Avegar woke up with a sound in his throat.
A low, broken sound, the kind that doesn't belong in waking hours. His body arched beneath the dark velvet sheets, breath ragged, skin sheened with sweat. The dream clung to his chest like smoke. Too hot. Too real. Too loud.
Elvira.
Moonlight on her collarbone.
Her mouth parted like she was about to say his name—but didn't.
Instead, she kissed his scars.
Instead, she turned into fire.
He sat up, fast, yanking himself out of it. His muscles were tight, clenched as though still holding her—or fighting the memory of holding her. The sheets tangled around his legs like accusations.
A flash of her voice echoed in the cave of his skull:
"I would walk through ash barefoot if it meant getting to him."
Not for you.
Never for you.
He stood, jaw tight, and shoved his hands through his hair. His black robe hung limp over the back of the chair, untouched. He didn't bother. The atelier would be cold this morning, but that was fitting.
Let the chill bite him. Let it feel like penance.
And still—when he looked down at the sheets, at the evidence of where the dream had gone—his stomach twisted.
Not just heat.
Not just memory.
Desire, unchecked. Uninvited.
The kind of dream you can't outrun, even once you're awake.
---
Outside, the dawn air was thin and sharp, carrying the scent of smoke and ruin.
Elvira stood at the edge of the burned village, the ruins of Elverishire castle crumbled and blackened beneath a sky still heavy with dusk's shadows.
Her breath hitched as she dropped to her knees in the ash.
Tears welled, then spilled down her cheeks, carving clean lines through the soot.
Her fingers trembled as they sifted through the cold debris — shards of stone, twisted iron, burnt timber.
"There's nothing left," she whispered, voice raw and breaking. "Only ashes... and memories that burn."
She clenched her fists in the dust, the weight of losing her home pressing down on her chest like a curse.
She had nowhere to go now. No refuge. No safe place.
Only Elijah.
Only his shadow.
The tears came faster then, silent witnesses to a shattered past and a fractured future.
Elvira bowed her head, the fragile remains of her world slipping through her fingers like smoke.
---
The Rowegan atelier sat at the back edge of the castle grounds, past the vine-choked greenhouse and the silent bell tower. Few entered its tall obsidian doors. Fewer returned with anything they understood.
Here, Avegar could think. Or more accurately—here, he could not think and let the silence throb through his veins like a second pulse.
He worked with gloves on, always. Even when alone.
Today, the glass sculpture before him looked almost done: a phoenix feather suspended mid-burn, forged from crystal, iron-dust, and bloodglass from the outer isles. It shimmered when he moved around it, never staying one color long enough to be named.
He stared at it.
He thought of Elvira's hair. Of her voice.
He struck the sculpture with his blade-hammer once, hard. The sound sang through the room, high and furious.
Behind him, the door creaked open.
He didn't turn.
He knew it was her before she stepped fully into the light.
Elvira.
In a floor-length black coat dusted with ash, the faintest smear of soot still under her left eye. Her braid loose. Her mouth unreadable.
She didn't say anything at first. Just watched him from the threshold, eyes like stormclouds holding back something too large.
He pretended not to see her.
Pretended the sculpture was more important.
Pretended he wasn't made of questions every time she breathed in his vicinity.
"Nice to know the world ending hasn't slowed your art," she said quietly, finally.
Avegar kept his back to her. "Art doesn't care about endings."
She stepped further in. The sound of her boots was soft, careful. Cautious in a way that made his chest ache.
"You didn't come last night."
"I was working."
"You always say that."
He didn't reply.
He didn't dare.
Because if he turned now—if he met her eyes—he might see the fire there again. The fire from his dream. The one that made his hands ache to hold and his soul ache to run.
Instead, he adjusted the wing of the sculpture by a fraction of an inch and said flatly, "You shouldn't be here."
"I thought you wanted me here."
"I wanted a lot of things," he muttered.
A silence fell.
Not quiet—never quiet with her.
It was a silence shaped like tension, like thin ice stretching between two cliffs.
Elvira narrowed her eyes, voice low. "Are you angry with me, Avegar?"
He froze.
That name. Spoken like it still meant something.
He inhaled slow. Measured. Tried to cage whatever lived in his ribs. "No."
