The crush crystal was still there.
Monday morning light crept past the curtains, slid across the ceiling, and crawled down the wall until it found Lyra's half-open eyes. For a few blissful seconds she lay perfectly still, brain empty, body heavy with the comfortable exhaustion of sleep.
Then she felt it, soft, steady, pulsing near her chest like a second heartbeat.
Lyra exhaled through her nose, already annoyed.
The tiny pink crystal hovered just above her sternum, transparent and faintly glowing, its facets reflecting the early light.
It wasn't large, barely the size of a fingernail, but it radiated something embarrassingly clear: the gentle, insistent pulse of a small crush. Her crush. On someone she absolutely should not have a crush on.
"Damn it," she muttered into her pillow, glaring down at the hovering shard like it had personally betrayed her.
It hadn't faded. It hadn't cracked. It hadn't dissolved overnight the way fleeting emotions sometimes did. It sat there, stubborn as a stone, a quiet magical reminder of everything she was trying very, very hard not to think about.
She flopped onto her back, one arm thrown over her face. I can't have a crush on the enemy. That's insane. That's suicidal. That's…
Her traitor brain helpfully supplied: even if the enemy looks that hot?
She groaned.
Images flickered behind her eyelids: Alayah's smirk, those lazy, sharp eyes; the tattoos curling around her forearms when she rolled up her sleeves; the way her laugh rumbled low when she landed a perfect shot in their game; the way her face had looked, focus razor-sharp when she'd stepped into the fight with the monster.
And worse: the way she'd held Lyra. The way her arms had felt strong, unyielding, strangely safe. The warmth of her body pressed close. The almost-kiss that hadn't quite happened.
Lyra yanked her arm away from her face and stared at the ceiling, jaw tight.
"It's not a crush," she told the crystal, as if arguing with it might make a difference. "It's just… gratitude. Confusion. Proximity. Fatigue. Trauma bonding. Bad lighting. Anything else."
The crystal pulsed once in quiet, stubborn disagreement.
Of course, it did.
She sat up with a sharp motion, swinging her legs out of bed. Enough. She refused to spend another minute lying here, dissecting her own idiotic feelings.
She had a day to get through classes, professors, an entire campus full of people whose hearts she was supposed to collect, not join.
The contest was still on. The world still needed her. She was not going to let one demon with pretty eyes and unfair arms derail her.
The crystal hovered as she stood, following her like an obedient pet. Lyra flicked it with two fingers. It wobbled, but did not shatter.
"Fine. Stay. But behave," she informed it, with all the dignity she could muster.
She headed for the bathroom, stripping off her oversized sleep shirt along the way. The shower was hot this time. Cold had been necessary after the party, when panic and adrenaline had been her only companions.
Today, she needed warmth, something to unknot her shoulders and clear her head. Steam filled the bathroom, fogging the mirror, and she closed her eyes under the spray.
She let the water drum against the back of her neck, replaying what she knew, not what she felt. The contest: ongoing.
Crystals: nearly equal. Last night's numbers: still in her favor, or close enough to taste victory on the horizon. She had a role to play—a representative, a strategist.
And Alayah… Alayah was just another competitor. A very dangerous one. A very attractive one. A very confusing one who saved her life and taught her how to shoot people in a game and smelled maddeningly good—
Lyra slapped her palm against the tiled wall.
"Stop it," she ordered herself.
She stepped out, wrapped in a towel, and wiped the mirror with the side of her hand. Her reflection stared back at her, damp and slightly flushed, hair dripping down her back in silver ropes.
She searched her face for something new for a mark, a sign, a confession but there was nothing. Just her. The same Lyra who had left Celestia with the conviction she could manage anything, anyone, so long as she kept her emotions under tight control.
Apparently, she had overestimated herself.
She dressed carefully, choosing comfort with a hint of armor: dark high-waisted jeans, a fitted white shirt, a soft lavender cardigan that made her eyes pop just enough.
