His vision was blurry, his breathing labored; the smell of blood was nauseating, the crunch of breaking bones, chilling.
Héctor wasn't crying. He wasn't screaming either. Not anymore.
He wasn't running. He wasn't trembling.
He was just there, standing. What he felt was something beyond fear… something more primitive.
—Hollen… —the boy said, almost in a whisper.
The first soldier fell with his neck twisted at an impossible angle. The second didn't even have time to scream.
Hermes tried to stop him, but was thrown through the air like a rag doll.
And then he saw it. That being grabbed him by the arm. Pulled his hair violently, forcing his neck. The open mouth, the fangs… so close.
—Héctor!...
...
Gretta opened her eyes in the middle of the night.
The room was dimly lit by the pale light of the moon filtering through the curtains of the tall window. The air was cool and quiet, paced by the soft rhythm of Clammie's breathing as she slumbered in the neighboring bed, her expression serene, as if nothing in the world could disturb her.
Gretta placed a hand on her chest. She sat up slowly, without disturbing the mattress. The blanket slipped softly down to her waist. Her gaze wandered across the room as if trying to make sure that the dream hadn't dared escape into the reality of the chamber.
—It felt real —she whispered, careful not to wake Clammie.
But not all of it had been a dream. There was something that was real: the memory of something that had happened only a few hours ago. The warmth of his voice, the depth of his eyes, the sweet scent of roses.
—Maybe I shouldn't trust him —she told herself, lying back down with a whisper barely audible, as if speaking to herself, trying to be convinced—. But something in his voice soothes me, surrounds me...
Her mind carried her back to that encounter, gently, wanting to show her which voice to listen to.
...
The tower had become a sanctuary of silence.
The wind brushed the ancient stones with tenderness, and the stars seemed to lean in toward the young woman now standing, alert, her heart pounding in her ears.
—I didn't mean to interrupt so soon… —the voice repeated, closer now—. But I've waited all afternoon for a moment alone with you.
Gretta turned slowly, unsure whether it was fear or relief that made her hands tremble.
There he was: Freyr. His figure emerged from the shadows, wrapped in a halo of calm. His amber eyes, like two golden moons, looked at her with a mix of longing and care. His hands were clasped behind his back, as if trying not to appear threatening.
—How did you get here? —Gretta eyed him cautiously—. I didn't hear your steps.
—You didn't hear them the last time either —Freyr replied with a faint smile. His voice was deep but soft, like a low melody.
Gretta remained silent. The wind toyed with a strand of her hair and made her feel more exposed than she should. She didn't want to think of him that way.
But she did.
Too much.
And that scared her, too.
—You shouldn't appear like this —she finally said, crossing her arms—. Not when... not when I still don't know what you really are.
Freyr nodded slowly. He took a step toward her, cautiously.
—You're right. And I apologize. I don't want to frighten you, Gretta. The last thing I want is to harm you.
—Then tell me the truth —she said, meeting his eyes—. You told me you were "one of the good ones"… That means there are others. How many? Where are they? Why should I trust you?
Her words were firm, but her voice trembled at the end. Freyr looked at her with a tenderness that weighed heavy in her chest. He seemed to want to say much more than he could.
—You're not wrong —he replied calmly—. There are others. Some live in hiding. Others, unfortunately, do not choose the good path. But I... I made a vow a long time ago. To protect you. To be by your side when you needed me most. And to keep that vow, even if you don't remember.
—Remember what? —Gretta frowned—. Did you know me before? Who am I to you?
Freyr remained silent for a moment. The silence between them thickened, as if even the stars were waiting for his answer.
—You are someone I couldn't forget, even if I tried —he finally said—. But I don't want to force memories upon you that you haven't lived. It wouldn't be fair.
Gretta lowered her gaze. She felt torn in two. One part wanted to believe him, to draw closer, to let herself be wrapped in that voice, that presence that made her feel safe. The other... distrusted him. She feared falling into a trap laid by her own feelings.
—What if I'm wrong about you? What if you're just trying to manipulate me? —she asked softly.
Freyr stepped closer. He was beside her now, but didn't touch her. He only looked at her, with a depth Gretta couldn't decipher.
—You can doubt me, Gretta. You have every right to. But I will never try to force anything on you. I'll just be here... when you decide to look at me without fear.
Silence returned. But this time, it wasn't uncomfortable. It was almost... comforting.
Gretta looked at him. She saw the sorrow contained in his expression. The silent love. The patient waiting. And something in her chest softened.
—I shouldn't trust you —she murmured, barely audible—. Not after what you said... But I feel there's so much more than I can see… than I can sense.
Freyr smiled, just a little. He didn't say a word. He didn't need to.
