The next morning was... interesting.

It was usual occurrence for Lyra, when waking up with a raging hangover, to be welcomed with overwhelming unease. 'Hangxiety' was what Jayce once called it, when they were catching breakfast after a long night out.

Usually, on such mornings, while Jayce would be happily chomping on the cafeteria's sausages and eggs, Lyra would sit unnaturally still. In complete silence, plate of food untouched. Wide eyes staring blankly forward, flickering imperceptibly with mortification as she replayed events from the night before on a loop.

This was as close as the silver-haired girl ever came to looking like a deranged asylum escapee, basically all but rocking back and forth in a corner. And the image was funny to Jayce — not because he enjoyed her discomfort, but because it came from her own sheer, unadulterated, senseless overthinking.

Drunk Lyra in a group setting was... well —for lack of a better word— fun.

Extremely so, too.

You'd never think that Lyra, who drifted down Academy halls in such a perpetuate state of aloof disinterest, a prodigious engineer and mathematician, top worker at the most sought-after company in Piltover, had once been so utterly inebriated that she complied with a bet, climbed onto a table at a party, and proceeded to chug a bottle-size amount of liquor from someone's stray shoe. A crowd of freshmen cheering her on boisterously, all music at the party pausing to accommodate the event.

Hell, Jayce hardly believed it when he saw it. And that was only one, minor example of the silver-haired student's drunken escapades.

On another bright occasion, during their earlier formative years, Jayce had witnessed Lyra accidentally tripping over a railing, and crash-landing into the river. It was winter at the time, and the railing was lining a high-up bridge. So it was an equal wonder as to how she had both, not caught pneumonia, and broken her neck.

Drunk Lyra was radically different from normal Lyra. And the two versions did not like one another a single bit.

As someone who prided herself on her cool, unbothered personality, Lyra's shame the morning after those kinds of nights was unbounded. She was not a party animal, far from it, she despised parties and social settings. But give her some alcohol, and she transformed into the most senseless individual known to mankind. Which was something she loathed about herself, and was precisely what led her to sit so still during these breakfasts, looking like she had personally set fire to an animal shelter full of newborn puppies. Overthinking anything and everything, from her more flamboyant adventures, to dumb things like a joke she'd made that fell flat.

The reason it amused Jayce, was because nobody who witnessed the events, truly cared. They were just as drunk and, if anything, Lyra's presence amounted to double the fun at those sorts of gatherings.

But, of course, that was not how Lyra saw it. So she'd repeatedly and needlessly play back every minute detail, blame herself, until the hangover passed and her self-deprecation simmered. It had become such a routine over the years, that it started to be somewhat of a remedy for Jayce's own hangovers. The entertainment he got from the sight of his completely mute, corpse-pale friend, helping his headaches.

That morning, however, things were a little different.

Lyra woke up in her room, and laid still in her bed, memories flashing before her eyes. One by one. Taking their merry time. Rolling by leisurely, with excruciating detail of things she hadn't noticed through her drunken haziness.

Nerissa's characteristic possessiveness making an appearance yet again, the whole hydraulic fiasco, and....

Oh, God.

She'd insulted Baxter Torek.

Head of the Torek Household.

A major sponsor of the Astraois company.

A rational little voice in her head squeaked somewhere in the cobwebbed depths of her mind, that this no big deal at all. Sure, she'd probably never be able to boast about having a good relationship with the industrialist, but who truly gave a hoot? Nerissa would smoothen things out just enough. And they wouldn't dare fire her. They couldn't afford that sort of radicalism  — Lyra was their best engineer, definitely the one who brought most coins into their bottomless pockets.

So, truly, she had nothing to worry about.

The rest of the crowd she could deal with, eventually. Straightening matters at one gala or another, in its own due time. There was no rush. After all, she didn't need their money, nor their praise. Her work was known in Piltover, and she was securely established into the business scene, enough to know there would never be a shortage of projects sent her way. So, honestly, she would have been just fine.

But those were all conclusions she came to later, after several coffees and mental breakdowns.

