The clinic smelled different at night.
During the day, it carried the clean, sharp scent of treated stone and dried herbs linen, antiseptic resin, the faint metallic tang of mana crystals warming under use. At night, when the wards dimmed and the academy settled into its uneasy half-sleep, the smell softened.
Dust. Old wood. Ink that had soaked too deep into the desk to ever fully fade.
And something else.
Something human.
I noticed it as I locked the door behind me, the wards sealing with a quiet pressure that made my ears pop. The sound always reminded me of being underwater muffled, enclosed, separate from the rest of the world.
This room listened.
It remembered.
I rubbed my hands together, trying to shake the lingering warmth from my palms. Seraphina's session still clung to me, not as pleasure, not as arousal, but as presence. The echo of another heartbeat having synced with mine for just a moment too long.
That was new.
I didn't like new.
I crossed the room and sat at the desk, forcing myself into routine. Paper. Ink. The small ledger Headmistress Cross insisted I keep names encoded, dates disguised, everything written as if it might someday be read by hostile eyes.
I dipped the pen.
It hovered over the page.
Didn't move.
I could still feel the way Seraphina's breath had hitched when the curse reacted. The way her fingers had dug into the mattress, not in pain, not in pleasure something between. Control fraying. Instinct pushing back.
Anticipation.
The word sat heavy in my chest.
I set the pen down harder than necessary.
"Get it together," I muttered to the empty room.
The room, unhelpfully, did not argue.
A knock came at the door.
Not Seraphina's knock.
This one was uneven. Too fast. Like the person on the other side hadn't fully decided whether they wanted to be there.
I stood slowly, already tired.
"Clinic's closed," I called.
"Yeah, I know," came Lyra's voice. "That's why I'm knocking instead of crashing through the window. Character growth."
I snorted despite myself and crossed the room, disabling the outer ward just enough to open the door.
Lyra slipped inside, pink hair tied back messily, sleeves rolled up, faint scorch marks on her cuffs. She smelled like burnt chalk and ozone curse residue.
"Tell me that's not from today," I said, eyeing her sleeves.
She grinned. "Define today."
I shut the door and resealed the wards. "You're bleeding."
"Barely," she said, glancing down at the thin line of red along her forearm. "More of a suggestion than an injury."
I grabbed a cloth anyway. "Sit."
She hopped up onto the edge of the desk instead, swinging her legs. "Wow. Straight to bossy."
"Lyra."
"Fine, fine." She slid down and plopped onto the treatment bed, offering her arm. "But I'm telling you now this one's weird."
"They're all weird," I said, pressing the cloth to her skin.
"No, I mean weird weird," she said. "It wasn't supposed to do that."
The warmth stirred automatically, flowing into the shallow cut. She hissed softly not from pain, but the sudden contrast of cold curse residue burning away.
"Define 'that,'" I said.
She watched the glow along her arm with open curiosity, as if it wasn't her own body. "The curse didn't resist. It… hesitated."
I frowned. "Hesitated how?"
"Like it was waiting for instructions," she said. "Which is not a thing curses do unless—"
"Unless they're adaptive," I finished.
Her grin faded.
"Yeah," she said quietly. "That."
I finished sealing the cut and pulled my hand back. The warmth receded reluctantly, like it didn't want to let go.
I didn't like that either.
"You're seeing changes because you're working too close to the core," Lyra continued. "Not just with Seraphina. With all of them."
"I'm not doing anything different," I said.
She snorted. "You are, though. You're listening now."
I looked up sharply.
She tilted her head. "You didn't used to. Early sessions? You treated people like puzzles. Problems to solve. Now you're… reacting."
"That's called experience."
"No," she said, shaking her head. "It's called investment."
I didn't answer.
Lyra studied my face for a long moment, amber eyes sharper than most people gave her credit for.
"You scared?" she asked.
"Yes," I said immediately.
She blinked. "Wow. No deflection. No joke. That's new."
"I'm allowed to be honest with you," I said. "You curse yourself on a weekly basis."
"Fair." She hopped off the bed and paced the room, boots scuffing softly against the stone. "Then let me be honest back. What you're doing with Seraphina? That's not just healing."
"I know."
"It's rewriting," she said. "Her body. Her instincts. Her expectations."
"I know."
"And when you do that," she went on, "you stop being just a healer. You become an anchor."