Gretta took a step back, without breaking eye contact. Then, with unexpected calm, she said:
—I still don't know who you are. But I want to know. So... for now, I'll trust you. A little.
Freyr tilted his head slightly.
—Thank you. That's enough for today.
They both looked at the sky again. The tower's silence wrapped around them once more. And though there were still doubts in Gretta's heart, the air now tasted of truce.
...
While she recalled that encounter in the tower, something interrupted her thoughts—something soft, sweet.
A melody slipping through the windows like a whisper.
She blinked. The room was still the same, bathed in the same pale moonlight.
Clammie slept nearby, one hand under her cheek, her breathing calm.
But Gretta's heart no longer felt heavy. There was something different.
A stillness she couldn't explain.
She didn't know where the music came from. Perhaps from some distant corner of the Institute... or from deeper within.
The notes were gentle, like fingers barely brushing strings.
She didn't recognize the song.
And yet, it felt familiar.
As if it had been asleep in her memory.
She sat up slowly, without waking anyone. The music neither grew nor changed—it was simply there, floating.
As if it didn't seek to be heard, but to be felt.
As if it were calling to her… without saying her name.
Gretta closed her eyes.
And let herself drift.
A tear slid down her cheek. She didn't know why.
She didn't know who was playing. Or how.
She only knew one thing: that melody... was meant for her.
...
The following morning, a distant bird's song marked the start of the day.
Light entered gently through the curtains, tinting the marble floor with gold.
Gretta opened her eyes slowly.
The melody from the night still lingered in her mind, like a persistent echo.
—You'll be late if you don't get started —said a nearby voice, with a hint of restrained energy.
Clammie was already up, tying a blue ribbon into her hair. The morning light made it shine, as if the sun's rays had woven into each strand. She wore her uniform neatly, her expression calm, as if waking early took no effort at all.
Gretta blinked, still half asleep.
It took her a second to place herself.
The high ceiling, the pale linen curtains, the unfamiliar weight of the blankets.
She wasn't in her bed in Listuria, nor in the room that smelled of old wood and resin.
Everything here was different.
And yet, Clammie's presence made it feel less foreign.
—Did you sleep well? —Clammie asked, walking over to her sky-blue embroidered satchel.
—More or less —said Gretta, rubbing her eyes—. I think I dreamed... or something like that. I'm not sure.
Clammie looked at her with curiosity for a moment, but didn't press.
She just gave a half-smile.
—Was it a good dream?
Gretta thought of the music. Of the soft notes still floating in her memory.
She didn't know if it had been a dream, but she didn't want to explain it either.
—Yes… I think so —she answered softly.
She sat on the edge of the bed. The cold marble made her frown, but she didn't complain.
She walked over to the trunk beside the wall. It was made of light wood, with golden fittings and her name engraved on a small plaque. Her belongings had arrived before she did, as per the rules for scholarship students.
She opened it with both hands.
A soft scent of lavender rose from within, surrounding her.
Everything was neatly arranged: dresses folded with care, fabric ribbons interwoven with rosemary sprigs, and a handwoven scarf in blue and cream yarn. Her mother had perfumed it with homemade essences before sealing the trunk, like an attempt to hug her from afar.
Gretta held it between her fingers.
For a moment, she didn't think about the Institute, or classes.
Only of that scent.
And the hands that had placed it there.
She allowed herself a pause. Closed the trunk gently, like someone safeguarding something too precious to let go of completely. Then she breathed deeply, trying to return to the present.
—I always take a bit longer in the mornings —Gretta finally said.
—I used to feel the same way when I was new —Clammie replied, sitting on the edge of her bed—. But your body gets used to it. The secret is not thinking too much and letting your hands do the work.
Gretta glanced sideways at her, and they shared a brief laugh that scattered the last remnants of sleep.
—Some already knew you were coming —Clammie said as she walked to the vanity, adjusting a brooch at her collar—. Your name was on the list of announced students days ago. That's why Gloriane made that… unnecessary comment.
Gretta paused for a moment, the uniform in her hands. She pressed the fabric softly against her chest.
—So even before meeting me, eyes were already on me.
—That's Áura Stella —Clammie said with a light tone, though not without meaning—. Here, everything is known before it happens. And when it's not known, it's imagined.
Gretta let out a soft breath, not quite a sigh. She carefully pulled out her wooden comb and a small bronze mirror with a slightly chipped edge. Simple things, but hers. Things that spoke of home.
—Thank you, Clammie —she murmured suddenly—. For speaking to me like this. For not making me feel... strange.
Clammie looked at her with genuine tenderness.
—You're not strange, Gretta. Just different. And that, in this place... might be your greatest strength.
