The First Invitation

The academy corridors were unnaturally quiet that morning.

Elira's boots clicked softly against the polished obsidian tiles as she made her way toward the library. Her bracelet, still cold around her wrist, pulsed faintly with magic—not in warning, but as if reminding her it was still watching. Still guarding.

She hadn't slept. Not truly. Even behind closed eyelids, she'd felt the weight of two gazes—one like frost threading along her spine, the other like fire curling beneath her ribs.

The letters from last night remained untouched in her drawer. Red wax. Silver seal. Two promises, unread, unopened. She couldn't bear to see what they'd written this time.

A sharp voice pulled her back to the present.

"Lady Veremelle."

She stopped mid-step.

A group of noble girls stood near the corner, clustered like a cluster of porcelain dolls. Their uniforms crisp, their faces painted with the subtle artistry of aristocratic upbringing. One of them—tall, golden-haired, a Raventelle cousin perhaps—smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes.

"I heard you caused quite a spectacle yesterday," the girl said, lips pursed in polite malice. "Poor Professor Avarlen nearly singed her robes."

Soft laughter followed. Elira stiffened.

She bowed slightly. "It was unintentional. I apologize if it disrupted anyone's studies."

The girl's smile widened, as if that answer satisfied her in the worst possible way. "Oh, don't apologize. You made the lesson… memorable. It's just rare to see someone awaken in public. Messily, at that."

"She nearly burned the observation dome," another girl whispered. "And yet both Raventelle and Virellith—"

"—spoke to her," the first girl finished, eyes narrowing. "You must be very special, Lady Elira."

Elira said nothing.

But from the edge of her vision, she caught a flash of red—a familiar figure approaching without a sound.

Isolde.

Draped in her deep crimson robes, she moved like smoke—untouchable, smooth, inevitable. The noble girls immediately went silent, as if air itself had left the corridor.

"Elira," Isolde said softly. "Come."

No honorific. No pretense.

Just a command. And a gaze that promised it wasn't a request.

Elira hesitated only a moment before stepping forward.

She didn't see what expression the girls wore behind her, but she heard no laughter this time. Only silence—and the quiet sigh of envy.

Isolde didn't speak until they were alone in the hallway outside the conservatory, where light filtered in through violet-tinted glass.

"Do you know why I sent you a second letter?" she asked, voice quieter now. Thoughtful.

Elira didn't meet her eyes. "I didn't read it."

"Mm." A pause. "Still frightened?"

"Yes," Elira whispered honestly.

Isolde smiled. It was sharp, but not unkind. "Good. That means you still understand the stakes."

She reached into her cloak and held out a folded parchment, sealed in wax with the Virellith crest—a thorned lily this time, rather than a rose.

"A formal invitation," she said. "From House Virellith. To dine."

Elira's eyes widened. "Dine...?"

"Tonight. In our family wing. You won't be alone," Isolde added. "Celestienne received one too."

Elira's breath caught. "You—what are you planning?"

"Nothing." A soft hum. "I merely want you to see the difference between hunger and possession."

She pressed the letter into Elira's hand.

Then, gently—like a whisper—Isolde touched her cheek again. "Wear something red, little lily. It suits you."

And she was gone.

—

By the time evening arrived, Elira had spent hours in hesitation.

She hadn't accepted. Hadn't declined. But the moment she opened her wardrobe, she found it.

A crimson dress.

It hadn't been there before.

No servants claimed to have placed it. It bore no crest. But when she touched the fabric, it was warm—like it had been waiting.

And beside it, another box.

The bracelet from Celestienne glowed faintly in protest as she reached for it.

Inside the box was a pair of earrings—silver drops shaped like falling petals, each one etched with a sigil she didn't recognize.

No letter. No name.

But she knew who had sent it.

She dressed in silence, heart fluttering like a caged bird.

When she emerged from her room, the corridor was empty—but the two shadows that awaited her near the grand stairwell made her stop in her tracks.

Celestienne stood to her left, clad in icy blue velvet, her silver hair loosely braided and adorned with a single sapphire. Regal. Immaculate.

Isolde stood to her right, crimson silk draped like wildfire across her shoulders, lips painted wine-dark, eyes glowing faintly in the twilight.

The contrast was unbearable.

Yet here they were—waiting.

Celestienne was the first to speak. "You look… unexpected."

Elira managed a breathless, "Is this really necessary?"

"Absolutely," Isolde said at once.

Celestienne only offered her arm. "Shall we?"

Elira stood frozen for a moment. Then, to preserve whatever sliver of sanity she had left, she placed her hands behind her back and took a single step forward.

"I'll walk on my own."

Both women exchanged glances—but said nothing.

Together, the three of them moved through the academy like a vision from a dream. Students parted. Eyes followed. Whispers bloomed in their wake like flowers on scorched earth.

A noble girl flanked by the two most dangerous forces in the academy.

And no one knew what it meant.

Not yet.

—

Dinner was served in a private room reserved for the highest-ranking families—normally cold and ceremonial, but tonight, transformed.

Candlelight shimmered from a hundred hovering flames, suspended like stars. Music played softly from an enchanted harp. The long table was set for three.

Not servants. No guards. Just them.

And tension.

Elira took the seat at the center, flanked by Celestienne on her right and Isolde on her left.

She could barely touch the food.

"Is this some kind of trap?" she finally whispered, fork trembling.

"Only if you expect poison," Celestienne replied, sipping her wine. "And you'd have noticed it by now."

"I wouldn't be so sure," Isolde murmured. "Poison can be given through touch. Through whispers. Through trust."

Elira lowered her fork.

Celestienne leaned in slightly. "You don't need to be afraid of her, Elira."

"I think she should be afraid of you," Isolde countered, eyes narrowing.

"Oh?" Celestienne smiled without warmth. "I don't need to stalk her with riddles and roses. I speak plainly."

"Plainly? You lie in silk and act like truth is beneath you."

"You drugged her."

"I woke her."

"You scared her."

"You branded her."

"I protected her."

"You caged her."

The argument broke across the table like a clap of thunder, though neither raised their voice.

Elira stood suddenly, breath sharp. "Enough!"

Both heads turned toward her.

"I'm not… a prize," she said quietly. "And I don't belong to either of you."

The silence that followed was heavier than before.

Celestienne looked down first. Isolde leaned back, thoughtful.

"Then who do you belong to?" Celestienne asked, voice unreadable.

"I don't know," Elira admitted. "But not to anyone who tries to decide that for me."

Another silence.

Then, strangely, Isolde smiled.

Not her usual, wolf-like smirk.

Something softer.

"Good," she said. "Hold on to that fire."

Celestienne nodded slowly. "It's the only way you'll survive us."

Elira sat back down, heart pounding.

The dinner continued—quieter now.

But beneath the civility, the war had changed.

This was no longer just a game of dominance.

This was a storm, and Elira had declared herself its eye.