Elliot pushed open the library’s heavy oak doors, the familiar scent of aged parchment and ink washing over him. Moonlight streamed through the high stained-glass windows, casting dappled patterns across the silent rows of bookshelves.
(Lyris should be around here…)
His boots echoed against the marble floors as he moved deeper, eyes scanning the shadows between the stacks. No rustling pages. No murmured spells. Just emptiness.
Professor Kaen’s desk sat abandoned, a half-drunk cup of tea still steaming faintly beside an open ledger. That was… wrong. The old scholar wouldn’t leave his post unless he had to give class. But it was midnight—Where can he be?
Elliot’s fingers twitched
(Where is she?)
The worry coiled tighter in his chest—a weight he’d never admit aloud. Lyris was stubborn, reckless, infuriating—and smart.
—and right now, terribly, dangerously absent.
The silence of the library was shattered by the crisp sound of a page turning.
Elliot froze. (Someone’s here?)
His hand hovered near the hilt of his dagger as he moved forward, steps deliberately light against the marble floor. Between the towering shelves, he spotted her—a lone figure seated at a study table, her face obscured by the leather-bound tome in her hands.
The dim glow of the library’s enchanted sconces cast wavering shadows across the pages, the only sign of movement in the still air.
Elliot cleared his throat. "Um…"
No response.
He stepped closer. "Hello. Have you seen Lyris?" His voice was low, careful not to disturb the sanctity of the quiet archives. "First Year, Second Class. I thought she’d be here."
For a heartbeat, nothing.
Then—the book lowered.
Silver eyes locked onto his, sharp and knowing, like moonlight cutting through fog.
Sera Vellmont.
Her lips curled into a soft, almost amused smile, her chin resting lazily on one hand as she tilted her head—a predator assessing prey.
"Yeah, she was here," Sera said, her voice a smooth, velvety murmur. She let the words hang for a beat before adding, "You’re late, Romeo."
Elliot’s gaze dropped to the book in Sera’s hands. ‘Romeo and Juliet.’
"How funny," he replied dryly, though his fingers tensed at his sides. "Do you know where she went?"
Sera let out a soft, melodic laugh, the sound curling through the silent library like smoke. "No." She lifted her hands in a theatrical shrug, her silver eyes glinting with amusement. "Outside, probably."
Elliot turned to leave—his shoulders stiff, his pace a fraction too quick. He’d never had much interaction with Sera before, and every second in her presence left him with the unsettling sensation of being dissected.
"Okay… Thanks," he muttered, already stepping away.
Then—
"You should probably check the rooftop."
This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.
Her voice was barely a whisper, yet it cut through the air like a blade. Elliot spun back—
"I’m sorry?"
But the table was empty.
No Sera.
No book.
Just the lingering scent of old parchment and the faintest imprint of fingers on the wood where she’d been sitting.
Towan’s breath came in sharp bursts, his muscles burning. This wasn’t a fight—it was a grind.
(These fuckers—)
For the first time in his life, anger simmered beneath his knuckles. Not the usual thrill of combat, but something darker, sharper.
Rozer, the axe-wielding Second Year, fought like an unhinged storm—every swing wide open, every step unbalanced. A house without doors, Towan thought bitterly. But the bastard was relentless, targeting every weak point:
A hooking slash toward his left ribs.
A low sweep at his right shin.
A downward chop aimed at his right shoulder.
Towan blocked each strike, Essentia flaring to absorb the shock, but the impacts still rattled his bones. Every time he saw an opening—every time he coiled for an uppercut, a high kick, a fight-ending tornado strike—
An arrow hissed through the air.
Martina, the Third-Year archer, stood at the far end of the hall, her bowstring taut. She wasn’t just shooting—she was waiting, channeling Essentia into each arrow, turning them into piercing lances of force. One hit would crack ribs, shatter bone.
Towan had to retreat. Again.
It was a stalemate—but one where he was the only one tiring. No pauses. No breaks. Just endless defense, his body pushed closer to its limit with every second.
(Not good. Not fucking good—)
Rozer grinned, wiping sweat from his brow. "What’s wrong, First-Class? Thought you were stronger than this."
Martina’s arrowhead glowed faintly, locked onto Towan’s chest.
The trap was working.
(Okay—keep it together.)
Towan forced his breathing steady, but his nerves were live wires.
FLASH.
Another arrow grazed his left shoulder, the tip searing a hot line across his skin. His eye twitched. Calm? Yeah, right.
He’d been mixing Leon’s fluidity with Lytharos’s brute force, deliberately avoiding Eryndar’s techniques—those weren’t just lethal, they were cruel. And as pissed as he was, he didn’t hospitalize people without cause.
But these two? They were begging for it.
He parried Rozer’s axe-swing, the impact shuddering up his arm, and countered with a straight punch—pure, unfiltered power. The kind that shattered stone walls on a bad day.
(Wait—did I just—?)
He didn’t have time to process. Another arrow whistled toward his ribs.
This time, he didn’t dodge.
Fine. Take the hit. End this.
He closed his eyes and let the punch fly.
CRACK.
Rozer’s solar plexus caved under the blow, his breath exploding out in a wet gasp. The axe slipped from his fingers as he slammed into the wall behind him, fabric ripping apart from sheer force, the skin beneath already mottled black.
WASH.
The arrow hit—
Not flesh.Water.
(…Water?)
Towan blinked. A barrier of swirling liquid hung in the air, the arrow embedded harmlessly in its depths.
"Heh. Guess I’m the one saving you now."
Towan whirled.
Len stood behind him, her hand outstretched, water still dripping from her fingertips.
Across the hall, Martina staggered back, her face pale. "Shit."
Rozer slumped to the floor, his ruined shirt clinging to his chest, his breath a ragged, broken thing.
"Len!" Towan's voice was a burst of sunlight in the dim hallway, his grin flashing as the adrenaline ebbed.
"Thank you," he added, rolling his sore shoulder. "I was this close to losing my shit."
Len flicked water from her fingertips, the remnants of her barrier splashing to the floor. "No problem. Plus, I told you I'd save you next time."
The memory hit them both at once—the ball, the ambush, Towan yanking Len out of harm's way."I don’t like being rescued," she’d snapped. "Then next time, rescue me first," he’d shot back.
A laugh punched out of him. "That’s right."
Their moment shattered as fabric scraped stone. Martina had hoisted Rozer by his collar, dragging him backward like a sack of broken bricks. His breaths were shallow, his chest a blotchy canvas of bruises.
"She’s leaving," Len observed, voice flat.
Towan didn’t move. "Let her." He’d seen it—the way Martina’s eyes had blown wide, the tremor in her hands as she’d grabbed Rozer. Fear."After that punch? She won’t dare come back."
He wasn’t proud of the damage. But right now? Regret was a luxury he couldn’t afford.