Chapter 6: A Beautiful Fracture

The grand hall of Saint Agatha's Academy was a masterpiece of divine architecture, built with towering stained-glass windows that bathed the chamber in soft hues of gold, crimson, and sapphire. The ceiling arched high above, adorned with intricate carvings of angels and celestial beings, their solemn gazes watching over the new students who stood assembled below. Rows of polished wooden pews lined the hall, and at the far end, beneath a colossal statue of the Goddess, stood the headmistress.

Elara sat among the first-year students, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her expression serene. The murmurs of anticipation filled the air as noble daughters from across the kingdom whispered among themselves, excitement buzzing like an electric current. The Academy was more than a place of learning—it was the heart of the nation's elite, where the brightest, most talented girls would be groomed for greatness.

But Elara had no interest in grandeur or ambition.

Her fingers curled subtly against the fabric of her pristine white gloves. The pressure of the room, the weight of the ceremony, the expectation in the air—it was suffocating. Already, she could feel the restless need growing inside her, a hunger that had been denied for too long. The temple had been too restricting in her final days there. Too many eyes. Too much suspicion.

Here, she had to be careful. But she also had more opportunities.

As the headmistress continued her speech, Elara rose quietly, moving with the practiced grace of a saintess. No one paid much mind—many of the students were still adjusting their uniforms, murmuring to one another. She drifted past the rows of noble girls, her presence barely noticed, and slipped into the corridor beyond.

The moment she stepped into the empty hallway, she exhaled, tension unraveling slightly. The silence was a relief. The scent of old parchment and polished marble filled the air as she made her way down the hall, searching for solitude.

A door at the end of the corridor caught her attention.

The washroom.

She stepped inside, the heavy wooden door clicking shut behind her. The space was grand, far more luxurious than the simple accommodations of the temple. A row of mirrors lined the walls, their golden frames ornate, reflecting the dim candlelight. The counters were made of polished marble, each basin pristine and empty.

She approached the mirror, her own reflection staring back at her. The image of Saintess Elara—composed, beautiful, untouchable. A lie.

She lifted a hand, pressing her palm against the glass, cool against her skin. The frustration simmering beneath her ribs twisted into something sharper, something unbearable.

Her breath hitched. Her pulse quickened.

And then—

She slammed her fist against the mirror.

A sharp crack splintered through the air as the glass fractured beneath the force of her blow. Pain bloomed instantly, a delicious, stinging warmth spreading through her knuckles. She inhaled sharply, shuddering, as a thin line of crimson trickled down her fingers, stark against her pale skin.

The sight of it made something inside her loosen, made her breath come easier.

Slowly, carefully, she curled her bleeding fingers around one of the broken shards, lifting it from the sink. The jagged edge glinted in the candlelight, delicate yet dangerous.

She pressed it against her thigh, just beneath the hem of her skirt. A slow, deliberate drag. The sensation sent a shiver down her spine, the pain grounding her in a way nothing else could. A soft, breathy sigh escaped her lips as she tilted her head back, savoring the moment.

The world faded away. There was only this. Only the warmth, the sting, the proof of her own existence.

Footsteps.

Elara froze.

Her heart lurched as she snapped her head up, eyes wide. Someone was coming. The sharp, confident sound of heels clicking against marble grew closer, nearing the door.

Her breath caught. She had lingered too long.

Swiftly, she wrapped a cloth around her bleeding hand, pressing against the cuts to slow the bleeding. The shard—she couldn't leave it here. She clenched her fingers around it, ignoring the fresh sting as she tucked it into the folds of her robe. She turned to the sink, hastily rinsing the blood from her skin, the crimson swirling down the drain.

The door creaked open.

Elara straightened, forcing her expression into perfect calm just as a figure stepped inside.

A girl.

Tall, poised, and unmistakably noble. Her dark violet hair cascaded down her back in soft waves, and her piercing amethyst eyes flickered with an almost lazy amusement as she took in the scene before her. A slight smirk curved her lips.

"Saintess Elara," the girl murmured, her voice smooth as silk. "Fancy meeting you here."

Elara turned slowly, her hands hidden within the folds of her sleeves. "My apologies," she said softly, "I was simply taking a moment to myself."

The girl tilted her head, studying her. "During the entrance ceremony?"

Elara smiled, the perfect mask of serenity. "The atmosphere was… overwhelming."

A slow hum. The girl stepped closer, her eyes sharp, lingering just a second too long on Elara's bandaged hand. "I see," she mused. "How unfortunate."

Elara's pulse pounded. Did she see? Did she know?

The girl took another step, closing the distance between them. "I don't believe we've been properly introduced." She extended a hand. "Lysandra von Albrecht."

Elara hesitated. Slowly, she lifted her uninjured hand to take Lysandra's, her grip soft, delicate. "Elara."

"I know," Lysandra said smoothly. Her fingers tightened slightly around Elara's before she let go. "Everyone knows the Saintess."

The way she said it sent a strange chill down Elara's spine. There was something in her tone—something teasing, something knowing. It made Elara's stomach twist in a way that wasn't entirely unpleasant.

Lysandra's gaze drifted once more to the sink, where faint traces of water still clung to the marble. Her lips curled. "It seems I interrupted something."

Elara remained perfectly still. "Not at all."

A slow smirk. "If you say so."

Lysandra turned, her violet hair swaying as she moved toward the door. Just before she exited, she glanced over her shoulder, her eyes glinting with something unreadable.

"Try not to get too overwhelmed, Saintess."

And then she was gone.

Elara remained frozen, her breath shallow, her heart hammering.

She had been careless.

Too careless.

Her fingers curled around the shard hidden within her sleeve, the sharp edge biting into her palm. The pain steadied her, reminding her of what was real.

Lysandra had seen something.

She didn't know how much. But she knew enough.

Elara exhaled slowly, schooling her expression into perfect calm.

The game had begun.

And she would have to play very, very carefully.