The young Rizz smiled, calmly picking up her uniform. And for the first time since arriving at Áura Stella, she felt that this day might, perhaps, belong to her.
After freshening up with warm water Clammie had left ready in the alabaster jug, she felt like she had washed away more than just sleep. Little by little, her stay at the academy began to take shape.
—Hey, how come my things were already here? I thought they were going to assign me a room just yesterday.
—Oh, that —Clammie said mischievously—. Let's just say I used a bit of my influence as a prince's daughter. I requested, if possible, that we be roommates.
Gretta, already stepping out of the washroom, looked at her with a mix of surprise and amusement.
—And what if we hadn't liked each other?
Clammie let out a soft giggle and turned her head slightly to glance back at her over her shoulder.
—I decided to take the risk.
Gretta couldn't help but smile. She finished dressing and tied the ribbons on her blouse before slipping on her shoes by the bed.
When they stepped into the hallway, the sun filtered its golden rays through the arched windows, casting shapes of light across the polished stone floor. The echo of footsteps and voices began to fill the corridor like a subtle melody marking the day's beginning.
—Ready to begin your day, Miss Rizz? —Clammie asked with a ceremonious tone, though her eyes sparkled with mischief.
—Ready for whatever comes —Gretta replied. But inside, a tangle of emotions stirred in her chest.
Almost instinctively, upon reaching the main stretch of the corridor, her eyes scanned the greenery beyond the window, looking for a familiar figure.
She thought of the conversation from the night before. Of the way he had looked at her.
Though the idea of a vampire watching her was still unsettling, the freshness of the morning cast that image with a strange blend of unease and flattery.
—Thinking about something, young Gretta? —Clammie asked with a small, almost conspiratorial smile.
—Um… yes. Did you hear anything last night? Like a melody… very soft.
—Not last night —Clammie replied, pausing for a moment—, but I do know what you're talking about. They say it's a ghost. Apparently, the melody's been heard since the Institute first opened. The guards have tried to find its source, but never managed to. No one really knows what it is.
—So... you have heard it before?
—Yes —Clammie nodded, waving briefly to a student walking past—. It's beautiful, but it gives me chills. There's something... mysterious about it. Did you like it?
—I did —Gretta answered—. More than that. It felt... beautiful. Actually, it helped me sleep.
For a moment, she felt a presence behind her.
Not fear, but something more subtle. Familiar.
—I'm glad you liked it, Gretta. It was for you —whispered a voice, barely audible.
Gretta turned immediately.
There was no one there.
Only the still air, and a faint scent of roses lingering nearby.
She stood silently for a few seconds. Said nothing.
But a smile appeared on her lips.
—Something wrong, Gretta? —Clammie's voice brought her back.
—Just thought I heard someone —she said, regaining her thread—. Anyway... what's next in the esteemed Áura Stella?
—Breakfast time —Clammie said enthusiastically—. Come on, you're going to love the dining hall.
The main dining hall of the Áura Stella Institute rose like a vast and solemn chamber, clad in pale stone, with high ceilings held aloft by columns carved with floral motifs. On either side, rows of pointed-arch windows let in the morning light, filtered through stained glass bearing the symbols of ancient noble houses and emblems of knowledge.
The long oak tables, polished with care, were arranged in precise rows, accompanied by deep blue velvet benches. In the center of the hall hung a monumental chandelier of ancient iron, whose dozens of candles were lit at dusk by a mechanism no one seemed to have ever seen. They said it had been a gift from a long-forgotten benefactress.
At one end, a raised platform marked the space for faculty and administration. From there, the headmistress could observe everything without raising her voice. A crystal bell hung above the dais, used only on solemn occasions.
The air smelled of warm bread and soft spices. From the kitchens, the servants entered in line, silent, carrying cups of milk, dried flower tea, and fresh juice. On the fine porcelain trays were offered golden slices of bread, lavender butter, soft cheeses, fresh fruit, and small oat and honey cakes. Every dish bore the Institute's crest: an eight-pointed star encircled by laurel branches.
Though it was a daily gathering place, the dining hall retained an air of reverence. As if within those walls still floated laughter, secrets, stolen glances… and all that is left unsaid.
Clammie, seated beside Gretta, broke her roll delicately, without staining her fingers.
—Isn't it more peaceful than you imagined? —she whispered, glancing at her with a serene smile.
Gretta nodded.
She was still somewhat overwhelmed by the setting.
While she clumsily spread the jam, she couldn't help but murmur:
—Yes... It's like having breakfast inside a cathedral.
—A cathedral with pastries —Clammie joked, before taking a sip of her peach-blossom tea.
—Why didn't we dine here last night?
