The next morning, Elira found a bouquet waiting on her desk.
Not just any bouquet.
Deep crimson roses—each petal edged with frost that shimmered faintly under the morning light.
She stared at it in silence.
There was no card. No signature. Just a single ribbon tying the stems: a shade of midnight violet that matched the uniform of the upper aristocracy.
Celestienne's color.
Elira didn't touch it. She simply sat down, picked up her brush, and began combing her hair with stiff, automatic movements.
Was it a warning?
A message?
Or worse… a promise?
Her second day at the academy wasn't any quieter than the first.
If anything, the eyes on her had only multiplied. Students whispered as she passed—some with awe, some with envy, and others with thinly veiled fear. She heard snippets.
"She's the one they fought over."
"Lady Raventelle and Lady Virellith? She must be—"
"She doesn't even use magic. I heard she collapsed during orientation."
Elira tried to ignore it. Focus on her steps. One foot after the other.
But the whispers crawled under her skin.
Her next class was "Strategic Applications of Elemental Magic," taught in a large coliseum-shaped room with rows of tiered seating and a dueling arena at the center. A place meant to impress—and intimidate.
Elira took the farthest seat in the back.
Safe. Distant.
She was halfway through reviewing her notes when the door opened—and the chatter in the room died instantly.
Isolde strolled in like she owned the air itself.
Her white uniform jacket was casually unbuttoned, revealing an embroidered vest beneath, and her gloves were still stained with mana ash. She twirled a practice wand between her fingers with the lazy grace of a predator who didn't need to try.
Students scrambled to clear a seat near the front.
But she didn't go there.
She climbed. Higher. Past row after row of stunned silence—until she stood right in front of Elira's desk.
"Morning," she said, smile sharp. "You look tired. Bad dreams?"
"I'm fine."
"Liar." She tilted her head. "Did you like the roses?"
Elira froze.
"…It was you?"
Isolde blinked, then grinned. "Oh. So you got those. Hm. Never mind, then."
She sat beside Elira without permission, slinging her bag carelessly on the floor. "You should've touched them. They were spelled to bloom twice as fast when warmed by your hand."
"Why?"
"Why not?"
Elira stared ahead, refusing to look at her.
"Are you always like this with people you've just met?"
"Oh, darling," Isolde murmured, voice low and velvet-soft. "We've met before. You just don't remember."
The class began with a demonstration—a duel between two top students. Lightning spells crackled, air bent, and the arena scorched. The instructor explained tactical positioning and magical efficiency.
But Elira didn't hear most of it.
Because Isolde didn't stop watching her.
Not once.
Not even when the instructor called on her to comment on the duel.
"Lady Virellith?"
Isolde didn't look away from Elira.
"They lack precision," she said, lazily. "Too much power, not enough control. They're compensating."
"Compensating for what?"
She smirked.
"For being boring."
Laughter rippled across the room. The duelists flushed red. The instructor sighed.
Elira could feel the heat rising to her face.
Why is she sitting here? Why won't she just—
A sudden flash of memory hit her. A scent. Burnt roses. Cold fingers brushing her cheek. A whisper that wasn't quite human.
"You're mine."
She blinked.
Gone.
No one had spoken.
After class, Isolde followed her.
Not beside her. Behind her. Like a shadow with a heartbeat.
Elira stopped outside the library doors.
"Do you need something?"
"Mm." Isolde stepped close enough that Elira felt the warmth of her breath. "No. But you do."
Elira narrowed her eyes. "Which is?"
"Protection."
"I don't need protection from you."
Isolde's smile faded.
"From me?" she said softly. "No. Not yet."
Elira's breath caught.
Isolde leaned down, brushing a strand of hair from Elira's face with the back of her gloved hand. Her eyes—violet and endless—held something that wasn't quite amusement.
"Be careful with Celestienne," she whispered. "She doesn't share. Not even with herself."
Then she walked away, humming.
Later that night, Elira sat alone in the quiet of her dormitory, staring at the roses.
They hadn't wilted.
If anything… they looked even more alive.
Thorns gleamed beneath the petals like hidden teeth.
She reached out.
Hesitated.
Then touched the nearest bloom with a fingertip.
It pulsed once—softly.
And the frost melted.