During that morning, she continued to lay completely still, as her expression became gradually more and more horrified.

Her speech (extremely stupid, absolutely idiotic, and idealistically infantile) was a disaster. Honestly, it would've been better if she had just directly grabbed a shotgun and shot herself in the foot. Would have been much less damage-inducing to her physically, and on a career level.

For someone who had spent years being externally unbothered about Undercity matters, this was unprecedented behaviour. And the fact that she had slipped like this in public? No, not slipped, colossally fucked up.

It would be a miracle if people didn't start asking questions now.

How did she go from years of rubbing elbows with the upper classes, ignoring all sorts of insults and judgments to the Fissures, to this sort of avant-guard, reformist behaviour in the span of two weeks?

The answer was simple.

And, against her better wishes, as soon as the face of that certain someone popped into her head, she physically felt her own face redden.

She'd stood up for his work.

Then called him a degenerate to his face.

A stuck-up degenerate. Fancying himself a martyr.

Him. Out of all people.

The person who actually suffered first hand the hardships of the Undercity. More so than others, even more so than her.

And she called him a stuck-up degenerate and a pretend martyr.

Lyra blinked at the ceiling.

Then, stiffly, she rolled over on herself. Face-planted into the pillow. And, out of an attempt at therapy, let out a prolonged, frustrated, utterly embarrassed, scream.

The sound bombarded through the room for a good minute, muffled by her pillowcase. Before it died down and all went quiet.

The silence was short lived — three similar screeches followed suit.

||

It happened a few days after that uncomfortable morning. On a normal afternoon, like many others before it.

It was a Friday, a warm and sunny one at that. Which, of course, did not help Lyra's mood.

The week after the party had passed by in somewhat of a blur.

She still avoided Viktor's classes, and although she was unsure as to the reason for it, she continued to do so anyway.

Luckily, the lectures he taught were merely a twice-a-week occurrence — she frequented the seminars following them, since she was certain he did not teach those. Which, technically meant her general attendance was still decent. But that did not help ease her anxiety on the subject.

When the explosion happened, she was sitting in her Thermofluid Mechanics class. Mindlessly scribbling images at the corner of a stray white paper.

The first feeling she got, was confusion. An inability to comprehend if what happened was a dream or reality.

Because the ground gave a violent shook, jerking people out of their seats and to the floor, causing her materials to leap off their spot, and her grip on the sides of the table to tighten. An attempt to stay upright.

The sound, albeit coming from a distance, was deafening. Perhaps, not to most, but definitely to her.

It was not the first time Lyra had heard an explosion.
And her heart, registering the familiar tune, picked up in a beat that was faster than it was heathy. It pumped adrenaline into her veins, recognising the bang as a command. To run. Escape.

Run.

She forced herself to stay put. Fingers trembling lightly as they dug into the wood of her desk.

Slowly, over the reverberating sound of her heartbeat, Lyra staggered to look around. Some of the students had been tossed to the ground, and were currently clumsily wobbling back up, eyeing one another in confusion. The Professor, a middle-aged male Vastaya, who had been thrown sideways but had managed to land on top of a table, was now rushing to help a few of the people up.

Panicked muttering, and prompts to remain calm filled the classroom. And Lyra kept blinking, fast, in an attempting to regain full awareness of her surroundings, and drown out the sound of static that now pulsated in her ears.

She had not heard an explosion since...well, since the day of the Rebellion. So it made sense why her first instinct was to bolt. It also made sense why her skin was suddenly feeling that hot.

Once she came to, regaining the feeling of her own extremities, she forced her fingers to unclench from around her desk, and shakily shifted to help the students around her.

While she was righting a brunette young girl with circular glasses, Lyra realised that the intrusive noise at the back of her head was not a figment of her imagination, but rather the alarm horn. Which now boomed through the city and the Academy campus at an impressive volume. She struggled to reign in unpleasant memories that were threatening to surface, her brows furrowed, eyes distant as she mechanically went through the task of propping the fallen student up.

"What was it?"

