Lyra kept working, but her thoughts refused to settle.
The memory wouldn't leave. It kept coming back in pieces she couldn't quite push away—the moment their fingers brushed, the sudden flash that followed.
Blood.
A blade.
A voice she didn't recognize.
It hadn't felt like imagination. There had been too much weight to it, too much detail. It felt real in a way that didn't make sense.
She tried to brush it off anyway.
You're just tired.
That part, at least, was believable. Her body hadn't recovered since the morning. Every movement drained her faster than it should, her arms aching even from simple tasks.
Anyone would start imagining things like that.
Lyra set another plate down, steadying her hands before they gave her away.
Focus on the work.
That was easier.
"Hey."
She turned.
Three girls stood nearby, their uniforms spotless, their attention fixed on her in a way that felt intentional.
One of them stepped forward. "You're new."
Lyra nodded.
The girl looked her over slowly. "Half-blood."
The word landed the way it always did.
Lyra said nothing.
Another girl tilted her head. "You're the one from earlier, right? The one who almost dropped food on him."
"It was an accident," Lyra said quietly.
"Of course it was."
The first girl smiled, though there was nothing warm in it.
"You touched him."
Lyra hesitated. "I didn't mean to—"
"That doesn't matter."
She stepped closer, her voice lowering slightly. "Do you know who he is?"
Lyra didn't answer.
She didn't need to.
"You don't get to go near him," the second girl added. "Not even by accident."
Lyra lowered her gaze. "I understand."
"Make sure you do," the first girl said, almost gently. "Next time, you won't be so lucky."
They left without waiting.
Lyra stayed where she was for a moment, her fingers tightening faintly at her sides.
She'd heard things like that before.
Still, this one lingered longer than it should have.
She exhaled slowly and went back to work.
At first, nothing seemed different.
Then the tasks started changing.
No one said anything outright, but the pattern was obvious—heavier loads, dirtier work, the kind others avoided.
"Take this."
"Clean that properly."
"Move faster."
Lyra didn't argue.
Her body struggled to keep up.
The weakness hadn't faded. If anything, it had sunk deeper, pulling at every movement. Lifting a bucket took more effort than it should have. Carrying it back felt worse.
This isn't normal.
The thought slipped in before she could stop it.
She'd always been weaker than most, but this was different. Not just weak.
Drained.
The memory surfaced again—the blood, too much of it.
Lyra tightened her grip and kept moving.
Thinking about it wouldn't help.
By the time she set the bucket down, her hands were trembling enough to notice.
"Too slow," someone muttered.
She ignored it.
Her focus narrowed to one thing.
Just don't fall.
For a moment, her vision blurred. She steadied herself against the table, breathing through it until it passed.
"…What is wrong with me?" she murmured under her breath.
No answer came.
Only more work.
---
Far from the kitchen, the academy felt quieter. Controlled.
Kael sat by a tall window, a book open in front of him.
He hadn't turned the page.
That alone was unusual.
He didn't lose focus. He didn't dwell on things that didn't matter.
But his thoughts kept circling back anyway.
The tray is slipping.
His hand caught it.
Her.
That brief contact.
It should have meant nothing.
Kael closed the book, his fingers resting against the cover.
Something about it didn't sit right.
Not the action itself.
Something underneath it. Harder to define.
He leaned back slightly, replaying the moment again, slower this time, as if that might reveal something he'd missed.
Nothing stood out.
No threat. No mistake.
Still, the feeling stayed.
Faint.
Persistent.
Annoying.
She was insignificant.
A servant. A half-blood.
Someone he wouldn't normally notice twice.
So why did it linger?
His fingers tapped once against the table, then stilled.
He didn't like this.
Didn't like attention drifting where it didn't belong.
His gaze shifted briefly toward the direction of the kitchens.
He didn't move.
But the thought remained.
"…Strange," he muttered.
Even that didn't feel like enough.
He stood, pushing the chair back.
For a moment, he paused, as if expecting the feeling to fade on its own.
It didn't.
Still there. Quiet, but constant.
Unresolved.
Kael turned away.
But as he walked, the unease followed.
Not strong enough to name.
Not sharp enough to confront.
Just there.
And that made it worse.
Because it came from something so small.
A single touch.
And for the first time in a long while—
He couldn't ignore it.