Not safe

Lucien woke with the taste of ash in his mouth. His body still shook as though he’d run for miles, though the only thing that had crossed any distance last night was a voice.

Arian’s voice.

He sat on the edge of his bed long after dawn, head bowed, fingers knotted in the sheets. Outside, the bells of the Academy tolled to mark the hour of study, bright and certain, but they sounded hollow in his ears. He could still hear what had cut through the silence of his chamber the night before.

Don’t follow. Not ready. They’re watching.

The words haunted him more than any nightmare. They shouldn’t have been possible, and yet—he hadn’t imagined them. He knew his own desperation well enough to doubt himself, but the tone, the cadence, the slight drawl of Arian’s voice—those had been too precise, too real.

It meant one thing.

Arian lived.

And if he lived, he could be reached.

---

Classes moved in a blur that morning. Glyph Theory, which usually crawled with monotony, seemed to stretch into centuries. Professor Elain, tall and angular, stalked the lecture hall like a hawk, her chalk darting across the blackboard with the ferocity of a duelist’s blade. Lines and sigils piled up until the board looked less like theory and more like a trap.

“Mana,” she declared, tapping the chalk against one spiraling rune, “is a river. But glyphs are the stone banks that give it direction. What happens when one glyph fractures another?”

Her eyes swept the room, and unfortunately, landed on Lucien.

“Veynar,” she said, voice sharp as snapped glass. “Answer.”

Lucien jolted, nearly upsetting his inkpot. His mind was a white haze, full of reflections that weren’t his own. His lips parted, but no words came.

Silence stretched, heavy and humiliating.

From the row behind, Caelith’s voice slid like cold water through the stillness. “Residue,” the elf said smoothly, without even glancing up from his notes. “But only if the fracture is forced. Otherwise, nothing remains but collapse.”

Professor Elain’s hawk-eyes narrowed, first on Lucien, then on Caelith. “Correct.” She turned back to the board, though the faintest curl of irritation lingered at her mouth.

Lucien felt Caelith’s stare linger on the back of his neck, piercing and unblinking, long after the lecture resumed.

By the time the bell rang, his skin crawled. He gathered his notes in a rush, nearly spilling them in his haste to leave. But Caelith was already waiting by the doorway.

“You’re… distracted,” the elf observed. His voice was polite, but the pause before the word made it into a knife. “More than usual.”

Lucien forced a crooked smile. “Rough night. You know how it is.”

“Mm.” Caelith’s sapphire eyes searched his face with unnerving patience. “Perhaps.”

It wasn’t suspicion, exactly. Caelith never gave so much away. But it was close enough to make Lucien’s stomach knot.

---

By evening, the sun had bled itself thin across the horizon, leaving streaks of amber fading into purple. The Academy courtyards, usually brimming with students at this hour, had emptied as curfew approached. The great fountains burbled softly, their waters catching the glow of hanging lanterns.

Lucien moved quickly, cloak tight around his shoulders. He had skipped supper without excuse, without explanation. He couldn’t care. The fragment burned against his chest, tucked inside his shirt like a secret heartbeat.

He settled at the fountain in the eastern courtyard, the one where few students lingered. The marble edge was cold under his palms as he unfolded the charred scrap of parchment and laid it across his knees.

The crescent symbol gleamed faintly in the moonlight, its blackened edges seeming to drink in the silver glow. Lucien traced its curves with his fingertip, his breath shallow.

“Say it again,” he whispered into the night. “Arian… please. Just once more.”

At first, only the steady drip of water answered him. The air was still, the campus wrapped in the hushed weight of evening. He clenched his jaw, pulse spiking with frustration. Had last night been a one-time mercy? A cruel trick of longing?

Then, the fountain shifted.

The rippling water stilled to glass, unnaturally flat, as though the wind itself had been cut away. Lucien leaned forward, his reflection staring back at him, golden eyes wide—

And then the reflection shifted.

Silver hair. Pale eyes, sharp and steady even in their faintness. A face he had memorized, a voice he had never stopped straining for.

“Arian…” Lucien breathed, his throat raw.

The reflection trembled, but the lips moved, sound thin as paper tearing. “Lucien… listen.”

“I’m here,” Lucien whispered fiercely, leaning so close his nose nearly brushed the water. “Tell me where you are. I’ll find you.”

The water flickered, distortion breaking across Arian’s face as though something pushed against the surface from the other side. His voice broke, scattered, but the words came through.

“Not safe… don’t trust… even the stones have ears… But I-I'am fine.”

The fountain churned suddenly, a violent spray of water erupting upward and drenching Lucien to the bone. He gasped, shielding the parchment fragment as droplets struck his skin like icy needles.

When the spray fell back into calm, the reflection was gone. Only his own golden eyes stared back from the rippling surface.

Lucien sat there, chest heaving, soaked cloak heavy against his shoulders. The fragment in his hand felt warm, as if it still carried the echo of Arian’s touch.

He had heard him. Again. No dream, no illusion.

Which meant something—or someone—was trying to sever the connection.

---

Back in his dormitory, the hallways were already silent with curfew. Toren’s snores rattled the air from the other bed, oblivious and thunderous. Lucien didn’t bother changing out of his wet clothes. He dropped into the chair at his desk, hair dripping onto the parchment, cloak abandoned in a soggy heap on the floor.

He stared at the fragment under the glow of the single candle. The crescent gleamed faintly, slick with droplets.

Arian is alive.

But the words had been warnings, not reassurances.

Don’t trust. Don’t follow. Not safe. But he is fine?

What did that mean? Who was watching him? Who was listening?

Lucien’s gaze flicked to the walls, to the ceiling beams, to the cracks along the windowpane. The words even the stones have ears gnawed at him. He pressed his lips together, breathing through his nose, and forced himself to stay silent.

He wanted to run to someone—anyone—and spill everything. To his father. To Elara. Even to Caelith, sharp as he was. But he couldn’t. If Arian had chosen to risk even those few words, then the danger was real enough to bind his tongue.

So he leaned closer to the parchment, whispering only to himself, so quiet even the candle’s flicker might swallow the sound.

“I don’t care who’s watching,” he said. “I’ll reach you, Arian. Whatever it takes.”

The flame wavered suddenly, elongating like a blade. Shadows jittered across the wall, forming shapes that shouldn’t exist—faces too long, smiles too wide.

Lucien’s heart slammed against his ribs. He turned sharply toward the window.

For the briefest instant, he saw it. His own reflection in the glass. Same hair. Same golden eyes. Same curve of mouth.

But the smile… the smile was wrong.

Then the candle guttered. The reflection was gone.

Lucien sat rigid in the dark, breath ragged, the fragment clenched so tightly in his fist it crumpled.

Arian was alive. But so was something else.

And both were reaching for him.

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