The late afternoon sun hangs low over Beacon Academy, bathing the stone paths and tall towers in warm amber light.
Students pass in small groups, laughter and conversation drifting lazily through the air. The academy feels calm—almost peaceful—in a way it rarely does during the school term.
Erik and Pyrrha walk side by side along one of the quieter paths near the dormitories, away from the main thoroughfare. A garment bag rests easily over Erik's shoulder, while Pyrrha carries a smaller one with careful attention, as if it contains something fragile.
Pyrrha glances down at it again—and again—unable to hide her excitement.
"I still can't believe we managed to find something so quickly," she says, smiling to herself. "I really thought we'd be wandering Vale until sunset."
Erik hums thoughtfully. "Efficient planning."
She looks at him, amused. "You didn't plan anything."
"I planned to let you decide," he replies calmly. "That counts."
She laughs softly and nudges his arm with her elbow. "You looked good, you know."
He raises an eyebrow. "That's a dangerous statement."
"It's a true one," she insists. "That jacket suits you."
He glances down at the garment bag. "Functional. Comfortable. Doesn't restrict movement."
"That's not what I meant."
"I know," he says evenly. "But I appreciate it."
They slow their pace as they near the edge of the courtyard, where the flow of students thins and the sounds of Beacon fade into something softer and more distant. Leaves rustle gently in the breeze overhead.
"This is nice," Pyrrha says after a moment, her voice quieter now. "Just… doing something normal."
Erik looks at her. "You like normal."
"I do," she admits. "With you."
Before he can respond, a voice cuts through the moment.
"Erik."
Both of them turn.
Blake Belladonna stands a few steps away, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her posture is rigid, her expression tired—not angry, but focused in a way that leaves no room for pleasantries.
Pyrrha blinks. "Blake?"
Blake's eyes never leave Erik. "We need to talk."
Erik doesn't react immediately. "About what?"
"You know exactly what," Blake replies. "Roman Torchwick. The White Fang."
The warmth of the moment drains away, replaced by something sharp and tense.
Pyrrha shifts closer to Erik instinctively. "Blake, is something wrong?"
Blake glances at her only briefly. "You said before that Torchwick and the White Fang wouldn't work together unless there was a reason."
Erik nods once. "I did."
"So tell me," Blake says, her voice firm now. "What do you know?"
There's no request in her tone.
It's a demand.
Erik exhales slowly. "Lower your voice."
"No," Blake snaps. "People are getting hurt. If you know something, you don't get to keep it to yourself."
Pyrrha steps forward slightly. "Blake, please—"
"This doesn't concern you, Pyrrha," Blake says sharply, then hesitates—clearly aware of the edge in her voice.
But she doesn't take it back.
Erik meets Blake's gaze, calm but unyielding.
"You're asking the wrong question," he says.
Blake's eyes narrow. "Then what's the right one?"
"Whether knowing more would actually help you," Erik replies evenly, "or just put you in more danger."
"That's not your decision to make."
"No," Erik agrees. "But it is my responsibility not to lie to you."
A brief silence settles between them.
"I know patterns," Erik continues. "Not names. Not locations. Not timelines. I know that neither Torchwick nor the White Fang would move like this without someone above them."
Blake clenches her fists. "Then who is it?"
"I don't know," Erik says honestly.
She searches his face, frustration and desperation flickering behind her eyes.
"Then why warn us at all?" she asks.
"Because ignoring a threat doesn't make it disappear," Erik answers. "But chasing it alone makes you vulnerable."
Blake's voice drops. "So what— I should just wait?"
"You should tell your team," Erik says. "And let people with authority and resources handle what's bigger than you."
Blake scoffs. "You sound like Ozpin."
Erik's expression hardens slightly. "That wasn't my intention."
"But it's what you're saying."
Pyrrha finally speaks again, her voice gentle but firm.
"Blake… we're worried about you."
Blake looks at her then—really looks at her—and something soft, almost pained, flickers behind her eyes.
"I don't have the luxury of not worrying," she says quietly.
She turns back to Erik. "If you find out anything else—anything—tell us."
Erik nods once. "If it's something you need to know, I will."
Blake hesitates, then gives a short nod before turning away and walking across the courtyard.
Silence settles in her wake.
Pyrrha exhales slowly. "That… could have gone better."
"Yes," Erik agrees. "Or much worse."
She looks at him. "Are you alright?"
He nods. "I am."
Then he glances at the garment bags again. "Still want to talk about the dance?"
She smiles softly and takes his hand. "Yes. Very much."
They resume walking.
For a few moments, neither of them speaks. The tension fades with each step, replaced by something gentler.
Pyrrha adjusts the strap of her garment bag and glances at Erik again. "You've been awfully quiet."
He looks over. "Just thinking."
"That never sounds harmless."
He smiles faintly. "This time it is."
She relaxes and nudges him lightly with her elbow. "Good. Because I refuse to let anything ruin today."
"Noted," he replies. "I'll behave."
She laughs, the sound easy and unguarded. "You say that like it's difficult."
"It can be," he admits. "I'm better at preparation than celebration."
"Well," she says, slowing just enough so they walk closer together, "you're doing fine so far."
He looks down at her. "High praise again."
She grins. "I'm being generous."
They pass a group of first-years rushing by, excitedly talking about the upcoming dance. Pyrrha watches them with a fond smile.
"I think I'm actually looking forward to it," she says. "Not because it's a dance… but because it's something we get to do together."
Erik nods. "Same."
She tilts her head. "Even if we're terrible?"
"Especially if we're terrible," he replies. "Less pressure."
She laughs again, then hesitates slightly. "Promise me one thing?"
He raises an eyebrow. "That depends."
She smiles softly. "If I get nervous… don't let go."
He answers without hesitation. "I won't."
Her fingers find his, threading naturally between them. The fit feels easy—familiar—like it's always been that way.
They keep walking, steps in sync, conversation drifting to small things: music choices, food at the dance, whether Beacon's punch is actually dangerous or just infamous.
For now, nothing else matters.
Just the warmth of the late afternoon—and the quiet certainty that they are exactly where they want to be.
Together.
To Be Continued...