"What happened?"

"What's going on?"

"Everybody stay calm!" Her professor ushered to the rising panic.

Lyra was abnormally quiet, throat feeling a little too dry, clenching her jaw with force in an attempt to ignore the clattering her teeth wanted to give into.

She could feel the adrenaline rushing through her. An uncomfortable feeling, that burned at her insides and prickled at her skin.

"Are you alright?"

Lyra flinched, startled by the voice, and whipped sideways. It was the girl she was helping up, whom she was still holding by her forearms in an attempt to steady her swaying.

But the brunette was not looking back at her. Instead, she was staring wide-eyed at Lyra's arms. When the silver-haired woman looked down she nearly cursed out loud, but resorted to hastily hiding her limb behind her back.

"I'm fine, I'm fine."

"Was your arm...glowing?"

Lyra swallowed uneasily, shaking her head. "Varicose veins. Lack of vitamins, not important. Can you walk?"

Slowly, uncertainly, the girl nodded. But her eyes never left the spot where the silver-head was currently concealing her hand.

"Good." Lyra gave a jud of her head, before gently prying herself off. "I'm, uh, gonna go check what happened."

She left the girl without a glance back, decisive footsteps weaving her through a classroom full bustling students. A few attending to especially shaken ones, others staring blankly downwards, voices beginning to peak in widespread anxiety and confusion.

Lyra made her way through them with is. Briskly rolling down the sleeves of her shirt as she walked. Scolding herself inwardly for the bad timing of her...condition.

Praying that the glow within her veins would subside.

Not the right time.

Not now.

"What's going on? What happened?" She muttered to the professor once she approached him, breathless but convinced.

The Vastaya man, who was currently attempting to peak out the window lining the main door of the classroom, shrugged her way. Before his eyes moved to the classroom. "Everyone, please stay calm and settle down! We are to stay inside until further instructions!"

So they did. For at least an hour or two.

By the time the voiceover turned on, people had began dozing in their seats, exhausted from the stress. But they perked up when the sound ricocheted off the walls.

"All students and staff, please make your way into the courtyard, calmly! All students and staff, please make your way into the courtyard, calmly!"

Lyra walked out fast. Swift. Determined. Slithering through people with astonishing speed.

When the fresh air hit her, she could not help the shaky sigh of relief that shook her chest. Her shoulders relaxed, constrained expression softening as her fists unclenched, and her teeth released her lip from their gnawing.

She stood still for a moment, basking in the feeling of the breeze that snuck into the wrinkles of her hanging sleeves. Drowning out the buzzing of voices, which increased as more students swarmed the outside space.

Lyra stopped in the shade, at the back of the yard, breathing. Eyes skidding over the rows and rows of gushing Academy pupils, before they landed on the leisurely moving leaves of the tree she stood under.  Watching the green of the foliage as it ruffled and drifted with ease in the gentle wind.

She stood there, until she felt her heartbeat slow. Taking advantage of the teachers rushed about her, she dared a peak underneath her sleeve. To be met with the sight of her usual, pale, unimpressive skin.

The glowing was gone.

She could relax.

Her gaze moved to her surroundings, and a group of younger kids caught her eye. Probably in their first year, sitting on the curb lining the stairs and talking amongst themselves in hushed voices.

She approached them, as steadily as her still nimble legs allowed her, and asked in a voice that was too weak to be demanding, but was demanding nonetheless. "Do you know what happened?"

One of the students, a boy in cargo shorts, looked up at her. He was positioned in middle of the small gathering, so his reaction made them all glance her way. They all blinked at her in confusion, taking in her void looking features, her strained appearance, and the dark circles under her eyes. All in all, a bit of a mess of an individual. But an intimidating one, for sure.

So the boy finally brought himself to speak up, "An explosion, someone blew up a lab."

"Which district?"

"47th."

All that work on reigning in her adrenaline plummeted out of the window instantly.

Her heart fell.

Her throat constricted into a choking hold.

And she felt herself loosing colour instantly.