—Dinners in the hall are for special occasions —Clammie explained—. As you saw, they bring dinner to our rooms.
And also —she added after a sip of water—, you missed lunch yesterday after arriving late to Professor Margaret's class.
—Does that happen often?
—Yes. Each group has different schedules, and some classes run long. There are nighttime subjects, too. So some girls wouldn't even make it to dinner here.
Gretta nodded.
She was beginning to understand that the beauty of the place also concealed a precise discipline, thought through down to the smallest detail. Everything was order. Rhythm. And depth.
From the entrance, the headmistress opened the great door. A silver bell hung in the arch, chiming at the passing breeze.
Ten minutes until the first class.
Gretta set her fork down. She hadn't eaten much.
But the air, the scent of tea, the light blessing the marble... all of it made her feel as though she had attended more than just a breakfast.
And deep down, she knew:
yes, she had.
Already in the halls, Gretta held her course slip between her fingers, reviewing the names with a slightly furrowed brow. She was trying to memorize the routine that would now shape her days at the Institute. With each step, she felt the symbolic weight of the Áura Stella crest embroidered over her chest: a golden thread that made her —at least in appearance— equal to the others.
—Body Arts and Discipline... —she read aloud, pausing a moment—. Why does it say optional?
—The academy tries to keep students active —Clammie replied, walking beside her with ease—. But not everyone has the same disposition. And many times, their parents ask that their daughters not be "overexerted," especially if they have a certain sensitivity... or a misplaced sense of pride in their physique.
Before Gretta could respond, a voice slid between them like a blade:
—In other words, some are useless both mentally and physically —said Gloriane with a disdainful air, stopping in front of them—. I wonder… which group does Miss Rizz identify with more?
Clammie turned firmly. Her face, usually serene, now held a harder expression.
—Do you want another debate, Gloriane?
For a second, the hallway seemed to fall into suspense.
Gloriane held her gaze, but didn't respond immediately.
She didn't smile. She didn't flinch. Her voice, when it came, was as sharp as it was measured.
—You and I have debated since before we knew how to speak —she said calmly—. But that's not why I'm here. I simply want to know if Miss Rizz understands where she's set foot.
She paused briefly. She didn't sound sarcastic. She sounded like someone who didn't have time to pretend to be kind.
—Here, good intentions are not enough. And compassion… is sometimes a weakness that comes at a high cost.
Then, without another word, she resumed her stride with the same haughtiness with which she had arrived, her black hair swaying as if the corridor belonged to her.
Gretta watched her walk away, feeling a discomforting mix of confusion and curiosity. The echo of footsteps seemed heavier now, as if the very stones were warning that this day would give no respite.
—Don't worry —Clammie said at last, with a barely audible sigh—. Not all thorns are worth touching.
They were about to move on when a stern figure emerged at the end of the hall, stopping them with nothing more than a glance.
—Miss Rizz —said Professor Margaret, her voice as straight as the cane she held between her fingers—. I almost forgot... I haven't yet assigned your penalty for arriving late yesterday.
Gretta froze. A chill ran down her back. It wasn't cold—it was judgment.
Clammie, beside her, gave a slight bow. She knew better than to intervene.
—It was only two minutes, but a single thread of carelessness can unravel an entire tapestry, Miss. Here, every minute is a brick in your future —Margaret declared. Then she narrowed her eyes, as if about to add something more—. Your penalty will be...
And then something happened.
There was a brief pause, barely noticeable. A hesitation.
Margaret's lips parted... but the word that came out didn't seem to be hers.
—...gardening duties —she said in a voice softer than usual.
As if that decision hadn't come from her.
She blinked once, puzzled. But she didn't comment on it. Instead, she raised her voice slightly:
—Lucian, come here a moment.
Freyr appeared with calm steps from the shadows of one of the arches, as if he had known he would be called. His expression was serene, but in his eyes shone something that made Gretta's heart beat faster.
—How can I assist you, Professor Margaret? —he asked, his voice deep and composed, with a charm that seemed to envelop him.
—I need you to guide Miss Rizz and show her how she may contribute.
There was no harshness in him. No mockery either. Just calm. An ancient calm.
—Of course, professor —Freyr said with a slight nod—. I'll take her with me —he added, looking Gretta in the eyes.
—Very well. Miss Furriet, proceed to your class —Margaret ordered, without even looking at her—. I understand you are quite enthusiastic about Body Arts and Discipline.
—Yes, professor —Clammie replied, still somewhat bewildered. She turned to Gretta with a faint smile—. I'll see you before lunch, alright?
Gretta nodded. Margaret had already left. Clammie too.
And Lucian was still there. Silent. Watching her.
But it wasn't a heavy gaze.
