along the nearest window with a sharp, crystalline splintering sound, fine shards raining down onto the stone floor. Tables scraped violently across the floor, legs screeching as they shifted several inches as though shoved by unseen hands. The air pressure twisted violently, a low, oppressive thrum vibrating through every stone and beam. Cups trembled on trays before toppling, spilling tea and juice in dark puddles. A heavy wooden chair near the wall fractured with a loud, sickening crack, wood splitting along invisible seams as though the Collegium itself had exhaled in displeasure.
Silence fell like a blade.
Conversations died mid-sentence. Students backed away in a ripple of movement, chairs scraping, feet stumbling. Faces that had once held morbid curiosity or whispered judgment now held raw fear. Eyes widened. Breaths caught. No one moved to help. No one spoke. They looked at Lyra as though she had just proven herself something far more dangerous than an unclassified anomaly.
They looked careful. Wary. As though she might break the worldagain if they breathed too loudly.