"You won't look at me."
He didn't.
Because if he did, the weight in his chest would rise. And it wasn't anger. Not truly.
It was guilt. It was longing. It was—
Complicated.
But she didn't know that.
She watched him like he was an empty cathedral, and she was looking for a prayer someone forgot to say.
"You think you can protect me by ignoring me?"
He didn't answer.
She laughed once. A sound with no warmth in it. "Right. Of course. Always brooding. Always above it all."
That stung.
But he couldn't show it.
He adjusted the sculpture again. "Go back to the main wing. There's nothing here for you."
Something in her expression cracked—just slightly. "You're so scared to feel anything, you can't even look at me. Is that it?"
No.
Yes.
He turned to her. Finally. Slowly.
Their eyes met like storms colliding.
She looked at him like she didn't know if she wanted to kiss him or kill him.
And gods help him, he wanted both.
But instead, he said, "Don't pretend you know what I'm feeling."
Her voice turned sharp. "How could I? You don't say anything."
"I say enough."
"You say nothing," she snapped. "You stare at walls and pretend you're above bleeding."
"I don't have the luxury of bleeding," he said, the words low and bitter.
The cold between them grew teeth.
Her jaw tensed. "You think silence is strength?"
He didn't answer.
He didn't know how.
Because inside—buried beneath war maps and royal orders and cracked knuckles—was a man who had no idea how to reach her without breaking himself in the process.
So he did what he always did.
He lied.
"There is nothing between us," he said quietly. "Whatever you think you feel, it's misplaced."
A flicker of something crossed her face—hurt, maybe. Or rage. Or both.
She nodded once.
Tight.
Final.
"Got it," she said, voice stripped of all music. "Message received."
She turned and walked out.
The door shut behind her like a coffin lid.
Avegar stood in the cold, blinking slow, the echo of her footsteps ringing in the hollow of his chest.
He touched the sculpture again.
It cracked.
Just a hairline.
But it was enough.
—------
The halls of the Rowegan castle always smelled like polished power.
Perfumed stone. Cold light. Velvet so clean it seemed unnatural.
It had the quiet of a museum that used to be a battlefield.
And every chandelier hung like a warning—too bright, too delicate, too ready to fall.
Elvira walked with shoulders squared and heartbeat iron-clad beneath her ribs.
She was not here to beg.
She was not here to play.
She was here to hunt.
And sometimes, the best weapons had eyelashes and lipstick.
---
Rachel waited near the spiral gallery—a corridor carved in marble, its curved walls glittering with murals of old Rowegan kings in their robes of flame and ash. The ceiling opened to a skylight where the sun poured in like godlight, but not warmly.
Nothing about the Rowegans was warm.
Not even their staff.
Rachel was one of Elijah's assistants—but calling her that was like calling a scorpion a housepet.
She was tall, paper-pale, with white-blond hair cropped just beneath the ear. Her mouth always curled like she knew the end of every sentence you hadn't yet spoken. She wore white and wine—colors of devotion and indulgence. Her eyes were a strange gray, like drowned mercury.
And she smiled too slowly.
"Princess Elverishire," Rachel purred, leaning against the gallery wall. "Back from your... forest retreat, I hear."
Elvira arched a brow. "Missed me?"
Rachel's smile sharpened. "Wouldn't say that. But you're hard to ignore."
"Good," Elvira murmured, stepping closer. "I hate being ignored."
She let her voice drop just slightly. Let the silk of it wrap around the sentence like a ribbon laced with something darker.
Rachel tilted her head, watching her. "I assume you're here to see Lord Elijah."
"Later." Elvira smiled faintly. "Right now, I wanted to see you."
Rachel blinked.
Then laughed softly. "How flattering. What for?"
Elvira stepped even closer—too close for formality, too casual for safety.
Their bodies were nearly aligned, breath brushing breath.
"For conversation," Elvira said, voice light. "For a moment without masks. I feel like everyone here only ever says what they think Elijah would applaud."
Rachel's brow lifted. "And you?"
"I'm tired of applause," Elvira said, brushing a lock of hair back from Rachel's face. "I'd prefer honesty. Even if it cuts."
The air between them tightened.
Rachel didn't step back.
