The Thriver Students' Library was quiet enough to hear the faint scratch of quills from the far corner and the gentle rustle of pages turning. Rows of tall, polished shelves stretched toward the high, arched ceiling, catching the filtered sunlight from the stained-glass windows. The air smelled faintly of aged paper, ink, and the subtle tang of magic residue from the enchanted catalogues.
Riel sat alone at one of the long study tables, a thick volume on fortress supply chains lying open before him. His gloved hand idly flipped a page every so often, though his eyes barely skimmed the words. The neat rows of ink blurred into meaningless lines. It wasn't that the material was difficult — it simply couldn't hold him. Not today.
His posture was perfect, coat crisp, silver pin polished to a cold gleam. To any passing student, he looked absorbed in study. But beneath the surface, his thoughts drifted — aimless, heavy, and not entirely welcome.
He hadn't meant to think of the morning again, but as his gaze scanned through the page, the memory replayed in perfect clarity.
----
The name struck like the clean snap of a blade.
"...Team Nine: First Year, Vyrilleya Vreisz. Fourth Year, Riellischus Desillix."
For a fraction of a second, Riel thought he'd misheard.
But the ripple that passed through the room confirmed it — the faint intake of breath from a few nearby students, the almost imperceptible turn of several heads in his direction.
No.
Not only towards him. Some gaze scanned who was the other one of the pair.
Vyrilleya Vreisz.
His gaze had already been fixed on her from the moment she entered the room — the violet hair, the poised shoulders, the noble ease in her movements. And now, with her name spoken aloud alongside his, the final piece settled into place.
It was her.
Riley.
The name everyone else used was nothing but silk-wrapped falsehood.
Professor Helstam's voice faded into the background as Riel's mind moved ahead of the moment, cataloguing every detail — the way she sat with her back perfectly straight, the way her eyes didn't linger anywhere longer than courtesy allowed, the way she didn't seem to recognize him at all.
The first time he'd seen her again — the Grand Hall ceremony — he'd thought it was an illusion. Now, the proof was in the syllables the professor had just spoken, sealing them together in a semester-long tie.
She began moving, weaving between desks. Straight toward him.
His fingers tightened slightly on the desk's edge.
For years — for a lifetime — he had imagined what it would be like to see her again. He'd never considered it might be in a room full of students, under the ordinary weight of sunlight streaming through the high windows, in the one random elective class he picked on a whim.
She stopped beside him. The faintest trace of lavender drifted in the air — a scent he didn't remember, but it suited her.
She sat gracefully, offering the formal curtsy of her rank.
"Hello. Vyrilleya Vreisz of the Vreisz Viscounty greets the heir of Desillix."
For a moment, he almost forgot to breathe.
Her voice was exactly as he remembered — and not at all. Smoother, lighter, shaped by years of court polish, yet underneath it he swore he could hear the faint ghost of that desperate, shaking tone from the night she'd told him to not leave her alone.
His jaw flexed. His reply came slower than it should have.
"...Ah."
The sound was nothing, barely an acknowledgement, but it was all he could manage without betraying too much.
She's alive.
The thought repeated in his mind like a pulse. Alive, breathing, looking at him with polite detachment instead of fear. And she had no idea.
He forced himself to answer more properly. "Yeah. Nice to meet you."
When she asked if they could drop formalities for the sake of teamwork, it was almost too easy to agree.
Riel. Let her call him that. Let her erase the walls of titles and courtesies — just enough for him to hear his name from her lips again.
And then she said it:
"...You can also call me Riley."
The sound of it hit him harder than he expected. His focus narrowed to that one word, everything else blurring away.
He repeated it, quietly. "Riley."
Testing the shape of it again, making sure it was still real. The years between then and now didn't dull it. If anything, the name had only grown sharper in his chest.
She looked a little startled at how softly he said it, so he smiled before he could think better of it — a small, unguarded thing.
It wasn't the kind of expression he showed to anyone here. But it came without effort.
"Riley..." he murmured again, lower this time.
Her question about why he kept repeating it made him almost laugh, though the sound never escaped. He simply told the truth.
"It's beautiful."
----
The quiet scrape of a chair pulling back across the polished floor broke into his thoughts, dragging him back to the present. Riel didn't need to look up to know who it was.
Nave's presence carried its own weight — not loud, but impossible to miss. He moved with the lazy elegance of someone who could command a room without effort, even here in the same black uniform as Riel, crimson accents sharp against the fabric. A glimmer acknowledgement pin on his collar. And a single ornate cufflink glinted at his wrist as he set his books down, the small indulgence allowed by the Academy's rigid dress code.
Without waiting for permission, Nave slid into the chair opposite him. "I didn't know the Thriver Library allowed statues," he said, eyeing Riel's stillness. "How long have you been sitting there like that?"
"Long enough for you to interrupt," Riel replied, closing the book with a muted thump.
"You've been quieter than usual," Nave said, casually opened a random book that was left on the desk near him.
"I didn't know I had a usual," Riel replied evenly, closing the book he hadn't been absorbing.
"You do," Nave said, propping his chin on one hand, studying him with open amusement. "It's called looking like you're about to dismantle the entire Academy in your head. And you haven't been doing it today."
"Maybe I'm just reading," Riel said.
"You're not," Nave countered easily, leaning back in his chair. "You've been on the same page since I walked in. And I've been standing there for a while."
