Peris Alderct stood at the front of the class, his charcoal-grey shirt rolled at the cuffs, exposing thin wrists, the veins a subtle roadmap of tension beneath his skin. His eyes — deep-set, alert, soft and searching — scanned the rows of expectant faces. He shifted subtly on his feet, as if bracing for impact from memories no one else could see. His voice, when it finally came, was gentle but carried steel beneath the warmth, careful as a man tiptoeing through his own past.

At the back, Lyra Haldene leaned forward, her blouse starched but already coming untucked, fingers curled around a battered notebook like a secret lover. She stared at Peris, breath arrested, as if learning a new religion. Her chestnut hair spilled around her cheeks, half shielding the flush blooming there, eyes wide and unguarded. Each word Peris spoke seemed meant for her alone, the world narrowing to the hush in his throat, the tremor in his hand as he wrote “Desire” on the blackboard.

Caelum Brythe sat dead center, posture perfect, navy blazer sharp against his pale skin. His jaw clenched as Peris introduced an unconventional syllabus; authority made Caelum uneasy unless it belonged to him. He scribbled notes furiously, but his gaze strayed to Lyra — the glint in her eye, the way her lips parted with every sentence Peris offered. A flicker of jealousy, unbidden and unwelcome, sparked under the surface.

Class ended, chatter filling the corridor. Peris gathered his books, hands trembling so slightly it could be mistaken for cold. Lyra lingered, backpack drooping off one shoulder. She hesitated, lips hovering over a question she didn’t quite dare ask. Their eyes met for half a second — her longing naked, his alarmed but unable to look away.

Outside, Torrek Vien swaggered across the quad; his soccer kit slung over his shoulder, steps loose and cocky. His hair stuck damply to his forehead, the aftershocks of adrenaline visible — except when nobody watched, and his hand pressed hard to his chest, breathing ragged and shallow. He grinned at a teammate, cocked his head, but his eyes betrayed a darting, hunted look.

In the common room, Saille watched everything from her perch by the window — quick, feline eyes cataloguing every tremor. Caelum brushed past Lyra in the hall, close enough for static to jump between them, his voice low: “Careful who you trust.”

Night pressed in. Peris retreated to his spartan quarters, the air thick with the ghost of old fear. He opened his battered journal, fingers hovering over the page, the urge to destroy it alive in his chest. He couldn’t bring himself to do it. Instead, his gaze fell to a single sheet tucked beneath a book on his desk — paper flecked with inky, hurried words.

He read, pulse stammering. The poem was raw, hungry, dangerously intimate. Words about forbidden hands, bodies too close, voices in the dark. He swallowed, the air leaving him in a rush, desire and guilt twisting until he almost staggered.

Somewhere, Lyra lay with eyes wide open, heart beating to the echo of his name. Down the hall, Caelum rewrote last year’s essay, pen shaking, burning with the need to be perfect, to be chosen. Outside, Torrek’s laughter carried, sharp and bright, a mask against the longing gnawing at the edges.

Peris held the poem, and knew — some doors, once opened, would not close again.

To be continued...