Wait... Aria.
I could go to her. She's perfect for this—best healer in the academy. But getting too close to her means getting too close to Cassian's radar.
And explaining these injuries? "Oh hey, just got my ass kicked by a shadow assassin. Twice. No big deal." Yeah, that would go over great.
She'll ask questions. Want details. Probably insist on reporting it to the academy. Then Cassian gets involved, the faculty gets involved, and suddenly everyone's looking at me.
The last thing I need is attention.
He stood, gritting his teeth against the throbbing pain.
His ribs filed an immediate formal complaint.
He ignored them and moved to the window. The academy grounds were still quiet. That pale grey light that came before actual sunrise. Students weren't awake yet. Professors were either still asleep or staring blankly at morning tea.
He had maybe an hour before the corridors filled up.
Think. Who can heal this without asking questions?
The answer came immediately.
He didn't like it.
He sat back down and forced himself to bargain with pain.
Hehe, Maybe the ribs aren't that bad. They'll just... heal on their own. Naturally. Over time. Like a normal person's ribs. Right?
He breathed in.
Pain. Immediate. Specific. Deeply unimpressed with his optimism.
Okay. They're that bad.
His mind circled back to the only answer that made sense.
Professor Myra. His perverted mentor.
An S-rank healer. Powerful enough to close wounds in seconds—he'd seen her do it in the vault, casual as breathing, like fixing him had been an afterthought. She wouldn't report anything to the academy. Wouldn't interrogate him like the other officials would. And she wouldn't even blink at a student showing up on her doorstep with broken ribs before sunrise.
Though even with zero concept of professional boundaries, she's still my mentor.She can't actually... do anything. Not without permission. Right?
But she was the only option.
There was also the other thing.
The assassin's words from last night had been circling in his head since he woke up.
The seal is weakening. Faster than expected.
There are forces in this world that hunt awakening Ashenblades specifically.
He couldn't force Seraphina to talk about the seal, but he desperately needed answers. Not just about her, but about the frame-up. He had exactly five days left. Five days to find the real culprit before the academy officially decided he was guilty and everything went to absolute shit.
Myra had worked with noble houses. Had seen things the academy pretended didn't exist. Knew people. Had connections. If anyone would know about sealed bloodlines, shadow assassins, and whatever conspiracy was trying to destroy him, it was her.
Two problems. One deeply inconvenient solution.
He stood again. Slower this time. One hand braced against the wall.
By the time he made it to the door, a cold sweat had already broken out across his forehead.
This is fine. Everything is fine. I am a person who is fine.
He moved to the door.
Stopped with his hand on the knob.
He knew it with the same absolute, depressing certainty that the sun would rise. Myra was going to take one look at him showing up injured and vulnerable at her door before sunrise, and she was going to enjoy every single second of it.
Just get the healing. Get the information. Leave.
Simple plan.
He opened the door.
The faculty wing was quiet in a different way than the student corridors. Heavier somehow. Like the silence here had more authority.
Lucian moved through it slowly.
Each step deliberate. Measured. His ribs had opinions about the stairs that he declined to engage with.
Left at the statue. He'd memorized the route after the first training session, mostly so he could find his way back in a state of psychological devastation.
Up the stairs. One at a time. Unhurried, because hurrying was not currently an option.
Ten grueling minutes later, fighting through a fresh layer of cold sweat, he finally made it to the third door on the right.
He stood in front of it.
Just a door. Perfectly ordinary door. Wood. Hinges. A knob.
Behind it, one shameless S-rank mage who had, during their first and only training session, sat directly on him, touched his stomach for a highly unreasonable amount of time, and described everything she was doing in a tone that absolutely did not belong in a professional context.
And now he was going to knock on that door, injured and sleep-deprived, and ask for help.
He raised his hand.
Paused.
Last chance. Walk away. Wrap the ribs tighter. Drink some water. Suffer heroically in silence like a person with dignity.
His ribs throbbed violently in response.
Seraphina's eyes — confused and frightened, staring at her own trembling hands in that courtyard — flashed through his mind.
No. I need this.
He knocked.
Three times. Firm. Clear.
Silence.
Then shuffling sounds from inside.
Then—
"Come in~!" Myra's voice floated through the door. Breathy. Cheerful. Completely unbothered by the hour.
Something deep in Lucian's survival instincts started screaming.
Don't. Turn around. Walk away. The ribs will heal eventually. Probably.
But he was already turning the handle.
How bad could it be?
The door swung open.
He shuffled a few hesitant steps inside.
Lucian's brain took approximately three seconds to process what he was seeing.
One: Is that—
Two: Oh no.
Three: OH NO.
Myra's quarters were occupied.
Very occupied.
WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK.