Tsukuyomi's story didn't vanish with the night. It stayed—like a cold poison seeping into the core of who Henry was. He wasn't some random accident. He was a punishment. A walking poem about arrogance. And now, even showing up to class felt unbearable.
In Basic Alchemy, Henry stared blankly at the bubbling flasks and beakers. Everyone was brewing basic healing potions, but he couldn't even focus enough to read the recipe. He was the result of a messed-up mix—what right did he have trying to bring harmony to anything?
"Hey," someone whispered beside him. It was Kaelen—his unofficial lab partner because literally no one else dared to sit with him. "You're boiling the river moss. It's supposed to be cold-infused."
Henry glanced at his cauldron—green, stinky smoke everywhere. He sighed and killed the magical flame. "Whatever."
"It's not 'whatever,'" Kaelen said, sliding over some of his perfectly diced herbs. "Keep it up and you'll make a Lesser Melancholy Potion. Trust me, I made one once. Spent the whole afternoon crying over stale bread."
Kaelen's joke barely landed. Henry felt distant, cut off—not just from the class, but from himself. He was a living reminder of forbidden love and divine wrath. How could someone like him ever be normal?
From across the room, Lyra watched. Ever since their nighttime encounter, her open hostility had shifted into something stranger. She saw the boy from her nightmares now fumbling with herbs. The dissonance drove her nuts. Was he some terrifying monster… or just a mess?
"See how sad he is?" Tsukuyomi cooed in Henry's mind, her voice sickeningly pleased. "The truth is such a heavy burden. He's crumbling beneath his own poetry. Delicious".
Henry flinched and shook her out of his head. Kaelen was still watching, genuinely worried. For a second, Henry wanted to open up. To just tell someone. But how could he explain to his only friend that he was a divine punishment for a crime his parents committed?
"I'm just tired," Henry lied, turning back to his ruined brew.
Kaelen pulled back, hurt. The space between them, once casual, turned stiff. Henry wasn't building walls out of power. He was building them out of despair. And he was completely alone behind them.