It was like standing under the shade of a great tree.
Strange. And safe, at once.
She was still holding her schedule as if it were a shield, but said nothing.
There was no need.
—Come —Freyr said quietly—. I want to show you something.
He led her to a more secluded area of the garden, sheltered by trees with dense leaves. There, old roses grew—double-petaled and thick-stemmed—as if they had been there long before the Institute had even been dreamed of.
Freyr knelt naturally and began to patiently loosen the earth around one of them.
Gretta, though a bit clumsy, imitated him without protest.
—Did you do this? —she asked, referring to the strange coincidence of being assigned there.
Freyr didn't respond immediately, but his somewhat playful smile was answer enough.
Gretta narrowed her eyes, insisting in a low tone: —You did the same to Clammie last night, didn't you?
—Ah, Miss Furriet —he murmured with a tone both theatrical and nostalgic—. She was... gently invited to leave. I just wanted the tower to have different company for one night.
Gretta hesitated a moment between being offended or laughing.
—Did you control her?
—Nothing invasive. Just a mental nudge. Gentle —he replied with an innocent tone—. I promise she doesn't remember anything strange. But yes, I was the one who made her leave.
—And me? —she asked, now more seriously-. Have you done it to me?
Freyr shook his head softly. His smile turned more serene, almost melancholic.
—I can't -he said sincerely—. Your mind is... a closed threshold to me. Like a language I forgot, though I'd swear I once spoke it fluently.
Gretta swallowed. His words resonated more than she expected. A part of her already sensed what she didn't want to admit.
—So it was you who convinced Professor Margaret? —she insisted without looking at him directly.
Freyr let out a low laugh and raised an eyebrow with a light air.
—You really doubted it? Let's say... I had a very respectful conversation with the professor. She thought it reasonable that a scholarship student should help with useful tasks at the Institute.
—Manipulator —Gretta whispered, though she was already smiling.
—Persuasive —he corrected—. Although with you, it's useless. Your inner voice is much stronger than mine.
Gretta rolled her eyes but didn't move away. On the contrary, she sat closer on the grass. She wouldn't call him a friend. But enemy... not that either.
—Then tell me —she said, taking a small trowel—. What other hidden talents do you have?
Freyr approached a flowerbed and resumed working the soil.
—Besides teleporting, reading minds—when I'm allowed—and pruning roses with surgical precision... not many. I'm more useful in silence than in words.
She laughed, not so much at the phrase, but at how he said it. As if part of him still lived in another time.
The sound of water running through the stone channels accompanied the brief silence that followed. Then, Freyr stood and led her toward a sunnier area of the garden. There, a patch of newly planted aromatic herbs needed care.
Gretta picked up a copper watering can with both hands. Freyr offered her a smaller one, as if he knew it would be more comfortable. They walked together, side by side.
—So... you can read minds? —Gretta asked, with a mix of suspicion and curiosity.
Freyr tilted his head.
—Not quite like you imagine —he replied—. The mind isn't a manuscript with ordered chapters. Some thoughts are loud, others barely surface. It's like looking at the bottom of a lake. If the water's clear, you see everything. But if it's murky...
—You see nothing —she finished, nodding.
—Exactly. And there are minds so restless one might get lost by getting too close -he added, with a seriousness born from experience.
—And can you also manipulate memory?
Freyr barely smiled, not looking at her directly.
—The most recent, the most superficial... sometimes. But the deep ones... the ones that really matter... that's another story.
He stopped and looked at her.
—There are people whose minds aren't lakes. They're labyrinths.
¯Like mine?
—You're something else -he murmured, barely audible, as if he didn't want the wind to hear—. But I meant your new friend. Clammie.
Gretta turned toward him, surprised.
—Clammie?
—Yes —he nodded with a small laugh—. Her mind is like a library without hallways. You can see the books, but you can't always find a way to reach them.
—Makes sense. Sometimes she seems to know more than she says.
—And she says it sweetly. That makes her more dangerous... to those who have something to hide.
Gretta wasn't sure if that was a warning or a compliment.
—So... if some minds are lakes and others labyrinths... what's mine?
Freyr looked at her with a tenderness that wasn't forced.
—Yours... is like a garden asleep in winter. You can't see what will bloom... but I know it will be beautiful.
—Then you can see it -Gretta said, with a spark of triumph.
—No. But I know it well.
She lowered her gaze, and for a moment seemed to hesitate between speaking or not. Finally, she did.
—Why do others call you Lucian... and you told me your name was Freyr?
Freyr was silent for a second longer than usual. Then he stood slightly, brushing some dirt from his clothes with his fingers, as if buying time to think.
