Torrek stands in the corridor, his broad shoulders hunched inward despite the crisp lines of his academy track jacket. Sweat darkens the collar as he fumbles with the pill bottle in his shaking hands, the echo of cheers from the soccer pitch distant and unreal. His knuckles are white. Guilt flashes across his face—fear drowns it just as quickly. He slips two pills onto his tongue, swallowing dry as footfalls approach. The bottle clatters to the floor.

Lyra is first to spot him—she’s out of breath, crimson-patched cheeks from running, her Marrowridge skirt rumpled, eyes wild with worry. He tries to flash his familiar smirk, but it falters. “Just nerves,” he whispers, voice cracking, but Lyra’s own anxiety presses close, crowding the narrow air between them. For a second, their hands meet—a grasp that’s almost desperate, her slender fingers icy with dread.

The emergency unravels in shouts and chaos. Caelum, tall and rigid in his immaculate school uniform, rushes in, his jaw clenched, storm-grey eyes darting between Torrek and the growing circle of teammates and staff. The mask is gone—what’s left is panic. His hand brushes Torrek’s shoulder with more tenderness than he’ll ever admit. “Don’t—don’t close your eyes, yeah?” Caelum croaks, the lines of his composure breaking around his mouth. He glances at Lyra, who looks so lost, crumpled and trembling, a world away from the girl who arrived here full of hope.

The ambulance takes Torrek. The emptiness left behind is loud and raw. Lyra stands in the hallway, staring at her hands. Her hair falls across her face, hiding silent tears. Caelum tries to speak, his tongue heavy with all the confessions he’s never dared to make. “If he—” he starts, but it’s pointless. They’re both splintered, orbiting the wreckage of someone they tried to save.

In the hush of Peris’s apartment, the spell is different. Caelum stands uncertain in the doorway, tie undone, hands shoved deep in his pockets. Peris, still in his white shirt—now wrinkled, cuffs rolled up—sits at the edge of his battered couch, shoulders tense, haunted eyes fixed on the floor. The silence between them is electric. Palm to palm, Caelum finally lets the tears come. Peris looks up, broken open by that sudden vulnerability.

“They all want something I can’t give,” Peris murmurs, voice low and hoarse. Caelum lets out a shuddering sigh, and the breathless space collapses as he leans in, scent of soap and rain and nervous longing filling the air. Their mouths collide—hungry, clumsy, desperate. Peris’s hands tangle in Caelum’s neat blond hair, thumb brushing the skin behind his ear. Caelum’s fingers skim Peris’s jaw, then slide down his chest, pressing him back against the cushions as their bodies lock, sharp angles and heated skin trembling as they surrender to need. Every kiss is a confession, every gasp edged with grief and fear, their boundaries dissolving in the dark.

Somewhere, thunder rumbles. The brief spell is shattered by a pounding at the door—Lyra’s voice, choked with tears, scrapes through the wood. “Is he alive? Please—please, I need—” Peris jerks away, guilt flaring as he straightens his shirt, eyes shining. Caelum exhales jaggedly, raw and exposed, his lips swollen, jaw tense.

Saille’s malicious laughter echoes down the hall outside, sharp as broken glass, as word spreads. The secrets are out. Nothing will ever be the same.

To be continued...