Turning the clock back a week, to when Morcant's influence first began to press in, not with a dramatic strike, but with something far more insidious, a slow, deliberate isolation that made the world feel subtly wrong before anyone could name why.
Lilliana walked through the halls of Stellaris Academy with measured steps, each one placed carefully as if the stone beneath her feet might shift if she didn't, shoulders slumped more than usual, eyelids heavy, and a dull ache sitting behind her eyes as though sleep had become something she had only heard rumours about.
Today had been tiring.
She had woken before dawn to tend to her garden, like she always did, checking the soil with practiced fingers, watering the herbs in steady arcs, talking quietly to the flowers while brushing dirt from their leaves, gentle and precise in the way she touched them, the garden being the one place that never asked anything of her except care, and gave her calm in return.
After that came the academy.
Meetings that bled into other meetings, faculty discussions, club arrangements, coordination between departments, paperwork stacked on top of paperwork, and the constant expectation that "Professor Roseblood" would always have an answer, always have time, always smile.
By the time the sun started dipping and the light in the corridors softened into late-afternoon gold, exhaustion had settled into her bones.
And yet that wasn't what bothered her most.
Ever since around midday, her mind had been… strange.
Not foggy in the normal way tiredness made her, not sluggish from doing too much, but hazy as if someone had taken a cloth and smeared her thoughts around, blurring their edges until she couldn't tell where one feeling ended and another began.
Usually, when stress piled up, she soothed herself by thinking of Soren.
Their first conversation in the infirmary, his careful words and that wary look he tried to hide behind politeness, the cautious lunches that had slowly become comfortable, the day she had taken him to her garden and watched him soften without realising it, the way he looked when he fell asleep mid-conversation, face slack and peaceful like his body had decided it trusted her, his clumsy attempts to comfort her whenever her own walls slipped, the fragile mind he carried around like glass.
Those memories always did the same thing.
Her heart would beat faster, cheeks warming, fatigue pushed gently into the background by something steadier, something that felt like light.
But today was different.
Whenever she thought of his face, something twisted.
His cute, sleepy expression—
'Annoying.'
The way he could fall asleep unguarded anywhere—
'Unfair.'
'Enviable.'
The fact that he had so many people around him, always gathering at his side as if he was some kind of gravity that pulled them in—
'Irritating.'
Lilliana's jaw clenched the moment the feeling flickered again, fingers tightening on the papers in her arms until the edges bent slightly.
Her heart rate didn't change.
Her face didn't flush.
She just felt… wrong.
Like someone had taken the affection in her chest and dipped it into something sour, then handed it back and expected her to pretend it tasted the same.
She didn't know why.
And the feeling only grew worse when she heard his voice that evening.
"Lilly?"
The name hit her like a small stone tossed into still water, the ripples immediate, sharp in a way they had no right to be.
She flinched.
Papers rustled under her grip as fingers tightened, and the sound of his voice, usually enough to make her shoulders drop and her breath ease, made something in her chest prickle uncomfortably, as if her skin didn't fit right.
Slowly, she turned.
The moment her eyes met his, her expression threatened to crumple, not from tenderness, but from the sudden jarring clash between what she knew she felt and what her body was doing.
He stood beneath pale light, hair tied back roughly with strands falling loose around his face, dark circles bruising the skin under his crimson eyes, sweat clinging to his neck and collarbone and dampening the fabric of his uniform, signs of a day that had chewed him up and spat him out.
Objectively, those details should have made him look dishevelled.
On him, every flaw only seemed to make his beauty stand out more, like exhaustion sharpened him instead of dulling him.
Her gaze traced his features without permission, and something ugly stirred beneath her skin.
'Why…? Why does it look so effortless for him? Doesn't he know how much effort I put in every day…?'
She woke early to style her hair.
She used creams and oils on her skin, careful routines repeated until they became habit.
She picked her clothes with intention, even inside the academy's restrictive dress code, sleeves adjusted, collar neat, jewellery minimal but deliberate.
She wanted to look nice in front of him.
Wanted him to notice.
Wanted him to compliment her, just once, in a way that wasn't about her competence or kindness, but about her, the part of her that still wanted to be seen as a woman and not just a professor.
He rarely did.
He smiled at her, worried over her health, thanked her for her care, told her she was "reliable" with that earnestness that made it difficult to resent him, but compliments about her appearance were almost nonexistent, so rare she could count them on one hand, each one replayed like a treasured thing.
The thought tightened her chest with something that felt like anger, jealousy, and self-loathing all at once, a hot, miserable knot that made her throat feel tight.
She hated herself for thinking that way about the person she loved.
But she couldn't stop.
"Are you okay…?" Soren asked after a moment, voice careful, as if he had already noticed something wrong and was trying to approach it gently.
He was always quick to notice when she was off.
Usually, that made her happy.
Now it felt suffocating, like being seen meant being cornered.
Lilliana dropped her gaze to the floor.
"Yes…"
The word came out quiet.
"Sorry, I've just been feeling strange."
It trailed off because she didn't want to talk, didn't want to stand here with him looking at her like that, didn't want him to see whatever was happening to her face, and most of all, didn't want to hear herself say things she couldn't take back.
She hoped he would understand and let her go.
Thankfully, he did.
"You should get some rest then," Soren said gently, as if the answer was simple.
"Mmm…"
She nodded, stiff, the motion more reflex than agreement.
Silence fell between them, heavy and awkward, the corridor suddenly too narrow and the air too thin.
"...I should go then."
