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Lyra's Perspective
The academy hallways felt colder than usual. Lyra sat at the edge of her seat in class, twirling her pencil between her fingers while the instructor droned on about tactical hero procedures.
Her gaze drifted to the clock on the wall. Time seemed slower today, each tick dragging her further into the knot of unease that had coiled in her stomach since last night.
He knows my name.
The memory of Zephyr's crimson eyes bore into her mind. She clenched her jaw, forcing herself to focus. If anyone noticed her distraction, questions would follow. Questions she couldn't answer.
"Lyra," a sharp voice snapped her back to the present.
She blinked and looked up. Her instructor, Captain Nerius, stared at her with raised eyebrows, a question lingering in the air she hadn't heard. The rest of the class had turned their heads toward her, and she felt their eyes burning into her.
"Do you believe observation is an effective strategy for assessing a target's weaknesses?" Nerius repeated, folding his arms.
"Of course," she replied smoothly, sitting up straighter. "But only if paired with critical analysis. Observation alone doesn't provide enough context for accurate assessments."
The captain's stern face softened, and he nodded. "Well said. A superficial glance is never enough to truly understand your opponent."
The class shifted focus, and Lyra exhaled slowly. The words stung more than they should have.
You've been watching, listening, Zephyr's voice echoed in her head. You're clever.
She didn't feel clever. She felt trapped, like a pawn in a game she didn't understand.
When the bell rang, she was the first out the door. The usual chatter of her classmates faded into background noise as she hurried down the hallway, her boots clicking against the polished floor.
The storage room on the academy's third floor was rarely used—a quiet corner where she could think. Or hide.
Lyra slipped inside, closing the door behind her. The room was dark, filled with stacks of dusty crates and old training equipment. She leaned against the wall, running a hand through her hair.
She needed to decide what to do. Zephyr's proposition wasn't just a threat to her safety—it was a betrayal of everything her parents had worked so hard to give her.
But what was the alternative? Refuse him and risk—
The air shifted.
Lyra froze, her fingers tightening around the blade in her jacket. The shadows in the corner of the room seemed darker than they should be, pooling unnaturally.
"You're getting better at sensing me," came Zephyr's smooth, cold voice.
Her heart sank. "Do you ever use doors?"
He stepped out from the shadows, his figure towering in the dim light. The faint glow of his eyes illuminated his mask, making him look less human and more like a specter.
"Where's the fun in that?" he asked, his tone almost amused.
She glared at him, though she couldn't stop the nervous tremor in her hands. "What do you want now?"
"An update," he said simply, leaning casually against a stack of crates. "What have you heard?"
She swallowed hard. "Nothing yet. I haven't exactly had time to dig around. I do have classes, you know."
He tilted his head, studying her. "Excuses won't work with me, Lyra. I suggest you find time."
Her grip on her blade tightened, her anger flaring. "Do you even care what this is costing me?" she snapped. "You're asking me to risk everything, and for what? So you can keep tearing this city apart?"
His smile was faint, but his eyes betrayed no humor. "Tearing this city apart? You've been here long enough to know it's already broken."
The words hit harder than she expected, silencing her protests. He pushed away from the crates and took a step closer, his presence filling the small room.
"You have a choice," he said, his voice softer now but no less dangerous. "Play your part and survive, or fight me and see what happens. But don't pretend this city doesn't deserve to burn."
She met his gaze, her chest tightening with conflicting emotions. For a moment, she saw something behind the crimson glow of his eyes—a flicker of pain, of something he refused to show.
And then he was gone, the shadows swallowing him as though he'd never been there.
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Zephyr's Perspective
Lyra was a contradiction.
As he watched her from the shadows of the academy, he couldn't help but admire her duality. The lazy, carefree girl her classmates saw was a façade—a mask that hid a sharp mind and quiet strength.
She was angry. He could feel it radiating off her like heat every time they met. It amused him, but it also intrigued him. She hadn't broken yet, hadn't crumbled under the weight of his demands. Most people did.
He'd underestimated her, perhaps.
He leaned against the wall of the storage room, his shadows swirling lazily around him as he waited. When she arrived, slipping into the dim room with a hurried glance over her shoulder, he didn't immediately reveal himself.
Instead, he watched.
She leaned against the wall, her shoulders slumping as she exhaled deeply. She was scared, no doubt about that, but there was something else. Determination.
It was a strange thing to admire in someone he was manipulating, but he couldn't deny it.
"You're getting better at sensing me," he said finally, stepping forward.
She jumped slightly, her hand flying to her jacket. The movement was instinctive, defensive. He liked that about her—she didn't trust easily.
"Do you ever use doors?" she muttered, her voice laced with irritation.
He smiled faintly, letting the tension in the room linger. "Where's the fun in that?"
When she glared at him, he saw the spark of fire in her eyes, the defiance she refused to let go of. It was impressive, really, how she managed to hold her ground despite everything.
"What do you want now?" she asked, her tone sharp.
"An update," he said, keeping his voice calm. "What have you heard?"
Her response was hesitant, defensive. She tried to deflect, to buy herself time. He allowed it for a moment, watching her squirm under his gaze.
But when she snapped at him—challenged him—he felt something stir inside him.
"Do you even care what this is costing me?" she demanded, her voice trembling with anger.
For a brief moment, he didn't answer. He could have brushed her off, mocked her for her naiveté, but instead, he let the truth slip.
"Tearing this city apart? You've been here long enough to know it's already broken."
The words hung in the air between them, heavier than he intended. He saw the way her expression shifted, her anger dimming as confusion and something softer took its place.
He hated the way her eyes searched his, as if trying to see through him.
Before she could ask more, he let the shadows envelop him.
As he melted into the darkness, he couldn't shake the strange sensation that lingered in his chest—a flicker of doubt, of something he didn't want to name.
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