# Chapter One
Lydia Ashworth pressed her fingertips against her temples and tried to focus on Professor Griffin's lecture, but the sensation was back—that strange, restless energy that made her want to fidget out of her own skin.
She'd felt it for months now, this persistent sense of *something* building, like pressure before a thunderstorm. It wasn't magical—she'd checked her resonance levels three times this week. It wasn't illness—the university physician had pronounced her perfectly healthy. It was just... there. A constant low-level agitation that made sitting still feel impossible.
"The binding protocols established during the Fifth Incursion," Griffin droned from the front of the room, his voice as flat as ever, "remained in effect until 1389, when the Treaty of—"
Lydia shifted in her seat, then immediately felt guilty about it. This was important information. She *needed* to pay attention. Her marks in Magical History were already disappointing, and Father was spending good money for her education at the Royal Institute.
But the restlessness was getting worse. Every day felt like wearing clothes that were slightly the wrong size—not painful, just... off. Even her favorite activities felt constraining lately. Yesterday she'd abandoned her Comparative Theology essay halfway through, despite having a perfectly good outline prepared. She'd sat staring at the half-finished page for an hour, feeling inexplicably trapped by her own neat handwriting.
Her mechanical pen slipped from her fingers, clattering against the wooden desk. The tiny sprite bound within the ink chamber chittered in annoyance, its glow flickering. She retrieved the pen, annoyed with herself for the lack of concentration.
Around her, fellow students dutifully copied notes with varying degrees of attention. Sarah Pemberton was sketching dress designs in her notebook margins. Thomas Blackwood appeared to be asleep with his eyes open. Everything perfectly normal, perfectly predictable.
So why did she feel like screaming?
Lydia forced herself to focus on Griffin's lecture, copying down dates in her usual careful script. The professor moved through his material with mechanical precision, never deviating from the syllabus, never showing the slightest spark of enthusiasm for events that had literally reshaped the world.
There was something almost suffocating about his absolute consistency. Week after week, the same monotone delivery, the same yellowed lecture notes, the same careful avoidance of anything that might actually be interesting about magical history.
She glanced around the lecture hall again, taking in the purple gaslight filtering through tall windows, the steam pipes carrying eldritch energy along the walls, the minor demon perched drowsily on the windowsill. All of it felt suddenly... small. Constrained. Like she was looking at the world through frosted glass.
The restlessness spiked suddenly, sharp enough to make her shift uncomfortably in her seat.
"Miss Ashworth," Griffin said without looking up from his notes. "Perhaps you could tell us the significance of the year 1432?"
Lydia blinked. She hadn't raised her hand, hadn't made any sound. How had he even known she was paying attention?
"I... the Celestial Accord?" she managed.
"Correct. The Celestial Accord established formal diplomatic relations between the mortal realm and the Heavenly Hierarchies. Please continue taking notes."
He turned back to the board without another glance, resuming his methodical writing. Lydia stared at him for a moment, then dutifully returned to her notebook, but the restlessness had crystallized into something sharper.
She felt... watched. Not by Griffin specifically, but by something vast and patient that made the lecture hall feel like a cage.
The bell tower chimed, its bound air elemental singing the hour in crystalline tones. Students began packing their bags, chattering about lunch plans and afternoon practicals. Lydia remained seated for a moment, staring at her notes.
Everything looked normal. Everything *was* normal. So why did she feel like she was suffocating on perfectly breathable air?
She gathered her things slowly, that strange pressure building behind her ribs like a held breath that refused to be released. Whatever was happening to her, she had the uncomfortable feeling it was just getting started.