"Miss, are you alright?" One of the girls asked, panicked, rushing to stand up.

But Lyra simply stared the boy straight in the eye, unmoving, looking innumerably pained. Opening her mouth, forcing the drying pipes to produce sound, "47th?" She rasped, at the perplexed young student.

Who could only gulp, fearfully, before he nodded his head.

"Yes."

No one had time to react to what happened next.

Because the speed at which the silver-haired woman spun around was so near superhuman, that it almost came out looking slow-motioned.

Lyra leapt, bolted, across the yard. Shoulders slamming into people, limbs shoving through the crowd. Pushing them aside as if they were furniture, weighing no less than a plastic chair. Elbowing left and right, bulldozing her way through the yard until she found herself on the main street. Then, ignoring the shouts of her professors and the confused yelps of the students, she all but propelled herself off.

Lyra was never one to run.

But it wasn't because she was no good at it.

The fact of the matter was, that she actually was impressive at the craft. But it was too good of a speed. Too fast. Too agile. It looked unnatural.

However, as she sped past streets, leaping in front of carriages, darting past traffic enforcers, she did not care. Neither did she care to acknowledge the glow that the cavities of her arms were beginning to surge with once more.

That bright, purple, shimmering light.

Lyra could not give less of damn. She ran.

She did not stop even when all at once, she found herself at the building in question, five blocks away from the Academy courtyard. It took her less than ten minutes to cross the distance, and on any other occasion it would have warranted some sort of medal.

But as Lyra looked up at the building, she absolutely did not feel like celebrating. Her heart sunk further at the sight of the rumbled concrete stacked on the curb, and the view of the gigantic gaping hole in the building.

That lab.

Jayce's lab.

It was that thought that played on a loop in her head as her legs flew her through the hallways, up several staircases, and into that wing of the construction.

And she only stopped when a rather startled enforcer stammered to block her way.

The fury on Lyra's eyes when she whipped towards him made him gulp.

"I am here by demand of the Dean of the Academy." she snarled, tightly.

The enforcer hesitated, and felt himself near fainting when those brown eyes sharpened his way.

"Who, it may serve you to be reminded, is also the operating Head of the Council. So — Step. Aside, officer. Now!" The woman all but barked, booming voice bombarding through the hall.

And the enforcer was just one guy. Who rather liked living, too. So he obliged, with little to no reluctance.

Lyra strode past him brusquely, dark brows low, scowl on her face, fingers fiddling to close the cufflinks of her white, disarrayed sleeves. Concealing what was brewing underneath them for good. Before at once she whipped into the doorway, mane of pale hair swarming around her in a cloud of icy flames.

Everyone paused when the movement flashed in their peripheral, all gazes in the room raising towards the harsh action as soon as it occurred.

Everyone, including Viktor.

Whose eyes widened slightly at the sight of the specific individual now stood heaving in the spot of the missing door, her eyes ablaze, looking angrier than even he had ever seen her. And that said something.

She did not seem to notice him, however, her vision being mainly locked on Grayson. Who, upon seeing the student marching towards her with impressive speed, stifled a groan of annoyance.

"What happened?"

"You cannot be here." The Sherif muttered, tiredly, head shaking at the young woman before her.

"Where is he? Is he alright?"

"I'm serio—"

"Is Jayce alright?" Lyra ground out, but her voice shook lightly at the core. She was starting to become acutely aware that, against her volition, her fingers were clenching and unclenching repeatedly into a fist. A nervous tick, a tell-tell sigh of her panic.

Grayson noticed it, too. And, after a second of hesitation, she resigned. "The kid is fine. The young Kiramman came to get us when the explo—"

"Caitlyn was here? Did she get caught in the blast? Is she—"

"Everyone is fine, Lyra. But you need to leave." The older woman stared the student down with determined eyes. Soft, but strict.

Lyra did not acknowledge her, thoughts battling in her head at such speed and volume that she pressed on to voice the most immediate ones. "Where are they? Where were they taken?"

"You know I cannot disclose that sort of information."

