Lyra's arms were already sore by the time she was told to carry food to the main hall.
"Don't drop anything," one of the older servants warned, pushing a tray into her hands. "If you mess this up, you're done."
Lyra nodded.
The tray was heavier than it looked, filled edge to edge with plates, silverware, and glasses. She adjusted her grip and followed the others toward a corridor she hadn't been allowed near before.
The closer they got, the brighter everything became.
The air shifted too, warmer and livelier, carrying a weight she couldn't quite name.
When the doors opened, Lyra almost stopped.
The hall stretched wide and high, lit by chandeliers that cast a soft golden glow across polished floors. Students filled the space in loose groups, their movements relaxed in a way she couldn't imitate.
Laughter echoed. Conversations overlapped. Magic flickered casually between fingers, small displays of power no one questioned.
This was their world.
Lyra lowered her gaze and followed the servant ahead of her, careful with every step.
"Keep moving," someone muttered behind her.
She did.
They split off toward different tables. Lyra headed to the far side, focusing on placing each plate exactly where it belonged.
She kept her attention on the work in front of her. No mistakes. No attention drawn.
Then something shifted.
It wasn't obvious at first, but she felt it anyway. Voices lowered, movements slowed, and the atmosphere tightened in a way that made her look up before she could stop herself.
Someone had entered.
He didn't speak or look around, yet the reaction followed him. Students straightened. Conversations thinned into something quieter, more careful.
He walked as if the space belonged to him, every step controlled without effort.
Power didn't need to be shown. It settled around him naturally, shaping the room without a word.
Lyra looked away quickly.
She didn't need to know who he was. People like that existed too far above her world to matter.
She focused back on the tray and stepped forward—
Her foot caught the edge of the carpet.
The tray tilted.
Plates shifted. Glass slid toward the edge.
Lyra's breath caught as she tried to steady it, but her grip slipped.
Everything tipped forward—
Toward him.
For a split second, she saw it clearly: the crash, the noise, the consequences that would follow.
But it never happened.
The tray stopped mid-fall.
Not on the ground. Not against him.
Held in place.
A hand had caught it.
Steady. Effortless.
Lyra froze, her hands still half-raised, her pulse racing too fast to think.
Slowly, she looked up.
He stood closer than she expected, one hand holding the tray as if its weight meant nothing.
His expression didn't change.
There was no irritation, no surprise—only a quiet stillness, as though nothing about this situation required a reaction.
Lyra stepped back, forcing her voice out despite the tightness in her chest. "I'm sorry."
It came out softer than she intended.
"I didn't mean—"
Her words faltered.
He didn't answer. He simply returned the tray to her hands, steadying it for a brief moment.
His fingers brushed hers.
Something shifted.
A sharp image cut through her mind before she could understand it.
Blood—dark and vivid.
A hand gripping a blade.
A voice, distant and urgent—
Then nothing.
Lyra drew in a quick breath, her grip tightening as the vision disappeared just as suddenly.
Her breathing turned uneven.
What was that?
She looked up again, unsettled.
He was watching her now, his gaze fixed with a quiet awareness, as if he had noticed something change without knowing exactly what it was.
Lyra lowered her eyes, forcing her voice to steady. "I'm sorry," she repeated.
Silence stretched for a moment.
Then he moved past her without another word, as if the interruption had already lost its importance.
Gradually, the room returned to its usual rhythm. Conversations picked up again, though a faint tension still lingered.
Lyra stood there a second longer, her thoughts caught on the image she couldn't explain.
Blood. A blade. A memory that didn't belong to her.
"Move," someone hissed behind her.
She stepped aside. "Sorry."
She continued serving, more careful now, her movements controlled, but her mind refused to settle.
It kept returning to what she had seen, to the brief contact that had triggered it.
At the head of the hall, he took his seat without looking back.
For a fleeting moment, his gaze shifted—not toward the others, but in her direction—brief and deliberate before disappearing again.
Lyra didn't notice.
She kept working, unaware that something had already begun.
Something neither of them understood yet, but impossible to ignore once it started.
It began the moment she touched him.