—Because someone very important to me asked me to use that name —he finally replied, calmly—. They told me that if I ever returned to this place, I should stay hidden. That the name "Freyr" should be kept only for when I found someone who could truly recognize it.
Gretta looked at him in silence. She didn't ask more. But within her, something stirred, as if a dormant part had felt the echo of a deeper truth.
—Let's keep going —he said, resuming his walk among the paths—. There's still much to water before the sun catches us.
Gretta followed in silence, with the same care one gives to something they don't yet understand... but are beginning to care for.
The sun had not yet reached its highest point, and the light filtered gently through the almond branches, casting dancing shadows on the gravel paths. The air smelled of freshly turned earth and rosemary.
Gretta followed Freyr among the beds of a smaller side garden, more secluded, with low stone walls and raised beds of aromatic flowers. Some were just budding; others, already open, leaned toward the warmth as if longing for it.
—Not that one —Freyr indicated with a soft, almost amused voice, as she bent toward a shy sprout—. That's a centaura. It doesn't like its roots touched before noon.
Gretta blushed slightly, awkwardly pulling back her hand.
—Flowers have schedules too?
—Some have tempers —he replied with a crooked smile—. Like you.
She looked at him with a raised brow, but not annoyed.
—Was that a compliment?
—Only if you choose to take it as one.
Freyr crouched beside her and, with delicate movements, showed her how to remove weeds without harming the young stems.
—Like this —he said, briefly brushing his fingers against hers—. Gently, like caressing an important word before speaking it.
Gretta didn't respond immediately. The nearness of his voice, the cadence in his words, the barely-there touch of his skin, made the simplest task take on a strange symbolic weight.
—And this one? —she asked, pointing to a small flower with white petals and crimson edges.
Freyr didn't look at it. He was too close to do so without disturbing their delicate balance.
—That's a tulian. It blooms when someone worthy is near —he said enigmatically—. Or so the more romantic gardeners believe.
Gretta smiled, head lowered, but said nothing.
Several minutes passed in comfortable silence, shared only by the distant song of a blackbird and the sound of earth being moved.
—Seems you know this garden well -she murmured, unsure where her words came from.
Freyr lowered his gaze for a moment, as if holding back an answer too large to say aloud.
—I've spent centuries caring for flowers that weren't meant for me. Some... bloom only once. Others... return.
Gretta didn't fully understand, but felt something stir inside her, like a string plucked from afar.
She took a breath, gathering courage, and said:
—Last night I heard a melody. And today, while I was talking with Clammie, I heard someone say it was for me. —She looked at him sideways, almost smiling—. It was you, wasn't it?
Freyr let out a soft laugh, like someone caught.
—Guilty —he admitted, in a deliberately playful tone.
Gretta smiled openly, letting out a brief triumphant laugh.
—I knew it! I solved the mystery of Áura Stella —she declared, lifting her chin with theatrical flair.
—I'll have to be more discreet next time —he replied, playing with a dry twig between his fingers.
The atmosphere between them lightened, as if the gravity of the previous moment had loosened just enough to make room for something simpler. More human.
Gretta adjusted the watering can in her hands and looked at him with a spark of genuine curiosity.
—And what instrument were you playing? It wasn't just any melody. It sounded... unlike anything I've heard.
Freyr smiled but looked down at the loosened earth.
—Let's just say it's a special instrument —he said, choosing his words carefully—. One not usually shown to just anyone.
Gretta frowned, amused.
—And I don't qualify?
—Not yet —he replied with a barely visible smile—. But... you're close.
She rolled her eyes, but the smile didn't leave her face.
—Mysterious and arrogant. What a combination.
—Persuasive and reserved —he corrected, standing up again naturally—. There's a subtle difference.
Gretta gently shook her head, holding back a laugh.
When Freyr stepped toward the shade of a solitary oak, she followed him without thinking, as if curiosity now walked hand in hand with something deeper.
—And that melody? —she insisted, this time more seriously—. Why last night?
Freyr turned slightly, already standing, brushing dust from his hands. He took a moment before answering.
—Because some things can't be said with words —he finally said—. And sometimes, music... is all that remains when everything else falls silent.
Gretta felt a slight shiver. She didn't know if it was from the words... or how he said them.
He handed her the watering can naturally.
—That's all for today. Go before Clammie comes looking for you with her commanding tone.
—And you?
—I'll stay a bit longer. Some flowers still need company.
Gretta picked up the watering can, but didn't leave immediately. She looked around—the sunlit garden, then at him.
—Thank you —she said sincerely—. For the gardening lessons... and for not making it feel like a punishment.
Freyr smiled, this time with a more open warmth.
—It wasn't a punishment. It was an invitation... disguised.
Gretta let out a light laugh.
