Aila stood outside the west wing, arms folded, her back resting against the cool stone wall. She checked her reflection in a windowpane, smoothing out the front of her blouse. Neat, approachable. A hint of vulnerability. Just enough to sell it.
"He's here," came the soft voice behind her.
She turned. Aron strolled toward her, casual as ever, that infuriating half-smile on his face. Regal, dangerous, untouchable.
Aila raised an eyebrow. "You're sure?"
"When have I ever been unsure, you just need to do your part"
" But do i really need to tear my clothes?? Comon can't I just scream and then you can swoop in and be the oh so legend all mighty"
Suddenly the aura around Aron flurred.
" Do what you are told to do"
Aila looked away, jaw tense. "Do you think it will work? Even if he is just a commner , he still is top student of our year."
"You will get what you wanted, Aila. A recommendation to the Royal academy, even if you awaken a mediocre talent . I even cleared your father's debt with House Marevyn."
He leaned in, voice like silk over poison.
"All I need is for you to play your part."
She exhaled slowly.
" I just want to tell you he seemed different to me some how today, like he had some sort of new found confidence"
Aron's eyes flickered with something sharp. "So what? He's still alone. THAT NO title piece of shit. A speck in our world. If he's calm, it's because he doesn't know what's coming."
"He used to trust me."
"Then it'll hurt more," Aron said flatly. "That's the point."
Silence stretched between them.
Then Aila straightened her shoulders and brushed imaginary dust from her ribbon.
"Fine. I'll do it."
"Good girl." Aron reached out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She flinched, but didn't pull away.
As she turned to go, his voice followed. "Be convincing. No tears, no reward."
Back in the library.
Aila inhaled once, let her expression soften, and walked through the towering doors. The scent of parchment hit her instantly. She climbed to the 2nd floor ready to approach Edgar ,She forced a light smile, chatting briefly with a girl near the staircase before her eyes lifted—
—and met his.
Edgar.
Same corner. Same seat. Same shafts of warm light trailing down the stained glass.
His gaze met hers—steady, cold, disinterested.
Not even contempt.
Worse.
Indifference.
The kind that said: I've already seen the ending to this little play, and it bores me.
Aila's breath hitched.
She had prepared for the shy, flustered Edgar—the one who'd once looked at her like she was starlight in human skin.
In his place sat something...older. Heavier. As if he'd returned from a battlefield no one remembered.
Then, as if giving her permission to approach, Edgar closed his book with deliberate grace. Not a word spoken.
Just a look.
A king, waiting to see what game the jester would play today.
Aila swallowed, smile trembling—then brightened it into something brilliant. Practiced. Perfect.
She climbed the stairs.
Time to start the scene.