"Grayson, please, they're the only family I have." Lyra hated her own desperation, the vulnerability of her tone. But as she stared up at the Sherif, she felt ready to drop on her knees and beg. "Please!" She muttered, urgently, and her eyes began betraying her anger, frustration, and utter fear in the form of formulating tears.

Of course, she would never let herself cry. Not in front of all of them. But as she looked at the conflicted Sherif, all she wanted to do was sob. And scream.

The urge intensified when the older woman ultimately sighed.

"I'm sorry, kid. Mr Dalton?" The Sheriff called somewhere behind the student, turning away from the silver-head. "Please escort Miss Velaryon off the premises."

The fearful, anguished whine that escaped Lyra's lips at her words was genuinely pathetic. And she went to scramble forward, to say something, anything to get some semblance of information regarding her friends. She couldn't let this go, she needed to know. If something happened to either of them, she did not know how she would live with herself.

So she had to beg, she had to plead, anything to get her any sort of clue as to what happened.

She never got the chance to do any of those things.

"That won't be necessary."

Lyra's head whipped violently sideways at the sound of the voice, and her eyes widened.

Viktor, who had stepped up from behind her, was now standing in the spot next to her. One arm leisurely draped behind his back, the other holding onto his cane.

He did not glance her way, but Lyra knew he spotted the look of sheer shock painted across her face. It was hard to miss, as she once again found herself gaping at him like a fish out of water.

But he did not acknowledge it.

"I'll do it." Viktor spoke to Grayson, his voice soft, but expression resolute. Then he looked at Lyra, and when those eyes crashed into hers, her jaw popped closed so fast her teeth clattered against each other with an ugly sound. He did not acknowledge that either. Instead, he gave her a nod, and moved aside. "Please, step this way, Miss Velaryon." He said, hand motioning for the door.

Lyra's eyes shot to Grayson. Who was eying the two in light surprise, particularly interested in Viktor. But it seemed that the man was solely focused on the silver-head before him, refusing to look anywhere but her.

Lyra heart sunk fully. She wasn't going to get any answers. Grayson wasn't going to help her.

So with a loud, annoyed huff, Lyra whirled into the direction Viktor was indicating, and stomped out of the room into the hallway.

She knew he followed her because she could distantly hear the clicking of his cane against the pavement.

But she wouldn't look at him.

Not in a million years.

Not after he'd cost her information, precious information, regarding the well-being of the people she held most dear.

What a fucking deplorable asshole, she thought to herself as she trooped past the enforcer who had let her in earlier. Ignoring the way he flinched sideways at the sight of her, hurriedly jumping out of her way for fear of being levelled with the concrete.

Which was a plausible possibility, considering the look the woman was currently sporting.

Her hands were clenching tightly by her sides, eyes pointed downward in blind rage. And she strode down the hall as if she was single-handedly looking to put holes into the marble.

That was how they walked, in utter silence, at some point rounding the corner she had come from, towards the main staircase. 

By then, Lyra was all but shaking. Her fingers were twitching restlessly, her teeth grinding against one another tightly, her brain whirling, trying to formulate a plan.

All of this was happening over such a loud piercing noice of static in her head, that when her wrist got clasped into a larger palm, she barely registered it.

Until she was being hauled sideways, into a broom closet.

"Wha—hey! What the hell are you—" Lyra protested blaringly, brows furrowed practically all the way down to her scowl. They deepened further when she watched him step inside after her, brusquely eying the hallway before shutting the door all together.

The closet had a small, grated window, but it only leaked with drops of barely-there light. So when Viktor turned towards her, Lyra didn't exactly see him as much as she heard him. Still, she focused on glaring holes into what she was sure enough was his head. "Look here, I am not in the mood for one of your—"

"I do not have much time."

Sound shrivelled in her throat at how soft and airy his whisper sounded, and her mouth snapped shut on its own accord. Her heart pulsated just slightly faster, specifically when she became wildly aware of how tight the space he'd trapped them in was. It didn't help that when he leaned in a fraction, his knuckle, the one enveloping his cane, brushed over her dangling hand by mistake. Lyra was ashamed by how thick the gulp she gave was, physically obliging herself not to jump backwards and plaster herself into the nearby wall.

