The candlelight flickered against the velvet walls of Elira's private chamber, casting long shadows that danced like specters from stories meant to warn, not comfort. She sat at her writing desk, back straight, hand hovering over the silver and red-sealed letters still untouched before her.
Her fingers trembled again.
"I haven't even opened them, and they're already... pulling at me," she whispered.
Neither letter had moved since she returned from the lecture hall, but their presence pressed on her chest like a weighted chain. The silver seal—ornate, almost regal—seemed colder than the air itself. The red wax, in contrast, bled slightly at its edge, as if scorched the moment it was sealed.
Elira had barely survived the maelstrom of stares, rumors, and whispered theories that followed her dramatic display of uncontrolled fire affinity. Worse than the fear was the fascination. Students had started calling her the "Split Flame," murmuring that she might carry more than one element. A taboo. A myth.
She sighed.
"None of this is what I wanted."
Knock. Knock.
She flinched.
The door creaked open—without her permission.
Celestienne entered with the silence of a wraith. No pretense, no hesitation. Her silver eyes scanned the room, then landed on the two letters on the desk.
"So she got to you first," Celestienne said, a touch of cool disdain.
"I didn't open either of them," Elira answered quickly, standing.
"Yet you kept them," the heiress replied, stepping closer.
Elira tensed as Celestienne's gloved hand reached for the silver-sealed envelope—but stopped just short, as though her touch alone might alter its contents.
"You should burn hers," she said flatly.
Elira's voice shook. "And if I don't?"
Celestienne tilted her head, her silver gaze piercing. "Then I'll burn it for you."
Her words were not loud, yet they sliced deeper than any shout.
"You can't control who I speak to," Elira snapped, surprising even herself.
A pause. A beat.
Then—Celestienne's lips curled. "You think this is about control? No, Elira. This is about safety."
She leaned in, one hand resting gently beside Elira's on the desk—never touching, yet asserting proximity with terrifying grace.
"Isolde Virellith poisons what she cannot possess. And when she can possess it, she breaks it until it begs for death."
Elira stared at her. "Why are you telling me this now?"
"Because you're not invisible anymore," Celestienne said softly. "And you were never meant to be."
A knock interrupted them—sharp, impatient.
Celestienne's eyes narrowed.
"Who—?" Elira began.
But the door opened again.
Isolde.
She didn't knock twice.
"Ah. The saint graces her prey first," Isolde said, striding into the room without even a glance at Celestienne. "Did you finish whispering sweet warnings, or shall I wait for the second act?"
"Leave," Celestienne said.
Isolde ignored her.
Her eyes fixed on Elira instead, and the usual smirk faded just a fraction. "You didn't read it," she said, gaze dipping to the letters. "But you kept it."
"I didn't know if I should."
"Would you like help deciding?"
Celestienne stepped between them before Elira could answer.
"You're not welcome here."
"I wasn't speaking to you," Isolde said, smiling again. "But thank you for the reminder of how charming you are."
Elira could feel the tension between them like electricity in the air.
"Stop it—both of you," she said, moving between them before anything exploded. "This is my room, not your battleground."
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Celestienne's voice softened. "Then let me say one last thing."
She turned to Elira. "If you read her letter... read mine first."
Without waiting for permission, she turned and left, her cloak sweeping behind her like frost.
Isolde watched her go, then looked back at Elira.
"She plays with lace. I prefer knives."
Elira gave a bitter laugh. "That's not reassuring."
"No," Isolde said, stepping forward slowly, "but it's honest."
She reached out—not to touch Elira, but to gently push the silver letter aside.
"Elira... don't let her shape you into a reflection of herself. You're not her little doll to dress and parade."
Her hand lingered over the red letter.
"I didn't write poison," she murmured. "I wrote truth. But truth can cut, too."
Then, as if she hadn't just unsettled the air in the room, Isolde turned and left—without another word.
Elira sat down again, staring at the letters.
This time, her fingers moved.
She broke the silver seal first.
Inside was parchment thick with perfume—not flowers, but cold air and ink. The handwriting was perfect. Not just neat. Orchestrated.
"Elira Veremelle,
You are a girl born of flame, yet raised to cower under frost.
I saw what you did today. So did the world. But only I understand it.
Fire that blooms without control consumes itself.
Come to me. I will teach you how to burn without breaking.
You belong to no one but yourself—but should you choose me,
You will never be alone again.
—Celestienne Raventelle"
Elira sat back.
It was… beautiful.
Cold, but strangely warm beneath the chill.
She stared at the red envelope for a long time.
Then opened it.
The parchment was thinner. Rougher. The ink bled in places.
The writing, however—raw, quick strokes, full of emotion.
"Elira,
I won't lie.
You terrified me today.
Not because of the flame, but because I saw me in it.
We're not the same, but we're not so different either.
I broke the world around me to survive.
I don't want to break you.
But I will, if you let her win.
So don't let her.
You don't have to choose me.
But if you ever want to… I'll be there.
—Isolde"
Elira closed both letters.
She couldn't cry.
Couldn't scream.
She just sat there, hands trembling—not from fear, but from feeling.
Too much. Too fast.
Outside her window, the wind howled against the stone walls of the academy.
Inside, Elira placed both letters in a drawer, locking them away.
Because choosing wasn't just about who to trust.
It was about who she was willing to become.
And that night, for the first time, she dreamt of fire.
But not a nightmare.
A promise.