—Then I accept the invitation. Though I won't promise to stop pulling sensitive roots before noon.
—I trust your progress —he said gently.
She nodded, gave him one last look, and began to walk the path back to the building. The freshness of the garden was left behind, replaced by the everyday rhythm of the Institute's corridors.
Already in the east wing corridors, as she walked toward the dining hall, a familiar figure appeared at the end of the hallway, with an energy that contrasted the garden's serenity.
—Gretta! —Clammie raised a hand to catch her attention, golden curls bouncing with every step—. Finally! I thought the lilies had kidnapped you or you'd been sentenced to prune cypresses as punishment.
—It wasn't that bad —she replied with a smile—. Come on, I'm starving.
And together they walked off, while Freyr's figure remained among the garden's shadows, surrounded by flowers that perhaps only bloomed in the presence of those who knew how to see with the heart.
...
The dining hall still held the warmth of midday when they sat down. Clammie split her bread roll with her usual elegance and spread it with lavender butter.
—Well? Did he make you dig a trench or just weed with style?
Gretta smiled, playing with her spoon.
—It was more peaceful than I thought. Even... beautiful.
Clammie looked at her with a slightly raised brow.
—"Beautiful"? That doesn't sound like a punishment.
Gretta let out a brief laugh.
—Maybe I have a hidden talent for flowers. Or maybe I ended up in the hands of someone who makes even weeding feel like a ceremony.
—Or maybe —Clammie replied, sipping her tea—, you got the most patient gardener in the world.
A small silence followed, filled with a curiosity neither seemed willing to dispel right away.
Finally, Clammie tilted her head, looking at her with a spark of mischief.
—And tell me... did he interest you? —she asked, without malice, with genuine curiosity.
Gretta opened her mouth to deny it, but stopped. She forced herself to be honest, at least with herself.
—He's... different —she finally said, setting the spoon aside—. He's kind. And he doesn't treat others like mere ornaments. That stands out.
Clammie smiled, as if that was exactly the answer she'd been expecting.
—I get it. You're not the only one. —She adjusted herself in her seat—. Truth is, more than one girl here has commented that Lucian is... well, attractive. Though it's also assumed he doesn't play those kinds of games.
—Why? —Gretta asked, leaning in a bit, more animated.
—Because everyone sees him as a eunuch in service to the Institute. Someone trustworthy, but out of the game —said Clammie, shrugging—. But you don't look at him that way.
Gretta felt the heat rise to her cheeks, but she didn't look away. This time, she dared to answer:
—Maybe... he's not what everyone thinks.
Clammie smiled broadly, satisfied.
—That's what I was thinking too —she added, distractedly picking at a piece of fruit—. In the end, no one really knows. They just... assume. And Lucian has never confirmed anything.
She leaned in a little, lowering her voice conspiratorially:
—Sometimes, the best stories begin where assumptions end.
Gretta let out a small laugh, freer than before.
—Do you always talk like you're narrating a novel?
—Possibly —Clammie admitted, winking—. Blame it on reading too many novels before bed.
They both laughed, sharing a light moment that no longer weighed as it once did, but instead seemed to weave something new between them: genuine companionship.
...
When they finished lunch, the clatter of cleared dishes and departing footsteps briefly filled the great dining hall.
The afternoon passed quietly, with light tasks and the murmur of scattered conversations. Gretta took the chance to review her schedule sheet while sitting next to Clammie under the central gallery, as the sun began to set over the gardens.
Shortly before dusk, the interior bells rang three short chimes: the signal to head to class.
The Natural Sciences and Medicinal Botany classroom was in the south wing, next to the greenhouses. Gretta and Clammie arrived with other students, taking their seats as usual. The sunset light bathed the walls in golden tones.
A few minutes later, the headmistress herself crossed the threshold.
With her firm stride and usual imperturbable expression, she positioned herself at the front of the room and spoke without losing an ounce of authority:
—Ladies —she said—, as some of you may have heard, the Botany and Natural Sciences class will, from today, have a new instructor.
A brief murmur stirred in the room, which ceased the moment she raised her hand.
—Professor Dorian Velkan has been exceptionally appointed by direct recommendation of the Solenvar Medical Academy. His expertise in nocturnal fauna and advanced herbalism will be of great value to this institution.
Due to... special medical considerations —she added with a slight pause—, his classes will be held from dusk onward.
Some students exchanged glances. It wasn't common for someone with medical conditions to teach at Áura Stella—nor for a man to hold a teaching position.
The headmistress, without further explanation, concluded:
—It will be treated like any other subject. I expect respect and discipline in your future interactions.
She then left the room with the same solemnity with which she had entered.
