Chapter 5: Cold Escape

  The moment Professor Zephyros uttered the words “Class dismissed,” Angel moved.

  She sprang from her seat like the chair had grown thorns, her breath trapped in her throat and her chest too tight to breathe properly. Her satchel hit her side as she gathered her things in one motion, clumsy and fast, books pressed hard against her chest like armor. She didn’t dare look at Lioren. Not after that.

  Not after the way he looked at me.

  The illusion had flickered. Only for a breath, less than a heartbeat, but it was enough. Enough for someone like Lioren, whose eyes saw more than what was visible—whose presence didn’t just brush against the mind but pressed.

  She kept her head down as she hurried through the corridor. The vast runic doors of the illusion hall slid open with a low groan, revealing the academy’s gray marble corridors, gilded with enchantment and bathed in soft light from floating crystal sconces. But Angel didn’t see them. Didn’t admire the arcane beauty or the artistry in every flickering torch. Her vision tunneled, heart thudding against her ribs like a beast clawing to escape.

  Inside her mind, a storm surged.

  Don’t panic. He didn’t confirm it. He’s guessing. Fae are manipulators. He’s playing you. That’s all this is.

  Behind her, a presence lingered. She didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. The feeling was unmistakable—cold and searing at once, like moonlight caught in the wrong season. His gaze.

  Lioren.

  It pressed against her back as though tethered, unseen but unrelenting. But she refused to give him the satisfaction. Not a glance. Not a stutter. She walked faster, footsteps echoing louder, sharper.

  ---

  Angel’s feet carried her to the next class on instinct alone. Her thoughts were too loud, but the moment she pushed open the door to the alchemy wing, a rush of new sensations washed over her. The scent of crushed herbs, bitter root dust, warmed metals, and pungent arcane chalk greeted her like a balm.

  This classroom wasn’t pristine and cold like the illusion hall. It was warm, almost disorderly, lined with crooked shelves full of rattling ingredients and spellbooks that smelled of soot and age. Copper cauldrons bubbled in the corners unattended, and magical creatures—glow-beetles and ink-sprites—hovered lazily through the air, leaving glittering trails behind.

  Professor Brielle didn’t look up immediately. The banshee woman stood near the blackboard, her silver hair braided with beads of moonstone, robes shimmering faintly as if soaked in mist.

  “Ah, Angel,” she said without looking. “Solo work today. You’ll be on station three—some of your peers are still growing back their eyebrows.”

  Angel nodded wordlessly, grateful beyond words for the solitude. She sank into her seat and laid her materials out in careful rows—vials, tongs, polished stones. Her hands moved automatically, calming slightly as she focused on the transmutation task: deconstructing fire petals to extract their latent elemental core.

  No illusions. No masks. Just logic, ingredients, and rules.

  She ground the fire petals slowly, the mortar cold in her hands. The crimson dust swirled beneath her fingers as her thoughts returned to him.

  Lioren.

  He’d seen something.

  But how much?

  “You’re not a witch. Not like the others.”

  His words echoed like a curse, laced with knowing. With danger. Angel’s pulse spiked again.

  Fae lie. Fae twist truths into blades. That’s what they do. He was baiting me. He has to be.

  The grinding stone scraped too harshly. She flinched. Her fingers trembled. She shook them out and muttered under her breath, “Ignore him. Let him play his games alone.”

  ---

  Across the sprawling academy, high in one of the oldest towers wrapped in ivy and shadow, Lioren stood on a narrow balcony. His arms folded across his chest, wings partially unfurled as he leaned on the curved glass railing.

  Below, students bustled like insects. But his gaze tracked her—the lone figure slipping into the alchemy wing like she was being hunted.

  She hadn’t looked back once.

  Not at him.

  Not even a glance.

  Lioren smiled faintly, eyes darkening with quiet amusement and something deeper.

  “Running away, little human?” he murmured to the wind. “That’s cute.”

  His smile widened just slightly as he turned from the edge, wings brushing the stone behind him.

  “But this isn’t over.”

  ---

  The bell rang, low and sonorous, its vibrations humming down the ancient stone walls of Lunaria Academy. You stepped out of the Alchemy hall with your satchel snug against your side, the hem of your cloak brushing your boots as you moved. The hallway outside was a little too quiet for comfort—too wide, too exposed. Each echo of your footfalls bounced back like a warning.

  You just needed to make it to your dorm. Or the library. Or even the gardens—somewhere out of sight, away from eyes that glowed too brightly or ears that heard too much. You were done being a curiosity for the day.

  But the moment you turned the corner, your breath caught.

  A wall of shadow blocked your path.

  No—not a wall.

  A student.

  Tall. Broad. Breathing ragged, like he’d just come from a shift. Shaggy dark hair framed a face that was more beast than boy, and his eyes—feral, narrow, burning with golden light—locked onto you with unblinking intensity.

  He was a werewolf.

  You stopped short, your spine stiffening, instincts screaming to back away. But you didn’t flinch. You couldn’t. Fear was as dangerous as truth in a place like this.

  His nostrils flared. Once. Twice.

  Then a deep growl bubbled from his throat.

  “What… are you?” he asked, voice rough as gravel.

  He stepped forward. You could hear the scraping of his boots against the floor. He was close now—too close. His breath brushed your skin as he sniffed the air around your neck, a low sound like a rumble in the earth following every inhale.

  You stood frozen, pulse thundering.

  Don’t move. Don’t blink. Don’t let him smell it.

  “Witch,” you said firmly, each syllable pressed through clenched teeth. “Back off.”

  His lips peeled back in a half-smile, half-snarl.

  “You smell wrong,” he muttered. “Not witch. Not fae. Not anything I’ve met.”

  The silence around you grew sharp. A few students nearby slowed their steps. Some paused, heads turning. Not helping. Just watching.

  Predators were always drawn to blood.

  Your body screamed for action, but your mind worked faster.

  If he calls it out—if he exposes me—I won’t even make it past the next bell.

  Slowly, casually, you dropped one hand into your satchel. Your fingers found the cold edge of a glass vial. Silverroot powder. Not dangerous. But pungent. And incredibly irritating to werewolf senses.

  You met his gaze with cold precision.

  “Back.Off,” you said again, louder now. “Or I’ll make sure the next full moon forgets you exist.”

  His eyes flinched. Just slightly. But it was enough.

  Werewolves were deeply superstitious—lunar magic, blood pacts, ancestral curses. They didn’t mess with witches who claimed to meddle with moonlight. Even if you didn’t have the spell to follow through, he didn’t know that.

  He straightened, jaw tense, breath still ragged.

  “Fine,” he grunted, stepping back with visible reluctance. “But you’re not normal. I’ll figure it out.”

  Then he turned, shoulders stiff, and vanished into the gathering crowd—still glaring, still sniffing the air like your scent was branded into his memory.

  You stood there for another moment, your heartbeat still climbing, your fingers white-knuckled around the vial.

  That’s two, you thought, breath shaky. First Lioren. Now him. I’m slipping.

  Too many eyes. Too many threats.

  You needed stronger protection—something more permanent. A spell that masked more than just your aura. You needed to erase your scent, your blood, your very humanness. This school was built to test the weak, and you were bleeding secrets like open wounds.

  And yet, above the noise and the panic and the pain, a voice echoed in your head.

  Silken. Calm. Confident.

  Lioren’s voice.

“You don’t have to hide from me.”

  You clenched your jaw and pushed forward, disappearing into the crowd before anyone else could follow your trail.

  'He’s wrong', you told yourself.

  I do.

  And until you were strong enough, you would.

  —To be Continued—