The day started like any other — a dull grey sky hanging low over the city, like a thick sheet of wool muffling everything underneath. The dorm room was cold. My shoes felt like weights as I walked, the sketchpad in my bag pressing heavier than usual against my spine. Sleep still clung to my eyes.
The halls of the university buzzed with the drone of students and coffee, the echo of footsteps against ancient stone floors.
I took my usual seat by the window — the light here always softened the edges of things. The classroom buzzed with whispers and brush strokes as students worked on their term projects. I had started mine days ago: a sketch of a faceless girl surrounded by twisting trees. I stared at it now, pencil in hand, unsure whether to shade or start over.
Professor Miretti passed behind me, pausing for a second. "You've got depth, Lyra." he murmured. "But don't be afraid to let it bleed a little."
I nodded quietly, unsure if I was even in the mood to bleed today.
Then came Science — or more precisely, Environmental Chemistry — with Professor Marek, a broad-shouldered man with an unfortunate coffee addiction and a whiteboard marker always tucked behind his ear. He talked about the molecular composition of greenhouse gases like he was reciting poetry, and I nodded along, my pen moving, and this time, I kept up. The numbers didn't blur today — not because my mind was clearer, but because I needed something I could solve. Something that had answers.
Literature was next.
Today we dissected a modern poem about losing things: keys, dreams, people. The metaphors stung a little too sharply.
I found myself underlining one line over and over again:
"Not all losses make a sound."
Professor Sylas glanced my way once. I didn't notice until I felt his gaze and quickly closed the book.
By the time Psychology rolled around, my head was spinning.
Professor Damaris Quinn, with her sharp bob and colder-than-steel tone, stared down the class like we were puzzles waiting to be cracked. "Today, we begin shadow work — confronting the subconscious self."
She asked us to journal three truths we didn't want to face.
My hands froze.
I wrote:
1) I think I'm falling apart.
2) I miss someone who feels forbidden.
3) I'm scared of what I'm becoming.
My handwriting trembled.
Then came the announcement.
Professor Quinn cleared her throat, slipping her clipboard under one arm. "Before you leave, all of you must remember that beginning next week, participation in at least one ECA society is mandatory. The university board has finalized this decision."
The class groaned. My head hit the desk.
"You'll have the rest of the week to choose," she added, "but if you don't, you'll be randomly assigned. I suggest you don't leave it to fate."
"You'll find the club portals and sign-up petals arranged in the West Hall," she finished. "Follow me. The staff and heads of each club are waiting."
It wasn't my first time inside the West Hall, but somehow it looked… reborn.
We passed through arched doors into a cavernous chamber layered with gold-lit stone and faint magical glow, as if sunlight had been trapped in the walls. The air shimmered with enchantment, like the kind that hums against your skin — quiet, but impossible to ignore.
At the center of the room floated what could only be described as portals — not your typical, swirling vortexes, but smooth, circular wells of energy, suspended above intricate pedestals. Each portal radiated its own light: deep violet, rich crimson, soft jade, pale gold — and each was named in graceful floating golden letters that danced in the air above them.
DRAMA SOCIETY.DUELING LEAGUE.MUSIC CIRCLE.WRITERS' ORDER.THE ASTRONOMERS' CORE.And more, some I'd never even heard of.
Beneath every portal stood a club president, dressed in their club's theme and colours — not flashy, but dignified. There was a quiet pride in their posture, like they'd earned the right to stand there. Some smiled at the crowd entering, others barely glanced. The girl in violet by the Drama Society looked like she was born to perform, while the boy by the Dueling League practically glared at everyone who walked too close.
Around me, students began murmuring:
"I heard joining the Astronomers' Core means overnight stargazing trips.""Music Circle's only taking seven people this year.""Writers' Order has secret meetings. Late ones.""I'm not joining anything.""You don't get a choice. Management decides for you if you wait too long."
Their words floated by me, fragments of a puzzle I didn't know how to put together. I lingered near the back, watching as students stepped forward to select their club. They reached into baskets of petal-shaped slips — glowing softly — scribbled their names across the surface, and tossed them into the swirling portals. The moment the chit entered, the portal would glow brighter for a second, a soft hum rising like a quiet welcome.
The whole process felt ceremonial, almost sacred. And though I wasn't ready to choose… I couldn't deny the way the portals called to us.
I had quietly slipped away from the crowd, finding a small spot at the far end of the West Hall where the glow of the portals wasn't so blinding. With my back pressed against a marble pillar laced with creeping silver ivy, I sat cross-legged, silently observing the chaos unfolding. The whole space pulsed with light — not banners, no, but whirling vortexes of glowing color suspended in midair. Each portal shimmered in a different hue, crowned with golden letters that labeled them: Celestia Choir, ChronoScript Guild, Warden Combat Society, Mystic Threads, and more. Magic lived in the very air here.
Some students danced from one portal to another, giggling, delighted by the drama of it all. Others scowled as though club selection was an ancient punishment they had to endure. A few leaned against the far walls, arms folded, eyes blank — either too cool to care or too tired to choose.
I just watched. Quietly. Sandwich-less and club-less.
"You know, you could at least try to look alive."
I blinked, turning toward the voice just in time to see Mireille arrive in a flurry of movement — curls bouncing, eyes bright, two trays in her hands and a smug grin on her lips. She placed one in my lap with exaggerated care.
"Sandwich. For the soul," she said, plopping down beside me. "Eat before you start blending into the stone."
I looked down. The sandwich was still warm, filled with some kind of gooey cheese and spicy tomato layers. My stomach grumbled like it hadn't eaten in a decade. I took a bite without arguing.
Mireille watched me for a second, then grinned. "Told you. Soul food."
I mumbled a muffled thank-you with a full mouth.
"So," she began, stretching her legs out and leaning back on her hands. "What club are you picking?"
I didn't respond immediately, chewing slower, buying time.
She tilted her head toward me. "Don't say you're not picking anything."
Still, I said nothing.
She gave an over-the-top gasp. "Oh no. She was planning on ignoring the entire system. Just like a true mysterious outsider."
"I wasn't—" I swallowed. "Okay. Maybe."
Mireille let out a groan and dramatically thudded her head against my shoulder. "Unbelievable. You've had days to think about this, Lyra. Literal days."
"I don't know what I want," I mumbled. "Everything feels… pointless."
"Then pick something pointless with me," she said, straightening up with a grin. "That's why you're coming with me to Drama Club."
I choked on my sandwich.
"No way."
"Yes way."
"I'd rather get eaten by one of those portals."
"Good, the Drama Club would love that attitude."
I shot her a look. "I'm not dramatic."
"You're the walking definition of dramatic," she said sweetly. "Mysterious past? Check. Stormy expressions? Check. Constantly brooding like you're part of some ancient prophecy? Triple check."
"That's just my face," I muttered, biting the last corner of the sandwich.
She leaned in and whispered, "Exactly. You'll steal the stage by accident."
I gave her a deadpan stare, mouth full. "Mireille."
She beamed. "Lyra."
I sighed and leaned back against the pillar, finally finished with the sandwich.
Mireille stood, dusting imaginary crumbs off her skirt. "Right then. Since you're clearly incapable of choosing a club, I'm choosing for you."
"What—"
"You're coming with me to Drama Club." She turned and started walking, tossing me a wink over her shoulder. "Let's go before you change your mind."
I scrambled up. "No, wait—Mireille—I'm serious—"
"So am I!" she called over her shoulder. "Come on, Miss Mysterious!"
I chased after her, but in the flurry of students crowding near the portals, someone brushed past me, hard. I stumbled backward—and before I could regain my footing…
Those same hands again.