The morning sun, usually a cheerful splash of gold through my window, felt almost insolent. Every muscle in my body ached, not from exertion, but from the emotional whirlwind of the night before. I'd barely slept, my mind replaying every detail: the terror in the children's eyes, the cold depravity of the experimentalists, and Professor Thorne's weary, bloodied form. Relief warred with a simmering fear, a cold knot in my stomach for the battle ahead.
I went through the motions of my morning routine, dressing in my neat academy robes, my mind already drifting to the aroma of healing herbs. My first class, an introductory lecture on basic shielding charms, passed in a blur. My students' earnest questions about spell components barely registered. All I could think of was the faint scent of antiseptic and the grim set of a certain professor's jaw.
After class, I found Aster and Wren already waiting for me by the main entrance to the Illusionist's Wing, their faces alight with poorly contained glee.
"Morning, fiancée!" Wren announced, striking a dramatic pose, hand over his heart, then dropping into a low, gruff voice, mimicking Professor Thorne, "'A rather taxing engagement, indeed.' Did he really say that, Lyra?"
Aster nudged him, but her eyes twinkled with mirth. "Honestly, Lyra. The rumors are rampant. Some first-years are debating whether he gave you a magical heirloom or a rare root as an engagement gift. Others swear he's finally thawed his icy heart. The betting pool in the common room is insane!"
I sighed, a long, exaggerated sound, but a smile tugged at my lips. "Oh, the academy gossip mill. Truly, your imaginations are more active than your spell matrices. Professor Thorne and I simply had a very important, and rather urgent, discussion. The 'engagement' was merely a convenient illusion to discourage persistent inquiries." I gave them my most innocent smile. "You know how protective he can be of his private academic pursuits."
"Private academic pursuits that involve clandestine meetings in taverns with you, apparently," Aster retorted, though her expression softened. "Still, it certainly cleared the air. Nobody dared approach him in the dining hall this morning. He looked even more unapproachable than usual, if that's possible. Though," she mused, tapping her chin, "I did overhear a few senior Conjurers muttering about how it puts a damper on the 'most eligible bachelor' lists for the upcoming Royal Ball. Apparently, even ancient, grumpy professors made the cut."
Wren clapped his hands together. "So, when's the ceremony? Should we be practicing our congratulatory illusions? I was thinking doves made of pure moonlight, or perhaps a miniature enchanted forest that blooms around the happy couple during the vows!" He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. "Though I'm not sure Professor Thorne would appreciate a sudden burst of pixies during his 'I do's."
I laughed, a genuine, if slightly tired, sound. "You're both incorrigible. There will be no pixies, no vows, and certainly no wedding! It was a tactical maneuver, nothing more. A highly effective one, I might add. People believe what they want to believe, especially when it's dramatic." I gave them a pointed look. "And now, enough about my fictional love life. How did your Elemental Transmutation lecture go, Wren? Did Professor Kaelan actually manage to explain the stable conversion of water to mist without dissolving half the classroom this time?"
Wren immediately launched into a dramatic recounting of his class, complete with sound effects for exploding beakers, and Aster chimed in with her own observations about a challenging new Conjuration assignment.
I listened, offered advice, and enjoyed the familiar banter, but a part of my mind remained focused on the deeper purpose of my day. Beneath the lighthearted teasing, the weight of the previous night's horrors, and the knowledge of Professor Thorne's injuries, lay heavy on my mind.
As soon as we parted ways, I hurried to the small, well-equipped kitchen attached to my private quarters. This wasn't just a place for tea; it was where I often experimented with practical applications of elemental magic – warmth for brewing, precise air currents for drying herbs. Today, it would be a crucible of healing.
I gathered the ingredients with a practiced hand: sun-drenched valerian root for the deep-seated exhaustion, crushed moonpetal for pain relief, and a generous amount of ground griffin feather, a rare restorative. The soup needed a sturdy base of rich bone broth, simmered for hours. I set the pot on the enchanted hob, coaxing a low, steady flame with a whisper of elemental warmth.
The aroma began to fill the small space, a comforting counterpoint to the anxieties still swirling within me. As I stirred, I thought of him. Professor Thorne, Elias. The man of unwavering logic and hidden depths. He was still so much of a mystery, but last night, tending to his wounds, something had shifted between us. A quiet understanding.
Just as the soup reached a gentle simmer, a soft knock came at my door. My heart gave a hopeful flutter. I straightened my robes, took a deep breath, and opened it.
He stood there, looking marginally better than last night, but still clearly favoring his bandaged hand. His uniform was fresh, but the pallor beneath his skin was noticeable, and his eyes, though sharp as ever, held a lingering fatigue. He looked less like an unyielding oak tree and more like one that had weathered a severe storm.
"Good morning, Professor," I greeted, stepping aside to let him in. My voice was calm, my gaze immediately going to his bandaged hand, then the faint imprint of the bandage visible beneath his uniform on his chest.
He nodded, his customary stoic expression firmly in place. "Lyra. The bandages needs changing." It wasn't a question, but a statement of purpose.
"Indeed," I said, leading him to the small table I'd cleared. "Sit."
He did, stiffly, though without protest. I retrieved fresh bandages, more balm, and a bowl of warm water. As I carefully unwrapped the old bandages, the sight of the healing flesh, still angry but thankfully not infected, brought another wave of relief. My touch was light, professional, yet imbued with a profound tenderness I couldn't quite mask.
"How are you feeling this morning?" I asked softly, focusing on cleaning the wound on his chest. "Any lingering pains from... last night?"
"The pains are manageable," he replied, his gaze distant, fixed on the opposite wall. "The headache from the residual arcane energy is more persistent. But the children are safe?" His voice held a rare note of genuine concern.
"Jain confirmed they reached the safe house without issue," I assured him, pressing a clean cloth gently to the wound. "They're being cared for. You did well, Professor. More than well. You saved them."
He gave another soft grunt, a non-committal sound that, from him, was a profound acknowledgement. I finished re-bandaging his chest, then moved to his hand. It was still swollen, but the bruising seemed less severe. I worked quickly, efficiently, my fingers brushing against his. He was uncharacteristically still, letting me work, a quiet trust settling between us.
"There," I said, once the last knot was tied. "Fresh and clean." I then ladled a generous bowl of the steaming medicinal soup. "And this, for stamina and healing. Drink it while it's warm."
He took the bowl, his bandaged hand carefully cradling it. The warmth seemed to seep into him, loosening some of the tension in his shoulders. He took a sip, his eyes closing for a moment as the rich broth worked its magic.
"It's... potent," he murmured, a hint of something almost like approval in his voice.
"Only the best for the academy's most indispensable professor," I replied, a small smile playing on my lips. I watched him eat, the quiet rhythm of his sips, the comforting aroma filling the air.
This unexpected closeness, forged in the shadows of a terrible secret, felt more real than any illusion. It was a warmth I knew I would guard , a unique bond with a woman who was both a stern professor and a weary hero. The academy's gossip might swirl, but in the quiet of my quarters, a deeper truth was taking root.