The rest of the morning passes in blessed, boring routine.
I thin the moonblooms, harvest the ripe ones into careful bundles wrapped in damp cloth to keep them fresh, and tuck them into the bottom of my satchel beneath a layer of legitimate pruning scraps. No one checks the groundskeeper's bags. Why would they? We're the invisible ones—dirt under the fingernails of the academy's grandeur.
By the time the first bell rings for morning lectures, I'm already on the far side of the east grove, pretending to repair a cracked stone bench while I wait for the market runner to show. The bench doesn't need repairing. It's just an excuse to linger near the ivy curtain without looking suspicious.
I shouldn't still be thinking about her.
Liora Voss.
But I am.
Not in the romantic, heart-fluttering way the novel would want. More like the way you notice a landmine you almost stepped on. She's not supposed to be here. Not in my patch. Not crying where the spirits can hear her. They're sentimental, yes, but they're also territorial. And now they know her scent, her voice, the shape of her sadness.
I can feel them listening even now—tiny pulses of awareness along the roots under my boots, like the ground itself is breathing a little faster.
"Mind your own business," I mutter to the nearest vine. It twitches once, almost petulantly, then stills.
The market runner arrives ten minutes late—same twitchy half-elf kid as last month, hood pulled low, eyes darting like he expects the inquisition at any second.
"Got the lot?" he whispers.
I slide the bundle across the bench without ceremony. "Twenty moonbloom heads, eight starwort sprigs. Same price as last time. No haggling."
He counts quickly, nods, slips me a small pouch that clinks satisfyingly. "Prices are climbing. Alchemists are panicking after that lab fire in the capital. You sure you don't have more?"
"I'm sure," I say. "Don't push."
He hesitates, then leans in. "Heard a rumor. Some first-year saintess candidate was seen wandering the outer grounds this morning. Looked upset. You see anything?"
My stomach drops half an inch.
I keep my face blank. "I see a lot of things. Most of them don't concern me."
He smirks. "Right. Keep your head down, groundskeeper."
He vanishes into the overgrowth like smoke.
I stay sitting on the bench long after he's gone, pouch heavy in my pocket, mind turning over the rumor like a stone I can't quite skip.
Word travels fast here. Too fast.
If Liora's little breakdown is already gossip fodder, then someone saw her leave the main paths. Or worse—someone followed her.
I stand, brush dirt from my trousers, and head back toward the shack. I need to check the wards. Reinforce the ivy curtain. Make sure no one else stumbles in by accident.
The spirits are already ahead of me.
When I reach the clearing, the ivy has thickened—denser, darker, almost opaque. A faint shimmer runs through the leaves like they're holding their breath.
I touch one vine gently. It curls around my finger once, warm, reassuring.
"She's gone," I say quietly. "Right?"
The vine squeezes once—yes—then releases.
Good.
I exhale.
Back to routine.
…
I spend the next hour sweeping the main paths near the dorms—mindless work, broom in hand, head down. Students stream past in clusters: laughing nobles in embroidered cloaks, scholarship kids with hunched shoulders, instructors in flowing robes barking orders. No one looks at me twice.
Until someone does.
I feel it before I see it—the prickle of attention, like a spotlight swinging my way.
I keep sweeping.
Footsteps approach. Deliberate. Not hurried.
I glance up under the brim of my hat.
Darius Everhart.
The protagonist himself.
Golden hair catching the sun like it was personally polished by the gods, Crest of Eternity pendant gleaming at his throat, that easy, confident smile that makes half the academy swoon on sight. He's walking with two side characters—Finnian Reed on his left, smirking like he owns the path, and Celeste Larkspur on his right, clutching a notebook and looking faintly distracted.
Darius stops a few paces away.
"You're the groundskeeper, right?" he asks. Friendly. Open. Exactly the way the novel wrote him.
I keep sweeping. "Yeah."
He tilts his head. "Saw you near the east grove earlier. Everything all right over there? Some of the first-years were saying the plants looked… strange this morning. Brighter, almost."
My grip tightens on the broom handle.
Of course.
The elder dryad's awakening yesterday—small, controlled, just enough to stabilize a leaking mana vein—must have caused a visible bloom. I'd hoped no one would notice.
"Seasonal thing," I say flatly. "Moonblooms do that sometimes."
Finnian snorts. "Moonblooms don't glow like lanterns, janitor."
I shrug. "Maybe you're seeing things."
Darius laughs—light, disarming. "Easy, Finn. He's just doing his job."
He looks at me again, eyes sharp despite the smile. "If anything weird happens out there—strange lights, voices, whatever—let someone know, yeah? The faculty's been twitchy about the old ruins lately."
I nod once. Noncommittal.
He claps me on the shoulder—friendly, casual, like we're equals.
The contact sends a jolt through me. Not magic. Just the sheer narrative weight of being touched by the main character.
I don't flinch.
They move on.
I wait until they're out of sight, then lean on the broom and breathe.
Close.
Too close.
The vines along the path rustle softly—almost apologetic.
I glare at them. "You're enjoying this way too much."
No response.
But I can feel their amusement anyway.
…
By midday I'm back in the shack, counting coins, repotting seedlings, trying to pretend the morning didn't happen.
Trying to pretend Liora Voss didn't happen.
Trying to pretend Darius Everhart didn't just acknowledge my existence.
The pouch from the runner sits on the table like a small victory. Enough for two more weeks of supplies, maybe a down payment on the contract if I keep this pace.
Two more years.
Just two more years.
I rub the bridge of my nose.
The ivy outside the window taps gently against the glass.
I ignore it.
It taps again. Insistent.
I sigh, stand, and open the window a crack.
A single spirit light drifts in—pale green, soft as a sigh.
It hovers in front of my face for a moment, then pulses once, twice.
I know what it means.
She's coming back.
Tonight.
I close the window.
"Damn it," I whisper to the empty shack.
The light pulses again, almost smug.
I drop back into my chair, staring at the ceiling.
Rule three is already broken.
And the story—my story—is starting to move whether I want it to or not.
I just hope it doesn't move too fast.
Because I'm not ready to be part of it.
Not even a little.