She looked at Elvira's mouth. "Honesty is dangerous currency."
"I pay in worse," Elvira murmured.
Their eyes locked.
And then, Rachel's lips parted just slightly—just enough.
Elvira kissed her.
---
It wasn't sweet.
It wasn't gentle.
It was a question, a dare, and a blade wrapped in silk.
Rachel kissed her back with a kind of hunger that made the world go silent. Her hands moved fast—up Elvira's waist, under the edges of her coat, gripping her like a secret too valuable to lose.
They stumbled against the wall, gasping softly between touches. Rachel's mouth tasted like dark fruit and wine-laced promises.
Elvira let her fingers trail down Rachel's spine, teasing, coaxing, reading her like a map. And when Rachel arched into her, Elvira slipped a hand lower—dangerously low—enough to make Rachel gasp.
Her touch pressed softly through fabric, where heat bloomed. Rachel moaned against her mouth.
Elvira didn't flinch.
But inside, her mind was crystal-clear.
She wasn't here for this.
She was here for truth.
She needed to know what Rachel knew—about her father, about the wing where no staff were allowed after dusk, about the strange blood-runes hidden under the wine cellar stairs. About the room that didn't appear on any map.
And if Rachel melted under her hand, if Rachel whispered something real—
Then maybe Elvira could finally peel the mask off this palace.
Rachel bit her lip, breath trembling. "What are you doing to me?" she whispered, half-dazed.
Elvira kissed her throat. "Exactly what you want me to."
But in her mind, she counted the questions left unanswered.
How many guards posted at the east tower?
When did Elijah disappear every seventh night?
What did Rachel really mean when she once said, "Even ghosts are afraid of the lower halls"?
She kissed Rachel deeper, drawing another moan from her.
And all the while, her mind was cold.
Sharp.
Measuring.
This wasn't love.
This wasn't even lust.
This was war.
And every kiss was a blade sheathed in velvet.
—---------
Avegar hadn't slept.
Not really.
He'd laid on the stone bench beside the atelier window, arms crossed, body still—but the mind? The mind had no mercy.
It replayed her voice again and again, sharp and final:
> "Message received."
He had delivered that message with ice, thinking it would protect her.
Thinking it would protect him.
Instead, it echoed back at him like a blade flung into a canyon—never landing, always cutting.
He'd lied.
Of course he'd lied.
There was something between them.
There always had been.
He'd known it from the moment she'd stepped through the snow-lit hall that first night, her hands raw from fighting, her lips stained with stubbornness and stormlight.
But what was he supposed to do with it?
With her?
He was war. She was a vow.
He was shadows. She was fire.
And fire, when trusted, always burns.
---
The eastern wing had been sealed since the breach—the Rowegan family calling it "restructuring" when in truth, it was rot. Tension. Whispers of dissent wrapped in silk excuses. The castle groaned with it. Even the walls knew the truth.
And still, Avegar walked those halls like a ghost carved from granite, silent and sharp.
He caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the stained glass doors near the chapel.
He looked older today. Not tired. Just… carved down.
Pieces missing.
Emotion tried to surface—regret, maybe.
But Avegar shoved it back down like a soldier grinding a cigarette under his boot.
---
In her chamber, across the keep, Elvira stood in front of a shattered mirror.
She hadn't broken it.
But the crack in the glass ran straight through the reflection of her eyes, and it felt personal.
Rachel had left her lips sore. Her mind hotter than it should've been. But the guilt wasn't from the kiss. It was from what came after.
Nothing.
Rachel hadn't spilled anything. Not yet. Only wine and sighs. Only the promise of a next time.
Elvira wanted to scream.
Instead, she sat on the edge of her velvet-draped bed, unbraiding her hair with fingers that trembled.
What am I becoming?
That was the question she couldn't outrun.
Did Avegar know?
Did he guess that she had kissed someone else just to mine information from their mouth? Would he care?
Probably not.
He'd made it clear.
> "There is nothing between us."
That sentence was a knife. The kind that still sat inside her, twisting slow.
Maybe he'd used her. Maybe he'd never felt anything. Maybe she'd invented it all to give herself something to cling to while the world went to ash.
She didn't even know what she wanted anymore.
She just wanted her father back.
