I had never felt this exposed in my entire life.
With trembling fingers, I lifted the porcelain teacup to my lips, its floral scent barely managing to mask the growing nausea in my stomach. Every movement felt off. My grip was awkward, my posture rigid. Even blinking felt risky under the heavy scrutiny of the nobles seated around me.
Particularly, two of them.
To my left sat Celestienne Raventelle—graceful, immaculate, and terrifying in her silence. Her silver eyes barely flicked in my direction, yet I could feel them, like threads subtly winding themselves around my throat.
To my right was Isolde Virellith, relaxed and mocking, reclining with one arm draped casually over her chair. Her lips curled into a smile too sharp to be friendly, too amused to be harmless.
I kept my gaze on the tea.
"So," Isolde began, her voice tinged with playful malice, "do you still remember what house you're aligned with, Lady Elira?"
I hesitated. "Aligned…?"
Celestienne stirred her tea with a deliberate elegance. "House Veremelle has long been neutral. A small noble house under the Crown's grace—until the last war."
"The one where your father lost three fingers and half his army," Isolde added, lips pursed in mock pity. "Unfortunate. But perhaps not undeserved."
Celestienne gave a faint smile, her tone cool. "Loyalty often demands sacrifice."
They were speaking past me, yet every word was a veiled blade. No matter how much I tried to shrink into the background, it was clear I had become the centerpiece of something far larger than I understood.
"I… don't plan to involve myself in politics," I muttered. "Or any trouble. I just want to study quietly."
Celestienne tilted her head, eyes unreadable. "That would be unwise."
Isolde chuckled. "That would be adorable."
I lowered my teacup with more force than necessary. "I mean it. I just want peace."
Celestienne regarded me for a moment longer. "Peace is rarely afforded to those who inherit power."
"Especially not to those who return from the dead," Isolde added with a smirk.
I flinched.
A bell rang through the hall, signaling the end of the lunch period. Chairs scraped and murmurs rose as students began to leave. I stood, trying to make a swift exit.
Celestienne rose at the same time. "I'll escort you to your next class."
"I can manage on my own—"
"Nonsense," Isolde interrupted, also rising. "She'll get lost in these halls. She's clearly still recovering."
"I'm right here," I muttered.
Celestienne extended a gloved hand toward me with practiced poise. Isolde mirrored her, though hers was exaggerated, dramatic, as if offering her hand to a princess in a farcical play.
They both waited.
I hesitated, then gave a stiff curtsy. "Thank you, but I'd prefer to walk alone."
A pause. Celestienne's hand lowered with the precision of a guillotine. Isolde let out a low whistle, clearly entertained.
"As you wish," Celestienne said, voice unreadable.
"Until we meet again, Lady Elira," Isolde said sweetly, and perhaps too sweetly.
I did not look back as I hurried away.
The academy's halls were vast and cold, carved in marble and lit by floating lamps. No matter how many turns I took, everything looked the same—arched windows, crimson carpets, paintings of ancestors who stared far too long.
By the time I reached the first-year lecture wing, I was late, breathless, and questioning my decision to refuse help.
I opened the door quietly, only for the professor to look up and announce in front of everyone, "Lady Elira Veremelle. How fortunate of you to join us."
A dozen heads turned. I gave a strained smile. "Apologies. I got a little turned around."
The professor didn't bother replying. He gestured to a seat by the window. "Try not to be late again."
I made my way to the seat as quietly as possible, painfully aware of every step. I sat, keeping my eyes down. The student beside me—a boy with dark hair and glasses—didn't look up. That suited me just fine.
The lesson resumed. Something about elemental theory and mana convergence. I tried to take notes, but my thoughts kept drifting.
What did Celestienne and Isolde want from me?
Were they simply amused by my presence—or was there something else, something deeper that Elira Veremelle had once been part of?
No answers came. Only more questions.
I pressed the nib of my quill harder against the parchment, willing myself to focus.
Blend in. Stay quiet. Don't give them a reason to care.
And yet, deep down, I could feel it. The eyes. The weight. The unrelenting attention.
They weren't going to let me go.