Nathan was exactly where Elara predicted he'd be.
Which, in a painful, inevitable way, made perfect sense.
He was crouched beside the faculty tower's service door, hood up, expression scrunched in deep, heroic concentration, holding what looked suspiciously like a stolen alchemy pick—which was absolutely not meant for lockpicking—jammed into the keyhole at a suicidal angle.
Next to him, Armin stood like a dead man counting down his last breaths.
"Nathan," Armin hissed, "for the love of every star in every chart, that is a combustion pick. If you turn it wrong it explodes."
Nathan waved him off. "It only explodes if you turn it left. Which I am not doing."
"You are literally twisting it left right now—"
"No I'm not—"
Elara stepped in, snatched the pick from Nathan's hand, and shoved it into Armin's before anyone else died. "Both of you, stop breathing before you permanently lower the academy's intelligence average."
Nathan lit up the moment he saw her.