She stayed put, registering his words a second later than she should have.

"He is fine. They are holding him in a cell, in the Council building. There will be a public trial this afternoon."

Lyra blinked, silent.

He was helping her? Why? What was this? Charity? Some twisted attempt at building up her hopes in finding Jayce? That would just be cruel.

She would have voiced her questions had her vision not began to adjust to the darkness of the room. At which point, the amber glow of his eyes became more visible, pointed directly at her with his usual look of conviction, lined with a tinge of gentleness. And the sight made her forget pretty much everything, her surroundings and name included.

Lyra swallowed, uneasily.

The broom closet was feeling too hot for her liking.

Forcefully prying her mouth open, the student mumbled unsteadily. "And Caitlyn?"

"They sent her home. They are both fine." The last sentence was spoken with reassurance, gaze not leaving hers for a second. An attempt to show his words were genuine.

Why the hell was her heart shifting so uncomfortably?

"Jayce wouldn't do this." Lyra instead resorted to stating, in a half-whisper that held a little more edge now. "He's reckless, but not reckless enough to blow up a building."

"It was a robbery."

Shock swelled her features immediately, and he nodded.

"The enforcers lost four children at the bridge. Grayson believes they were from the Undercity."

Lyra's eyes fell down, in horror.

Thoughts were running rampant circles in her head, and the cause for all of this happening suddenly registered in her with more clarity than she wanted.

The Undercity.

She had sent him there.

He didn't haggle.

Shit.

Before she could stop herself, the words slipped quietly out of her loose, misbehaving lips. "He was followed."

"What?"

Her gaze, now looking uncharacteristically desperate, pivoted back to him. And she unintentionally stepped a fraction towards him. Of course, in that tight space, it just meant now they were an inch away from being squished together like a pair of sardines in a can, her chest a breath off his, knees narrowly avoiding each other's.

"The illegal materials they found in his lab." Lyra pressed, hurriedly. "Is that why he's on trial?"

Viktor watched her, unmoving, burrows furrowing slowly. Until realisation flickered over his features. "You knew about this?" He asked, but it was a statement more than a question.

She ignored him, forcing her eyes to the door behind him. "I need to speak to Heimerdinger."

But as she manoeuvred past him, and reached for the handle, her hand was stopped by an instant hold on her wrist.

Lyra's eyes shot to him, displeased, to see that characteristic frown contorting his features.

"Absolutely not!" He whispered, harshly.

"This is my fault. I sent him to the Undercity to get the parts he needed. If I hadn't, none of this would have happened. I need to make it right."

"And risk your studies? Your future?"

"If they find out about his research, Jayce will have no future! He'll be banished!" Her own words dawned on her as soon as they left her mouth, and her eyes slipped downwards. Sheer terror washing over her features. "And it will all be my fault."

This was her doing.

Had she not yielded that day and told him about Benzo's, none of this would have happened.

All would have been fine.

Instead, Jayce was on trial. And both him and Cate were probably hurt. Because of her.

Her stupidity, her reckless.

She wanted to scream. To fall down and sob. To puke up the two miserable crackers she had for breakfast earlier that morning into a nearby crate, stashed into the corner of the closet.

But her legs wouldn't move. And the only thing keeping her stable in any sort of way, were her nails, which were digging painfully into her palm, so deep that she felt the blood trickle through her fingers.

So damn stupid.

You ruined Jayce's life.

You ruined this friendship, just like you'd done with the man standing before you, all those years ago.

Your fault.

Again.

Pathetic.

The vile thoughts were looping in her head at such volume, she barely registered Viktor before her anymore.

The way his expression had softened, how he was eyeing her with that same hesitation from a few nights before. His lips pressed into a tight line, brows crumpling in conflicted reflection.

All Lyra did was stare downward, eyes wide, irises flickering minutely, erratically following her internal monologue.