Something about dressing well, even for an ordinary Monday, helped ground her. Her hair she braided loosely over one shoulder, leaving a few strands loose to soften her features.
The crush crystal drifted near her collarbone now, like a complicated accessory.
She sighed at it again. "You're really not going away, are you?"
It gleamed once in faint amusement. If crystals could smirk, this one would.
Breakfast was simple: toast, eggs, a sliced apple, and strong tea. She moved mechanically around her tiny kitchen, letting habit carry her.
Butter, pan, plate. Every so often, her thoughts tried to wander back—to the couch, the controller, the hug but she forced them onto safer tracks.
She thought about Zoe, probably still half-asleep or already at the video game club, bragging about the party or whining about assignments.
She thought about Professor Delaroche's probable lecture of the day. She thought about fencing practice this afternoon about Claire's quick grin, Theo's stubborn attempts to beat her.
Fencing was good. Fencing made sense. Rules, boundaries, clear victories. If she was going to survive this contest, not to mention her own treacherous heart she would need all the discipline she could get.
By the time she finished eating and rinsed off her dishes, her heartbeat had returned to something resembling normal. The morning air coming through the cracked window was fresh.
The world outside buzzed with potential. She grabbed her bag, checked her schedule, slipped her crystal pouch into her coat pocket, and headed out.
The campus on a Monday morning had its own kind of charm: clusters of students dragging themselves to class, coffee cups clutched like lifelines; early-rising professors strolling across lawns with folders under one arm; the faint murmur of lectures starting in distant buildings.
The air was crisp, tinged with the smell of wet earth from a light night rain.
Lyra walked at a steady pace, letting the rhythm of her steps settle her. The crush crystal floated close, but she ignored it as best she could.
She focused instead on the little pulses around her curiosity, boredom, mild anxiety radiating from students she passed. The contest never truly slept. Even on Monday mornings, hearts beat, minds wavered, feelings formed.
She paused at a crosswalk, watching a group of students hurry by. A few recognized her from the entrance speech and the fencing club.
There were nods, smiles, a wave or two. A small crystal formed from the admiration of a girl in a red jacket; Lyra collected it with a subtle flick of her magic, tucking it away in her pouch. Efficient. Neat. Uncomplicated.
This she understood.
The English department building loomed ahead, brick and glass and ivy, familiar now. She climbed the steps, feeling the faint echo of that first-day speech, the sea of faces, the unexpected respect. It felt distant now. Too much had happened in such a short span.
As she stepped into the lobby, she spotted a few familiar faces: classmates chatting in small groups, Zoe leaning against a pillar, gesturing animatedly at someone Lyra didn't recognize.
Zoe caught sight of her and waved, eyes lighting up with the usual infectious enthusiasm.
"LYRA!" she called, loudly enough to turn heads. "You're alive!"
Lyra smiled despite herself. "Barely."
Zoe bounced over, scanning her with mock suspicion. "You look fine. Too fine. Suspiciously fine. Did you sleep normally? Did you eat? Did you—"
"Yes, Zoe." Lyra nudged her shoulder. "I ate, I slept, I didn't die. Calm down."
Zoe opened her mouth as if to launch into a full interrogation, probably about the party, the monster, the sudden disappearanc but a professor's voice called her name from across the lobby. She grimaced.
"I have to go hand in something before class. Don't move. I want gossip." She pointed two fingers at her eyes, then at Lyra. "Don't. Move."
"I make no promises," Lyra replied dryly, but Zoe was already gone, racing toward a doorway.
Lyra exhaled, feeling oddly exposed standing alone in the lobby. She drifted toward a bench, adjusting the strap of her bag. Maybe she could grab a quick coffee before class. Maybe she could—
She turned the corner, not really watching where she was going.
And walked straight into someone.
Her shoulder collided with a firm, solid chest. A hand shot out, steadying her automatically at her waist. Her breath caught, not from the impact, but from the unmistakable scent and heat.
Lyra looked up.
Alayah.
Of course it was Alayah.