A haze of exhaustion floated over the set. Lyriin perched on the edge of a battered director’s chair, her knees drawn in, sleeves swallowed by a borrowed hoodie. Under the sickly-blue gleam of the lighting rigs, a purple bruise shadowed the delicate skin beneath her eyes, but her lips tilted up, determined, as she texted lines on her phone, thumb trembling. Her costume—glittering sequins over battered jeans—seemed at odds with her slouch and the way her eyes flickered, always scanning for Emrin.

Emrin moved through the crew with unthinking grace, all soft-focus curls and a battered tee clinging to his lean frame, jeans smudged with grease and dust. His eyes, storm-blue and tired, softened every time they landed on Lyriin. When he smiled, it was hesitant, as though he was waiting for the world to give him permission.

A whoop of laughter rolled through the soundstage as Oriane arrived, her presence loud as a thunderclap. All swagger, bleach-blond crop, combat boots, and a wicked grin flashing beneath a tilted cap, she tossed her explosives bag onto the rig with a wink at the startled grips. “Miss me?” she called, eyes darting to Solmyra.

Solmyra hovered by the monitors, sharp as glass in a tailored black blazer, jaw iron-clenched. A strand of silver gleamed in her dark hair, betraying a night of little sleep. Her gaze hardened as Oriane approached, but the corners of her mouth trembled just slightly—old wounds flickering beneath armor.

“Didn’t think you’d be back, Oriane,” Solmyra said, voice clipped, but her fingers fluttered at her side.

Oriane’s smirk softened for a sliver of a second. “You know I like to make things blow up.” Her laughter cracked the tension, but something uncertain darkened her eyes when Solmyra turned away.

Lyriin shivered, pulse jittery, as the next scene prepared. The pyrotechnics supervisor checked charges near the mark taped for Lyriin’s feet. Oriane gave a thumbs up—then, suddenly, a hiss. A spark arced, a flame jumped, and for a split second Lyriin froze—panic, heat at her ankles, the world narrowing. Emrin lunged, yanking her out of the way just as a prop exploded, sending charred confetti across her boots.

Breathing ragged, Lyriin felt his arms encircle her, his hands warm, steady. Her cheeks were slick, whether from sweat or tears she couldn’t tell. “Are you—” Emrin’s voice broke. He pulled back, searching her face, thumb tracing the line of her jaw as if to prove she was safe.

But Lyriin jerked away, hugging herself tight. “Why do you always have to rescue me?” she spat, voice brittle. “Don’t you get it? You should want someone who’s not a disaster.” Her chin quivered; she blinked hard, refusing to cry.

Emrin, breathless, answered softly, “I don’t want anyone else.” His touch hovered at her elbow, hesitating, his eyes full of ache and forgiveness.

Solmyra snapped, “That was an accident. Pyro’s fault,” but her eyes flickered from Lyriin to Oriane with something like guilt—or terror. She braced herself, knuckles white on the console, every muscle rigid against confession.

Oriane frowned, jaw tight, voice on edge as she checked Lyriin’s boots. “You all right?” Her touch was gentle, oddly tender for someone who just made fire dance.

Lyriin stumbled away, shouldering past Emrin, anger and shame tangling beneath her skin. “You’re too good,” she hissed, voice breaking, “and I’m just going to ruin you.” She wiped fiercely at her cheeks.

Emrin followed, helpless, letting her go but staring after her with longing painted raw across his face.

After the chaos, Solmyra retreated to her office, the icy veneer crumbling. She slammed the door, collapsed behind her desk, and pulled Lyriin’s earring—a delicate gold hoop—from her pocket, clutching it so hard it left crescent moons in her palm. Her shoulders shook in silent sobs, mascara streaking, lips bitten red. Oriane watched through the crack of the door, pulse stuttering; the sight stabbed through her defenses.

Guilt and longing warred behind Oriane’s usually sharp eyes. For a moment, she hovered, wanting to storm in, to forgive, to kiss away tears—but uncertainty rooted her to the spot, breathing shallow and fast.

Solmyra, blind to her watcher, pressed the earring to her lips, whispering, “What have I done?”

The distant sound of Lyriin’s sobs echoed through the hallway; Emrin’s comforting words were a muffled balm she couldn’t hear. And, alone in the flickering half-light, Solmyra stared up, broken open, as everything she’d fought to control threatened to unravel.

To be continued...