The grip was firm but not violent — fingers like marble and shadow locking around my wrist, halting my stumble before I could fall into the chaos of limbs and color around the portals. My breath caught, and for a second, I couldn't even hear the noise of the hall anymore — just the thunder of my heart and the crisp, cool scent of autumn leaves and old books.
I looked up, already knowing who it was before I saw him.
The crowd seemed to blur into background static, or maybe I just stopped noticing it. His presence had that kind of effect — unnerving and magnetic all at once. Hair a tousled mess of dark waves, a silver pin glinting on his collar like a mark of silent defiance, and those eyes — sharp, stormy, and always watching.
He tilted his head slightly, a faint curve playing on his lips. "Did you just murder a man?" he asked, his voice dipped in that lazy amusement of his.
I blinked, caught between confusion and the knot of heat rising to my face.
Then — too smoothly — he leaned in closer. Much closer. The kind of close that made the back of my neck burn. I barely registered his hand lifting until he brushed the side of my mouth with his thumb.
Time split in two. My lungs forgot how to work.
And then—he licked it.
The taste. Of ketchup.
"Oh right," he said with mock understanding. "You murdered a sandwich."
I froze, eyes wide. And just when I thought this moment couldn't get any worse—
Gasps.
The kind that ripple like a chill across your skin.
Clicks. Camera clicks. Phones.
People. Were. Taking. Pictures.
I caught the flash of a crystal-lit phone lens from the corner of my eye. Someone whispered something sharp and urgent — someone else actually giggled.
My stomach dropped.
The moment froze — not because of magic, but because every gaze in the hall seemed to pin itself on us. I heard the clicks of phones, soft gasps, murmurs slipping like smoke through the crowd. My heart wasn't beating — it was stumbling.
"Alaric—" I started, voice tight.
He let go of my wrist at last, taking a step back like nothing had happened. Like we weren't suddenly the headline of everyone's lunch hour. His face gave away nothing.
"Relax," he said coolly, like it was the easiest thing in the world. "Most of them are too busy trying to look important."
And then, softer — his eyes on mine like he was pulling me apart piece by piece —
"But I wasn't."
I saw Mireille rushing back through the crowd, two glowing chits in her hand. Her eyes widened when she saw us tangled like that, but instead of gasping in shock like a normal person, she lit up like she'd walked in on the plot twist of her favorite drama.
"Oh my God!" she squealed, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. "You both are...???"
"No!" I blurted, way too loud and way too fast. My voice cracked. My face was already on fire.
But Alaric?
He didn't even flinch.
He just smirked — that maddening, cool smirk — like the entire situation was a private joke only he understood. He didn't deny it. Didn't say anything. Just stood there, calm as ever, one arm still loosely around my waist like he didn't even notice how close we were.
I tried to step away, but my foot got caught on someone's bag, and I stumbled awkwardly into him again.
"I hate everything," I muttered under my breath.
Mireille was practically vibrating with energy now, eyes darting between us like she was building a mental slideshow for her Secrets of Lyra's Love Life archive.
"Oh, this is going in the diary," she whispered to herself.
I shot her a glare that could've melted iron. "We are not dating."
"Sure," she said, dragging out the word like it had a dozen hidden meanings.
Alaric finally let go of me then — slowly, like it was an afterthought — and tucked his hands back into his coat pockets. "Should've let her keep thinking it," he said casually, his voice low, teasing. "You're funnier when you're panicking."
I gawked at him.
And that just made him grin wider.
instinctively turned my back, pulling my hair over my shoulder like a shield, and hissed to Mireille, "Can we please disappear now?"
But she wasn't helping. She was still giving me that look — the one that said You're in deep, and I absolutely ship it.
"Oh, we're so going to Drama now," she whispered excitedly, tugging at my wrist.
"I never agreed—" I started, still flustered.
"You just did," she grinned. "It's fate. Look at you, being dramatically rescued in front of the whole university. It's poetic. Drama needs you."
Before I could argue, she shoved one of the glowing chits into my hand — the petal-paper was warm, pulsing gently, gold letters already blooming across the surface: Drama Society.
"I swear if you—"
"Too late!" she chirped, dragging me toward the glowing violet portal labeled DRAMA in sweeping, elegant script. The swirl of color shimmered like stage lights behind a velvet curtain. Its edges crackled with streaks of silver, like stardust caught in motion.
But then—
"Lyra."
His voice again. Low. Close.
I turned. He hadn't moved far. He stood a little behind us, arms crossed, watching.
The corners of his lips curled slightly. "Don't trip on your way in."
I narrowed my eyes. "Don't watch me trip."
He tilted his head in a mock-salute. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."
Mireille sighed dreamily behind me. "Okay, but… ugh—can he flirt more often?"
"Stop talking," I muttered, face still burning.
And with that, the three of us stepped forward — toward the blinding lights of the portal, into the world of stages, scripts… and a spotlight I definitely never asked for.
______________________________________________________________________________________________
By the time the Sculpting Class began later that afternoon, I had hoped the earlier scene would've faded into the background noise of university chaos. But of course, it hadn't.