Riel gave him a flat look. "You make a habit of staring at people in libraries?"
"I make a habit of noticing when my friends act differently."
That word — friends — settled between them with its usual unspoken history.
"Maybe I'm just having a peaceful day," Riel said at last.
"That would be suspicious enough," Nave murmured, his lips twitching into the faintest smirk. "Should I keep my eyes on you?"
Something in Riel's jaw tightened. Nave's teasing was nothing new, but today it landed differently. There was something too pointed in the remark, as if the prince was circling a thing they both knew existed but refused to name.
It should have been a harmless quip, but something in it tugged at a thread Riel didn't want pulled. The faintest flicker of irritation crossed his face. "Do as you like."
Nave's lips twitched, but he didn't press. They let the silence hang between them — not uncomfortable, but taut with the kind of familiarity that didn't need constant words. For all their differences, they were used to each other's company, used to conversations that skimmed the surface while currents ran deep beneath.
But Riel couldn't ignore the flicker of memory that had sparked the moment Nave sat down.
The New Student Welcoming Ceremony.
The grand hall filled with banners and polished marble, the hum of voices muted under the high, vaulted ceiling.
He remembered the precise moment his gaze had landed on her — the violet hair catching light like silk, the composed posture, the unmistakable pull in his chest. He remembered the way his focus had narrowed so completely that he almost missed the shift beside him.
Nave had been seated just to his left. At first, his expression was the same easy, half-amused mask he wore for the world. But then — a fraction of a heartbeat — something different.
A stillness.
A faint tightening around the eyes.
The kind of pause that comes when a memory cuts deeper than expected.
And then Riel had heard it. Nave's voice, pitched low enough that most would've missed it.
Riley.
Not Vyrilleya Vreisz. Not her full, proper title. But the name.
The one she had just given him this morning as though it were a new gift.
Riel had locked that away in his mind ever since. The Second Prince was not a man who held onto meaningless details, least of all a nickname from a single meeting years ago. Which meant... something had happened. Something more than a passing acquaintance.
And Riel didn't like the possibilities that led to.
He rose from his seat sooner than expected, gathering the unused book as though he had somewhere else to be.
"Leaving already?" Nave asked, brows lifting.
"My body's had enough of sitting still," Riel said. "Training's in an hour. Might as well start early."
"Mm." Nave arched a brow, faintly curious but letting him go. "Try not to dismantle the training yard while you're at it."
Riel didn't answer, just moved past, the silver of his pin catching the sunlight once more before the library swallowed the prince back into its stillness.
----
That night, the dormitory was quiet — the kind of quiet that wasn't the absence of sound, but the layering of it. The soft rustle of wind through the high windows. The faint creak of timber in the walls, settling as the day's heat bled away. Somewhere down the hall, muffled footsteps faded into stillness.
Riel lay on his back, one arm folded under his head, eyes tracing the dark lines of the ceiling beams. The bed beneath him felt almost too soft, as if it were pulling him into rest he had no intention of taking.
His mind wouldn't allow it.
The image of her kept returning, unbidden and relentless — the neat fall of her violet hair as she leaned toward him, the formal curve of her greeting, the brief pause before she said, You can also call me Riley.
That name still echoed in his head, sharper than any memory of the day's lessons.
Riley.
It didn't matter how many times he repeated it silently — each time it carried the same jolt, the same impossible mix of familiarity and dissonance.
His chest tightened.
He had thought hearing it again would bring relief, a closing of some wound he'd carried for too long. Instead, it opened a different ache — one that hummed like a low, steady current beneath his ribs.
He turned onto his side, staring at the faint silver glow spilling in from the narrow dorm window. Outside, the lamps along the Academy paths swayed in the night breeze, their light fracturing across the panes.
And then came the other image, unwelcome but stubborn.
Nave.
Standing in the grand hall at the welcoming ceremony, his posture relaxed but his gaze unnervingly intent. That subtle change in expression, so small most would have missed it. The way his lips had moved — forming Riley with effortless precision, as though it were a word he'd carried in his mouth before.
Riel's jaw tightened.
He knew Nave's nature. Knew the truth behind the Second Prince's easy charm, the layers of calculation behind every casual remark. It wasn't in his nature to remember meaningless details — let alone hold onto a nickname for six years.
So why her?
The question lodged in Riel's mind like a thorn.
He exhaled slowly, shutting his eyes. The darkness behind his lids was no refuge — it only brought the memory closer. The violet eyes ringed with desperation, flecks of blood catching the light. The cold weight of her hand clutching that crystal. The sound of her voice breaking on his name as she begged for a miracle. And then — the searing crimson light.
When he opened his eyes again, they burned with quiet determination.
Riel's fingers curled in the sheets. He'd failed her once — failed so completely it had rewritten what he believed possible to lose.
Not this time.
If that meant keeping her away from Nave, he would. If that meant reshaping the entire game of this Academy just to shield her from what was coming, he would.
That was the reason, he told himself.
The only reason.
But the truth — the quieter truth — sat deeper.
Something about her presence did more than stir old loyalty or old regret. It woke something else entirely. Something he didn't yet dare name.
Not now.
Not while the night was still long, and her name was still echoing in his mind.
Riley.
He closed his eyes, letting the sound of it echo until the darkness felt warmer than it should. Sleep came late, but when it did, it came with the faintest trace of lavender.