Ayra began to dream.
Not of fire. Not of power. Not of the battlefield where she usually reigned in control and chaos.
She dreamed of hallways.
Of footsteps she couldn't follow.
Of shadows she could not touch.
She woke with clenched fists
The blank space in her journal became a problem.
She had torn out three pages already. Not because they were messy — Ayra never scribbled — but because each one was more pathetic than the last.
A line.
A question mark.
A description that ended halfway through, like her mind gave up the moment it got close to him.
She didn't even know why she wrote.
She never wrote about anyone.
But he was the silence in every crowded room now. The pause between sentences. The cold air before a storm.
The presence she could feel even when her back was turned
She started wearing darker shades. Not for attention — that would've been too easy — but to mirror the feeling he left in her chest. Something unreadable. Something shifting.
Her laughter became sharper. Her patience thinner.
And still, he remained the same.
Unchanged.
Unbothered.
Unmoved.
He sat near the outer columns during lectures now — half-hidden behind ivy-wrapped archways and glass windows that cast light over his shoulders like melted moonlight.
She should have ignored him.
But instead, she found herself turning her head slightly. Tilting her body, just enough to catch him in the edge of her gaze. Her spells took longer to form now. Her professors noticed her distraction but said nothing.
No one dared to interrupt Ayra Ilyan.
Except this boy.
This boy who hadn't even said her name
The worst part was that he didn't even seem to dislike her.
He just… didn't see her the way others did.
Not with awe.
Not with fear.
Not even with curiosity.
He looked through her.
Like she wasn't a storm.
Like she wasn't even weather.
And yet, Ayra couldn't look away
That night, she sat by her window again.
Third time that week.
Rain fell lightly against the glass, and inside, the candles burned low, their flames swaying like they were whispering something she couldn't hear.
She held the journal open, staring at the blank space.
No name.
No meaning.
Just a void that grew wider each time she refused to admit it mattered.
She picked up her quill.
Paused.
And this time, instead of writing a name…
She drew a door.
Closed.
Locked.
Hidden in a hallway she didn't recognize