Chapter 28
Twenty-Eight
P rofessor Riel was stern and formidable, demanding nothing less than excellence. Despite her strict demeanor, her students respected her greatly.
Elemental Mastery was held in Starwatch Tower, its ceiling open to the sky. Each class was divided into the ribbons of elemental magic. Since Alaire couldn’t currently wield her own, she was permitted to sit and observe.
She watched as the elements danced at students’ command, feeling the raw energy of aether in the air.
“Today we’ll be working on elemental control under pressure,” Riel announced, her voice carrying across the tower. “I want to see sustained manifestations for a full minute. Begin.”
Around her, students stretched out their arms and magic bloomed to life. Lightning arced between Kaia’s palms. Archer stood within a cocoon of sunlight and sea. Others called forth tornadoes, meandering streams, even trees sprouting from hands.
Alaire sat perfectly still, fists clenched in her lap. The familiar knot of frustration twisted in her stomach. Sitting here felt more like punishment than a privilege.
Maybe today will be different .
She closed her eyes and reached inward, searching for the spark she’d so easily summoned with Dawson. Desperate to prove she belonged here, she pressed her palms together where no one could see. Give me something. Anything.
She focused on the anger and frustration she’d felt that night with Dawson—the secrets, the revelations about her life she thought she had no part in. The molten weight in her chest when students snickered at her.
Nothing.
“Excellent work, Kole,” Professor Riel called as Kole conjured an illusion of himself on top of a mountain high above the clouds.
Alaire tried again, this time envisioning a crack in the wall that cut her off from her aether. Just a small flame. That was all she needed. Proof the first time wasn’t a fluke—that she could do it again.
Her palms grew slick with sweat from the effort, but they remained cold and empty.
All around her, the other novices were leaps and bounds ahead. It was like watching through glass—forever separated from something that came as naturally to others as breathing.
“Time,” Professor Riel called, and the aether winked out one by one.
Alaire squeezed her fists together. The familiar ache of failure settled in her chest, heavier this time because she’d truly hoped today would be different.
Will I ever be able to access my aether? As her classmates compared progress and discussed technique, she couldn’t help but wonder if she would ever belong anywhere at all.
The thought hurt more than she’d expected.
Up before dawn, with the moon still hanging low in the sky, Alaire made her way toward the Crux.
The academy was quiet, the air sharp and crisp.
She relished these early mornings. Inside the Crux, she found solace in its solitude—the perfect time to attempt summoning her magic and work through the combinations Dawson had shown her.
Without prying eyes and judgmental stares, she pushed herself harder.
Her twin blades caught the purple rays of sunrise pouring through the skylight as she moved through the steps with precision.
Muscles burned; sweat slicked her skin. She welcomed the flood of sensation that came with training.
It grounded her, silenced her thoughts, and dulled the notable absence of a certain prince.
When her limbs could no longer hold the weapons without shaking, she sheathed the daggers and headed back toward her dorm. Her steps echoed through the deserted hallways.
Past Magique Moderna, she rounded a corner and spotted a familiar figure moving slowly—almost painfully—down the corridor.
“Dawson?” Alaire called, quickening her stride. “What happened?”
He turned, eyes bulging.
“Did you not hear me?”
He shook his head, then flinched.
Alaire stepped closer. There was no hiding the blood seeping through his shirt or the way he favored his left side.
“It’s nothing.”
“Nothing?” she repeated, eyes narrowing at his state. “You’re bleeding, Knox. What did you do, get in a fight with a wild animal?”
He turned away, continuing his slow trek. “Something like that.”
“Oh no, you don’t.” Alaire stepped in front of him, blocking his path. “You’re not going anywhere until you tell me exactly what happened.”
“Just leave it alone, Alaire.” His tone was clipped.
“Not going to happen,” she shot back. “You’re injured, and I’m not leaving you to bleed all over the place. Let me help you.”
“I don’t want your help,” he snapped.
She knew that tone. Recognized the defensive strike meant to cut deep enough to drive her away. She’d perfected the same technique herself. A flicker of something vulnerable flashed in his eyes, there and gone, making her pause.
“You’re beyond impossible,” she muttered, exasperated.
He lifted his chin.
“Fine. Be cryptic and broody. Don’t tell me what happened. Per usual. Regardless of your piss-poor attitude, you’re still going to the infirmary.”
“I can’t,” Dawson said quickly.
“Why not?” Alaire crossed her arms, studying him.