Once the door closed behind her, voices quickly rose again in a controlled murmur.
Gretta leaned toward Clammie, still surprised.
—Since when are there male teachers at Áura Stella? I thought only women could teach here.
Clammie leaned in to speak more closely.
—Normally yes —she replied in a low voice—. But if a teacher is exceptional... and manages to convince the headmistress, they're allowed. Though it's rare. Very rare. —Clammie raised her head, analyzing—. There's also a prior process.
—Then what do we do with the rest of the afternoon?
Clammie stayed silent a few seconds, thoughtful. Then she pulled out her subject notebook and flipped through it, as if looking for a reasonable excuse.
—I have to return a herbarium to the botanical archive —she murmured, more to herself than to Gretta—. If I don't do it today, I'll lose points in Natural Sciences.
Gretta, still savoring the freshness of the afternoon, stood with resolve.
—I'll come with you. I've got nothing better to do —she said, picking up her satchel.
—Are you sure? It's in the old libraries, past the greenhouse. Not exactly a walk in the park.
—Even better —Gretta replied, smiling—. I want to explore every corner of this place... even the dustiest ones.
—Alright —Clammie agreed, smiling too—. The herbarium isn't that close... but if we leave now, we should be back before the new professor rings the bell for class —she added, though her voice carried more hope than certainty.
They walked together down the hallways leading toward the south wing of the Institute. The polished marble gave way to paths of coarse gravel, bordered by old hedges growing wildly. Farther ahead, the Gothic windows gave way to stone galleries covered in vines, where the light had already begun to wane.
—I thought class would be now —Clammie remarked, adjusting her satchel over her shoulder—. The previous teacher, Mrs. Míriam, always held Natural Sciences right after lunch. I planned to return the herbarium at the end of class, like we used to.
Gretta tilted her head slightly, curious.
—And what happened to her? Is she alright?
Clammie hesitated, choosing her words as they avoided a protruding root on the path.
—Mrs. Míriam was getting older, of course —she began—, but she always took great care of her health. Diet, gentle exercise, seasonal medical checkups. I never saw her get sick... until a few days ago.
She lowered her voice a little, as if the very air called for caution.
—One day she showed up pale, weak, like something had drained her deeply. We thought it was the heat or some passing illness... but two days before you arrived, she fainted during lunch. They took her to the infirmary, and she hasn't returned since.
Gretta furrowed her brow slightly, sensing something wasn't right.
—And that's when they brought the new professor?
—Yes —Clammie nodded—. Though everything happened too fast. Normally, when they admit a male professor, there are protocols, weeks of preparation so we can adapt. This time... it was all resolved in just days. As if there was no choice.
Gretta looked down at the gravel path, where dry leaves crunched beneath her shoes. Something about the way Clammie said it, about the rushed changes, left a bitter taste in the air.
—I see, that's why you prefer to return it yourself —Gretta said, understanding—. To avoid any confusion with deliveries.
Clammie nodded.
—Exactly. I prefer to have everything in order... before the rules start changing.
They continued into a less traveled section of the garden.
The stones of the path were uneven, and the moss-covered walls seemed to breathe moisture. The light grew scarcer, trapped between tree branches and ruined arches. The breeze's murmur was faint, like a whisper crawling across the ground.
As they advanced, the conversation naturally faded. Not from discomfort, but because the very setting seemed to demand silence.
Gretta glanced sideways at Clammie. Though the girl kept pace, her hand clutched the herbarium notebook more tightly to her chest.
A crackling sound, faint but clear, broke through the wind's murmur.
Gretta stopped for a moment, shoulders tensed.
—Did you hear that? —she asked in a low voice.
Clammie barely turned her head, scanning the shadows.
—Probably a squirrel —she replied, though her tone didn't sound entirely convinced.
They continued walking, but more slowly. The paths seemed to multiply under the dimness, and the ivy-covered stone columns rose like forgotten sentinels.
Another sound, closer this time: a dull scrape, like fabric dragging against stone.
Gretta felt a chill run down her spine. The afternoon, which had been bright and warm, now seemed to have fallen into premature gloom.
They entered a gallery covered in vines, where light filtered in only as a pale glow.
And then, just as they reached one of the side doors leading to the old library, a figure emerged from the shadows.
It didn't walk. It glided, as if each step was a strange effort between instinct and need.
Gretta felt Clammie tense beside her.
There was no time to scream. The figure advanced straight toward them, staggering in a way too fast to be human... and too erratic to be natural.
A fleeting, reddish glow lit up the darkness where eyes should have been.
Gretta took a step back, clutching Clammie's arm tightly.
The air filled with a metallic scent, faint but unmistakable.
Before they could run, the creature was already upon them.