She wanted the blood-hunters gone.
She wanted to burn the palace and its masks and every secret tucked behind its walls.
But above all, she wanted to stop feeling like she was drowning in a story that refused to end.
—------
Later that evening, a strange hush fell over Atelier 7.
Not the silence of fear—but of expectation.
A pause in the air, as if the room itself braced for a name it hadn't heard yet.
The high glass arches glowed dimly with rune-light. In the alcoves, colored flares floated over stone tables cluttered with relics, scrolls, and metalworks in various stages of construction. The murmur of incantation drifted from a far corner, where two scholars debated over a runeblade schematic. Others catalogued fragments of shattered sigils or stitched arcane threads into crystal filaments.
There were always people here—some too quiet, some too loud. But tonight, even they seemed to sense it: something new.
Avegar stood at his usual table near the southeast hearth, gauntlets off, sleeves rolled. A thin bead of heat shimmered over a half-formed wing of phoenix-glass. Elvira sat not far away, perched on the window ledge, legs crossed, expression unreadable as she traced lines in the condensation with her fingertip.
The door opened.
Professor Lysander entered first, shaking off the rain from his cloak, spectacles catching the light. Behind him came someone unfamiliar.
A young woman—tall, sharp-featured, with pale hair pulled into a tight braid down her back. She wore a fitted gray coat with subtle stitching in the pattern of containment glyphs, and a thin band of silver metal clasped around one wrist like a scholar's tag. Her eyes—light gray, nearly white—moved through the room with calm precision.
"This," Lysander announced lightly to everyone, "is Kaelen Mire. She'll be joining us in Atelier 7 for the coming term."
A few heads turned. One or two murmured greetings. The rest returned to their scrolls and schematics without pause.
Elvira glanced over, slow and deliberate. "Another new arrival?"
"She's come from the Basilica's field division," Lysander replied, tone even. "Specialist in historical reconstruction."
Kaelen nodded politely. "It's good to be here."
Her voice was smooth. Controlled. Confident without effort.
Avegar barely looked up. "We weren't told."
"You were," Lysander said, amused. "Just after it was already decided."
Kaelen's gaze swept the room again—registering the other scholars, the arcane rigs, the sound of heated glass under enchantment.
"I've read the transcripts on the phoenix-glass trials," she said. "Your work is impressive."
She directed the last line at no one in particular. But her eyes lingered for just a breath on Avegar's half-finished sculpture, and then flicked to Elvira.
Elvira stood slowly. "Fieldwork, not archives?"
Kaelen nodded. "Ruins. Lost structures. Blood residue left behind by spells that outlived their casters."
Elvira tilted her head. "Not many in your line make it to university posts."
Kaelen smiled, small and dry. "I didn't come to lecture. I came to learn something I haven't seen yet."
There was something in her that reminded Elvira of herself—not in shape or tone, but in the way she entered a room like it owed her nothing. Not fear, not attention. Just space.
"Fine," Elvira said. "Just don't ask where the teacups are. No one here actually drinks tea."
Kaelen's mouth twitched slightly. "Understood."
Then—like a cut through the quiet—a gust slammed against the tall windows.
The lamps flickered. The runes on the far wall dimmed for half a breath.
And from beyond the cliffs, down in the valley, the sound came:
Warning bells.
Two. Then three.
Not school bells.
Emergency.
Avegar straightened. "South trail."
Elvira was already reaching for her coat. "They're early this time."
Kaelen turned toward them, calm but alert. "The blood-hunters?"
Avegar gave a tight nod. "Flare sigils. They don't use stealth. They want us to see them coming."
Someone near the center of the atelier cursed under their breath.
Elvira's voice was low. "Did they name me again?"
Kaelen glanced sideways at her. "Do they usually?"
Elvira didn't answer.
She didn't have to.
Avegar's eyes found hers, quiet but burning. A dozen things unsaid passed between them—regret, caution, something sharper.
She wanted to speak.
To say: I tried to forget you.
To whisper: I failed.
But she only pulled her gloves on tighter and looked away.
Kaelen, watching them both, said nothing.
But she noticed.
And outside, the wind howled like a warning.
Not metaphor.
Not memory.
A real storm.
And it had already crossed the hills.