“It’s nothing,” he insisted. But even she could see the lie. Whatever had happened, he needed to keep it private.
“Where’s Caius?” she asked, shifting tactics.
“He had something to take care of.” His jaw tightened.
“Convenient,” Alaire said dryly, stepping aside to give him room. “So you’re just going to bleed out in the hallway, then?”
“I’ll be fine.” But his pallor and the blood soaking his shirt said otherwise.
Walking past her, he braced a hand against the wall, long fingers flexing against the stone. The muscles in his shoulders bunched with each step.
He was suffering.
Her chest felt like it was caving in. Guilt still lingered from their last encounter. She’d promised herself she would do better—be better.
Watching him retreat, the memory of his words— Every. Damn. Day.— echoed in her mind.
The sight of him, trying so damn hard to look unaffected while clearly in pain, made her stomach clench.
She exhaled, frustration warring with concern.
No matter where she stood with Dawson, he’d never done anything to harm her—annoy her, sure—but he didn’t deserve this. She couldn’t just leave him.
“I have a sewing kit and some supplies in my room.”
His shoulders tensed—an acknowledgment that he’d heard her. “You don’t seem the type to take up needlepoint. Full of surprises,” he teased, though it came out more wheeze than wit. He pushed off the wall to face her.
“Hilarious.” She braced her hands on her hips. “It’s for emergencies. I suppose it’ll work for stitches. Follow me—I’ll get you patched up.”
Dawson hesitated, clearly torn.
“Or you can stay here and figure this out alone. Up to you.”
“Fine. After you,” he conceded reluctantly.
She offered him her arm, but he shook her off, placing one hand on the wall again to anchor himself. A grunt of pain escaped, but he kept his focus fixed ahead, mouth set in stubborn determination.
Despite the blood loss and obvious agony, he carried himself with the controlled grace of a born warrior: unyielding, too proud to show weakness. The sight of him, jaw clenched and muscles taut, shouldn’t make her want to reach out and touch him.
She rarely got to study Dawson unnoticed, and she couldn’t help herself.
All that barely leashed power should’ve annoyed her. Instead, it made heat curl low in her stomach.
She dragged a hand down her face. Get your shit together, Alaire .
When they reached her room, she pushed open the door and gestured for him to enter.
“Sit.” She pointed to the edge of her bed.
He paused at the threshold, taking in the meticulously stacked library books, neat pile of papers, and immaculately made bed. Everything had its place.
“Who would’ve thought Alaire Vallorian’s room would look like a librarian’s dream?”
Yanking out a thin cotton blanket, she spread it across the bed. Rather not have blood on my sheets . Hyperaware of his gaze roaming the room, she asked, “Expecting something different?”
“Maybe a few scorch marks. Honestly, the tidiness is the most unsettling.” His eyes snagged on the nightgown draped over her chair, and his tone dropped to a rough purr. “Firework, if you really want to make me feel better, you could model that for me. Might be the cure I need.”
Alaire rolled her eyes, snatching up the gown and shoving it into a drawer hard enough to rattle the chest.
Dawson smirked as he made his way over to the bed. His movements were sluggish, each step rippling pain through him.
Opening another drawer, she pulled out supplies. The faint scent of dried herbs lingered. “I never had any stability at the orphanage. Kids came and went. Keeping things neat was my way of controlling the chaos around me. I guess it stuck.”
“When you put it that way, it makes sense. It gave you order.”
“Exactly.”
“Still, this isn’t how I imagined seeing your room for the first time.” His words were light, but the tension in his forearms betrayed the agony he tried to hide.
Heat crept up her neck. She forced her attention on laying out the supplies. “I’ll be sure to light some candles next time you decide to bleed out in the hallway,” she shot back, proud she sounded unaffected despite the butterflies rioting in her stomach.
“Noted.” A shadow crossed his features, but it vanished just as quickly.
“Sit still.” She threaded a needle and uncorked a small bottle of alcohol. “Take off your shirt.”
Dawson arched a brow. “Usually I’d expect at least a meal and a drink first.” The ghost of a smirk appeared despite the pain etched in the lines between his brows and the way his fists clenched against his thighs.
“Just do it.” Alaire rolled her eyes—again. A common reaction he seemed to draw from her. “I need to see the wound if I’m going to fix it, Knox.”
With a wince, Dawson pulled his shirt up instead, revealing a deep gash running along his right side. The cut looked far too clean to be an accident, but she kept the observation to herself.