The classroom smelled of fresh clay and sharp lavender — the scent they used for calming nerves, supposedly. Didn't work. Students sat at their pedestals, tools lined in neat rows like surgical instruments, half-formed busts and figures slowly emerging under impatient hands.
I took my usual place by the tall windows, the light falling just enough to catch the specks of dust that danced around my workstation. For a moment — just a breath — it was peaceful.
Until the whispers followed.
Not loud enough to be a conversation, but not quiet enough to be ignorable.
"Did you see them in the Hall?"
"She was in his arms."
"No way… Alaric doesn't even talk to people."
"She looked like she didn't mind, though."
I bit the inside of my cheek, trying to focus on the sculpture in front of me — a clay bust I'd been working on for days. It wasn't perfect, but for once, it was something I didn't hate. I had smoothed out the jawline, carved the cheekbones with patience I didn't know I had, and finally shaped the eyes to reflect something delicate… something real.
My fingers, still dusted in soft grey, hovered over the last detail — a curve at the corner of the mouth. A smile that wasn't quite there. Familiar and yet not.
Why did it feel like his smile?
I shook the thought away.
Just then, the room grew still — a hush that spread like ripples in water. The kind of quiet that arrived before something was either very wrong… or very right.
Professor Miretti, usually gliding through the rows with quiet commentary and half-hearted suggestions, had stopped behind me.
She didn't say anything at first. Just stood there — silent.
My shoulders stiffened. Please don't be horrified, I thought.
But then she let out a slow breath, like she'd forgotten she was holding it.
"…Exquisite," she finally whispered, her voice almost reverent.
I blinked. "Sorry… what?"
She leaned closer, her gloved fingers hovering near the sculpture but never touching it. "The detail… the soul in the expression… it's not just technique, it's intent. You've given it life."
A pause.
"Who is it based on?"
My stomach twisted. "No one."
[I could literally feel him smirk]
She looked at me for a long moment but nodded anyway. "Keep going. Don't lose that edge."
Just when I thought it was over — that Professor Miretti would nod, whisper some quiet praise, and glide away — she didn't. Instead, she turned around, clapped once, and called out to the room, "Everyone, gather around. You need to see this."
My heart dropped like a stone.
A few students looked up from their half-finished works, confused, others annoyed. But then, curiosity sparked — and one by one, they stood, walking toward my station. I wanted to vanish into the floor.
Soon, the entire class had crowded around my pedestal, their expressions shifting from mild interest to silent awe. No one spoke. No one dared. There was just the steady rise and fall of breath, the faint click of a phone camera, and the hush of admiration.
"She made this?" someone whispered.
"How long did it take her?"
"God, the eyes look real."
"It feels like it's watching you..."
I stared down at my fingers, stained with grey, trembling slightly. I should've been proud. I was, maybe — somewhere deep down. But mostly, I was burning. With the weight of so many eyes. With a strange kind of vulnerability I hadn't expected.
And beneath it all — layered under the praise and attention — there was something else.
A want.
A quiet, aching part of me that wished he could see it. That he was there in the crowd, watching the way they looked at my work — how they saw beauty where I had once only seen flaws.
I wanted him to see what I could create. What I was capable of. What was hidden in me.
But at the same time, another part of me recoiled — terrified of what it meant if he did.
And in the middle of that storm of thought, I felt it.
Eyes.
Not on the sculpture.
On me.
Heavy. Steady. Unflinching.
My breath caught as I slowly looked up… and met his gaze.
He wasn't in the crowd — he was standing a little behind it, still, almost blending into the shadows of the archway. But his eyes were fixed on me, not the clay. Not the praise. Just me.
He didn't blink. Didn't look away.
Like it was just us.
Then soon after Professor Miretti finally dismissed the class, I stayed behind, quietly tidying my workspace. The others began leaving, their footsteps fading into the corridor's hum. I liked it this way — the silence after everyone had gone. No noise, no chatter, no comparing glances or murmured speculations.
Just me.
I rolled my shoulders, wincing at the ache along my spine. My hands were sore, nails darkened with clay. But there was a strange kind of peace in it all. For once, I felt like I'd done something right.
Then—
"Lyra!"
Mireille's voice rang through the room before her actual presence did. She appeared at the door, breathless, cheeks pink with excitement. "You won't believe it — Drama Club's holding a meeting right now in the East Rehearsal Wing! Come on! This is our chance!"
I groaned, setting down a sponge. "Mireille, my entire back is screaming. I'm exhausted."
She paused, dramatically placing both hands on her hips. "Ugh, fine. I'll let you off the hook this time. But only because you looked like you wrestled a sculpture and won."
I chuckled softly. "Just text me what happens?"
"Obviously." She leaned in with a wink. "And don't think I'm letting you skip the actual joining part."
"Sure," I said, though neither of us believed it.
She grinned and left. Slowly, the classroom emptied out, one desk at a time. And finally, it was quiet again.
I exhaled.
No more whispers. No more glances. No Alaric. No Mireille. Just stillness, like the air had paused for a moment to let me breathe.
But even in that calm, I felt it — a weight.
Not the weight of the room or the silence.
A feeling.
Like something watching me. No — not watching. Not quite.
Just exhaustion.
Right?