Helping my rival

Lyra crumpled in Alayah's arms, head lolled against her shoulder, blood seeping between Alayah's fingers.

The Celestian's breath was shallow, her skin slick with sweat and streaked with violet fire residue.

Her dress was torn, smeared with blood and soot. She looked nothing like the cool, untouchable champion Alayah had mocked a dozen times this week—nothing but a wounded, reckless girl who'd fought too hard for a world that couldn't even see the monsters hunting it.

For a second, Alayah was stunned. Why the fuck had she thrown herself into the fire for Lyra?

Why had she burned through half her own mana to destroy something that, by rights, should have been Lyra's problem?

Was it pride? Was it instinct? Was it… something else, something sharp and dangerous in the back of her mind, a hunger to see Lyra live so she could be the one to beat her fair and square?

Or just not wanting to see someone like Lyra so wild, so proud—die at the hands of a nobody, a shadow monster born of someone's petty grudge?

Whatever it was, there was no time to think about it now. The monster was still howling, black flames devouring its limbs, clawing at the warded zone Lyra had conjured.

Alayah shifted Lyra's weight, setting her down gently at the edge of the circle, then rose.

She drew on her own power, letting the black fire coil up her arms, seeping from her pores like smoke from burning coal. The monster turned, sensing her—its ruined face split in a final, desperate snarl.

"You—demon bitch—"

She smiled, a blade's edge. "That's right. And you're in my world now."

She didn't bother with tricks or fancy magic. She simply burned—let the black fire erupt from her core, boiling out in a tidal wave of destruction.

The flames hit the monster and it screamed, shattering the warded silence. It writhed, twisted, then burst apart, shredded to dust and vapor in a heartbeat.

The black crystal cracked and dissolved, the residue sizzling into nothing. No drama, no mercy.

For a moment, the world was silent. The zone faded, reality snapping back into place.

The dorms, the quiet street, the cold night—all exactly as before, except for the blood on Alayah's hands and the still form at her feet.

She looked down at Lyra, her own heart pounding. The Celestian's breath was ragged, eyes closed, lashes stuck together with sweat.

Her skin was too pale—borderline scary. Alayah felt something like panic rising in her chest. She wasn't supposed to care.

This was her rival, her sworn enemy, her favorite annoyance and her biggest headache. But suddenly, it didn't matter. Lyra was bleeding. Lyra was unconscious. And Alayah couldn't just walk away.

She crouched, cradling Lyra's head with more gentleness than she would have admitted even to herself. "Dumbass," she muttered. "You should have called for help."

Getting out of the open was the first priority. Alayah scanned the shadows, checked that the street was empty, then hoisted Lyra into her arms.

She weighed less than expected tough and strong, yes, but light, all muscle and sharp angles. Alayah glanced around. She needed to move, fast.

Luckily, she remembered where Lyra lived.

After all, stalking your rival was just good tactical sense she'd memorized the route after following Lyra home once last week, convinced she'd find some juicy Celestian secret (all she'd found was Lyra cooking badly and singing off-key).

Drawing on her magic, Alayah cloaked them both in a glamour, a ripple of shadow that would keep any curious human eyes sliding right over them.

She ran, feet barely touching the ground, cradling Lyra close.

Her heartbeat was steady but quick, more anxious than she cared to admit. Every few steps she checked for breath, the subtle flutter beneath her palm, and every time she found it, she exhaled.

At Lyra's door, Alayah set her down, fishing in the pockets of the torn dress for keys. It was awkward—Lyra's skin hot, her body limp.

Alayah tried not to look, not to feel. She found the keys, unlocked the door, and half-carried, half-dragged Lyra inside, letting the door click softly shut behind them.

Lyra's house was a disaster—books everywhere, shoes scattered, a faint burnt smell still lingering in the kitchen.

The chaos almost made Alayah laugh. She staggered into the bedroom and laid Lyra out on the bed, wincing as she saw the gash under her ribs, the bruise blossoming across her collarbone, the scrape down one thigh.

She was not a healer. Not really. But she knew enough. She tore open a dresser drawer, searching for first aid supplies.

Bandages, wipes—useless. Then, in a small wooden box under the nightstand, she found what she needed: a Celestian magic spray, the label in glittering runes.

Wound cleaner, instant tissue repair, for emergency use only. Alayah snorted. Of course Lyra had magic meds and not a single real painkiller.

She rolled up her sleeves and got to work.

First, she cleaned the wounds, her hands shaking just a little—not from fear, she told herself, just adrenaline.

The spray fizzed and stung, purple foam hissing as it sealed Lyra's cuts. Alayah watched with grudging respect as the worst gash closed, bruises fading to yellow.

Blood still stained Lyra's dress. It was a mess—sticky, heavy, reeking of smoke. Alayah hesitated, then sighed. She couldn't leave Lyra in it.

She'd been to enough after-fight hangovers to know how much worse things got if blood sat in fabric.

She did her best not to look as she stripped Lyra down. Dress off, careful not to reopen the wounds, then rummaging in drawers for something clean—an oversized T-shirt, soft with wear. She slid it over Lyra's head, hands gentle, eyes fixed firmly on the ceiling.

But she couldn't help catching a glimpse: the curve of Lyra's hip, the long, lean muscle of her thigh, the scar along one side. It made something twist inside her, raw and dark and not entirely unpleasant.

Once Lyra was dressed, Alayah tucked her in, rolling her onto her side just in case. She threw the ruined dress into the bathroom sink, ran cold water, and scrubbed the blood away until her hands ached.

The adrenaline was wearing off, and she could feel a headache blooming behind her eyes. What the fuck was she even doing? This was her rival, her competition, the girl she was supposed to crush, not nurse back to health.

But she couldn't just leave. Not yet.

She wandered the small house in circles, looking for signs that Lyra would wake—anything.

But the Celestian slept on, breath deep and steady now, her features finally peaceful. Alayah sat in the living room for a minute, head in her hands, letting the night catch up to her.

She remembered the fight—the monster's words, the way Lyra bled but didn't break, the wild stubbornness that refused to let go. She felt an odd mix of pride and irritation. Lyra had guts. She also had a death wish.

Eventually, she scrawled a quick note "Don't die, idiot. You owe me. –A" and left it on the kitchen table.

On her way out, she glanced back, just once. Lyra looked so small in that bed, the T-shirt swallowing her frame, silver hair splayed across the pillow like a halo.

For a second, Alayah let herself feel it all—the relief, the exhaustion, the low-burning heat that always rose when she thought of Lyra, rival or not.

Then she stepped out into the cool night, shutting the door behind her. She disappeared into the darkness, already pretending she'd never cared at all.