She didn't hear it when he, at last, sighed. Soft, and quiet.

But she did register when he spoke again.

"Does anyone know you were involved?"

Slowly, distractedly, Lyra forced her head to give a shake.

No.

"Good."

She looked up at him in surprise.

Even in the darkness of the room, she could see his expression.

That absorbed, pensative look he used to sport when they were kids.

When he'd be sitting on the carpet of her bedroom floor, notching gears on a new mechanism or other construction he'd brought with him that day. The distant sound of their mothers' chattering downstairs over tea emanating from the cracks beneath the door and floorboards. While she laid sprawled on her bed, drawing in her notebook, occasionally glancing up to make sure he was still there.

It was that same look then.

Focused, meditative, pointed somewhere to her left, as ideas swarmed his head and played in the reflection in his eyes.   

The memory was so vivid that when he at once met her gaze, she almost crumbled. Almost shot forward and wrapped her arms around his torso. Cried and begged for forgiveness.

But he wouldn't forgive her. And she couldn't ask him to. They were two different people now, in a very different setting. Things had changed after he left, a painful reminder of it currently cursing through her veins.

So she stayed put, in her tired, desperate rumination. But shamelessly unable to look away from his eyes.

"Do not go to Heimerdinger." Viktor spoke, with decision. "Not now."

"But—"

"It will only make matters worse. You will be of no help to him from inside a cell. Wait until the verdict."

"It might be too late then..."

Viktor shook his head at her soft voice. "Heimerdinger will not allow it. If the research is worth something, the Council will recognise the potential."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

His eyes left her then, reminding her with startling clarity where they were. And who they were to one another — strangers, who did not even like each other all that much.

Still, when he stepped past her towards the door, Lyra almost reached for him. For his wrist, or hand. Just to have him stay there, for a second longer, in that darkness. Where she could squint hard enough and be brought back to the image of him, her best friend, laughing with her as they sat in her bedroom, through rains, and sunny weather, and snow storms.

"I have to get back." He spoke instead, his back facing her, hand clasping the handle of the door.

Lyra nodded to herself, eyes lost on the marble beneath her feet. She did not see him sparing her a glance over his shoulder. Nor how conflicted he looked, yet again.

"The trial is at six." He spoke after a second of silence.

Then, left.

Leaving Lyra alone, in the shadows of the broom closet.

At some point, her numb mind commanded her legs backwards. And she slid down the wall, onto the cold, dusty pavement. She sat there for some time. Thinking of nothing in particular, except for Jayce.

Of what she could do to help him, how she could rectify being so insanely naive and foolish.

Of how Viktor was right, and she needed to wait until the trial.

Of how Viktor had always been right, about everything that happened even back then.

Of those memories from a distant past, that had to be buried now. Lest she were to completely loose her marbles, and actually come clean to him.

That couldn't happen.

Maybe in a different world.

Not in this reality.

Not when she was...this now.

A beam of sunlight snuck into the room through the blurry, stained window then. It fell on her open palm, there where she had mercilessly dug her nails into the flesh a few minutes prior. Brown eyes followed the direction lazily.

To see the specs of blood staining her pale skin.

But also the clear, expected absence of any small, big, or even existing cuts.

Her hand was spotless, undamaged.

Only coated with trails of blood that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere.

The skin had healed, as it always did. Stitching together in the span of seconds.

Another reminder of how much things had changed.

Another reminder that, whatever her father had done to her back then, had made her into something different.

||

I am doneeeeeee with uni! All finished, graduating in a month! Therefore, expect more updates! I'm planning to have at least a good few out before November. So, when Viktor's villain arch comes, I'll be ready.

I hope you guys are all good! Thank you so much for the comments!! They made me so happy while I was perishing away, writing my dissertation. So thank you, for keeping me somewhat sane.

As premised in the description, Lyra is not exactly human. Not anymore at least. And in the next few chapters, we'll find out a little more about that.

How this all came to be, however, will be revealed further down the line.

For now, enjoy these two tragic pining idiots.

And have a lovely day!