I leaned back against the desk, the wood cool through my shirt. "That's what the system said."
"Yeah, well, the system's not the one who'll have to deal with the fallout," Lyra replied. She stopped pacing and looked at me directly. "Anchors don't get to float."
A second knock came at the door.
This one was slower. Heavier.
Both of us froze.
"That's not a student," Lyra murmured.
"No," I agreed.
The knock came again.
Measured. Authoritative.
I straightened, already composing myself, and crossed the room.
When I opened the door, the man standing there filled the frame.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Cloaked in the muted whites and golds of the Church, though the embroidery was restrained no overt symbols, no gaudy declarations. His hair was dark, streaked faintly with gray at the temples. His eyes were pale and watchful.
Not hostile.
Not friendly.
Observant.
"Mr. Ashford," he said. "I hope I'm not intruding."
"Yes," I replied. "You are."
The corner of his mouth twitched, almost a smile. "Direct. Refreshing."
I didn't step aside.
He glanced past me, eyes flicking briefly to Lyra inside the room. "I see you're occupied."
"She's a patient," I said flatly.
"Of course," he replied. "I would expect nothing less."
That wasn't reassuring.
"And you are?" I asked.
"Brother Calven," he said, inclining his head slightly. "Observer, as you've no doubt heard."
"I have."
"Then you know I'm here to ensure certain… standards are being upheld."
Lyra snorted from behind me. Loudly.
Calven's gaze shifted to her. "And you must be one of his regulars."
She smiled sweetly. "Oh, very. You should see the punch card."
I resisted the urge to sigh.
"I won't take much of your time," Calven said, turning his attention back to me. "But there are concerns."
"About?" I asked.
"Boundaries," he said. "Influence. Dependency."
I laughed once, sharp and humorless. "You're worried about me creating dependency?"
"I'm worried about anyone having power without oversight," he replied evenly. "Particularly power that blurs lines."
"The line between what?" I asked. "Life and death?"
"Between healer and confessor," he said. "Between necessity and indulgence."
Lyra stepped up beside me. "You ever watched someone die slowly from a curse?" she asked. "Because I have. It's not very indulgent."
Calven regarded her calmly. "Emotion does not invalidate concern."
"No," she shot back, "but it does expose hypocrisy."
I raised a hand slightly. "Lyra."
She backed off with a huff, crossing her arms.
Calven's gaze returned to me. "Lady Valdris spoke highly of you," he said.
My stomach tightened. "She did?"
"She said you were careful," he continued. "That you never took more than was required."
"That's true."
"She also said she trusts you."
"That's also true."
He studied my face, searching for something. "Do you understand the weight of that?"
"Yes," I said quietly.
"Good," he replied. "Then understand this as well. Trust can become reliance. Reliance can become surrender. And surrender, in the wrong hands, becomes sin."
Silence stretched between us.
Finally, I spoke.
"If you're implying I'm manipulating my patients, say it."
"I'm implying," he said calmly, "that power reveals intent over time."
"Then watch," I replied. "Closely."
He held my gaze for a long moment, then nodded.
"I intend to," he said. "Good night, Mr. Ashford."
He turned and left, footsteps echoing down the corridor.
I shut the door and leaned my forehead against it for a second longer than necessary.
"Well," Lyra said, "that was fun."
"He's dangerous," I said.
"Yeah," she agreed. "But not because he's wrong. Because he might be right."
I straightened slowly.
"That's the part that scares you," she added gently.
"Yes," I said.
She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "Just don't forget you're not the only one choosing here. Seraphina's not a victim. She's fighting her own war."
"I know."
"Then trust her to choose when to surrender," Lyra said. "Just like she trusted you not to push."
She squeezed my arm once and headed for the door.
"Oh," she added, pausing. "Next time you smell ozone and roses at the same time? That's emotional imprinting."
I stared at her. "That's a thing?"
She grinned. "Everything's a thing."
When she left, the clinic felt emptier.
Quieter.
But not calmer.
The system chimed softly, almost reluctantly.
[External Pressure Increasing]
[Anchor Role Confirmed]
[Warning: Detachment No Longer Possible]
I sat down heavily in the chair.
Detachment.
That had always been the plan.
Ice didn't melt all at once.
But it also didn't freeze again once it learned what warmth felt like.