She didn't wait for his response, turning on her heel and walking away with quick, almost clumsy steps, papers rustling loudly in her arms, a sound that felt like it was betraying how hard her hands were shaking.
She didn't look back.
Her heart pounded, not with affection, but with panic.
'Seriously… why did I like him?' The thought tasted bitter. 'Why did I fall for someone like that?'
She asked herself again and again as she walked, the question becoming a mantra that left a sour film on her tongue, every repetition making it feel a little more true.
The man who always looked tired and yet somehow perfect.
The man everyone gathered around.
The man who made everything look easy.
He seemed so hateable, so enviable, so effortlessly… above her.
So why?
Why had she liked him?
Why had she fallen in love with him?
••✦ ♡ ✦•••
The days that followed blurred into a pattern she hated.
Morning in the garden, hands in soil, herbs watered, flowers spoken to softly, the routine grounding her for a brief moment before the academy stole her back, and by the time she stepped into the halls, a tightness was already building in her chest, waiting for the first glimpse of white hair or the first sound of his voice.
Whenever she thought of Soren, the questions started.
'Why him?'
'Why did I like him?'
'What did I see in him?'
Whenever memories surfaced, the infirmary and the tea and quiet walks, the way he had listened to her speak as if her words mattered, her stomach twisted with disgust directed inward, sharp and humiliating.
How pathetic she must have looked.
How desperate.
She hated that version of herself so violently it made her hands tremble.
Whenever Soren tried to approach, she found an excuse that sounded plausible and professional.
"I have a meeting."
"I have a class."
"I need to finish grading these papers."
A thin smile, a mumbled comment about being tired, then an escape down the nearest corridor, moving fast enough that he couldn't follow without making it obvious.
Every time, she saw it.
The slight pain in his expression, confusion flickering behind his eyes, shoulders dipping as though he had been physically pushed.
She forced herself not to care.
Or tried to.
Jealousy came anyway, even when he was visibly struggling.
He would yawn and rub at his eyes, clearly sleep-deprived, smile weakly and apologise as if his exhaustion was an inconvenience he owed the world for, and still people gravitated toward him, still looked at him, whispered about him, reached out to him.
Meanwhile, Lilliana had to work so hard to maintain her image, to be "Professor Roseblood," to be "Lilliana, the reliable one," to be "Lilliana, who always seems composed," because if she slipped even a little, the cracks would show and the academy would look at her differently.
And he didn't even have to try.
Every time she saw his face, her thoughts spiralled into jealousy and self-disgust until she felt nauseous with herself, trapped in a loop she couldn't break.
Then came that day.
The day Soren went to Morcant's office.
She saw him in the hall on her way to the garden, steps steady, expression unreadable, and for a moment she froze, caught between impulse and something else, a faint ache in her chest that almost felt like missing him, or maybe it was just the habit of reaching for him.
He passed closer than she liked, and the energy crawling under her skin surged, sharp and prickling.
She turned away and kept her distance without thinking.
After that, she fled, not at a run, not literally, but close enough that her pace was nearly a stumble, feet carrying her to her garden on their own.
Her safe haven.
The place that had never lied to her, never judged her, never made her feel small.
She spent the entire evening there, watering herbs, replanting flowers, trimming dead leaves, hands moving automatically while her mind gnawed on the same questions until they felt like hooks.
Why did she like him?
Why had she acted that way around him?
Why had she shown him so much of herself?
No answers came, only tighter knots, twisted and pulled until thinking felt painful.
Then, as the sun sank and the sky darkened from orange to deep blue, something shifted.
She didn't know what.
There was no sound.
No light.
No warning voice.
It simply felt as if an invisible weight that had been pressing down on her chest, quietly and relentlessly, had vanished.
Her breath caught so sharply it hurt.
The watering can slipped from her fingers.
Metal clattered against dirt, water splashing over her shoes and the hem of her skirt, cold and sudden, and her knees gave out as if her body had been waiting for permission to collapse.
Hands hit the ground.
Soil pressed into her palms.
She stared at the earth with wide, trembling eyes, mouth opening and closing without sound, throat tight as if she had forgotten how to speak.
Then a single tear fell, darkening the dirt.
Another followed.
And another.
Soon tears poured steadily, staining the soil beneath her, shoulders shaking as sobs finally tore free, harsh and ugly and real, the kind that didn't care about dignity.
"Why…?" she choked, voice breaking. "Why did I do that…?"
The haze was gone.
The bitterness, the jealousy, the hatred, they hadn't vanished completely, but they were suddenly distant, like a nightmare that made no sense once morning came, and in their place, her real emotions came crashing back in full colour, vivid enough to make her dizzy.
Soren's confused face when she pulled away.
His soft expression when he worried about her.
The way he always listened when she spoke, the way he looked exhausted and still smiled when she appeared, the way he had called her "Lilly" like it meant something precious and safe.
And underneath those images, painfully clear now, was the truth she had been avoiding.
How much pain he had been in this past week.
She had seen that look before.
After summer break, when he had first come back to the academy, barely holding himself together, fragile in a way that made it seem like one wrong word could shatter him, the kind of expression that didn't ask for help because it didn't believe it would be given.
And she had added to it.
She hugged herself, fingers digging into her sleeves until fabric bunched under her nails, as if she could claw the guilt out of her own skin.
She wanted to run to him.
To apologise, to explain that she hadn't been herself.
But fear locked her in place, thick and heavy.
"What if he hates me…?"
The whisper disappeared into the garden, swallowed by leaves and dirt.
He was her first real friend.
The first person she had opened up to since her brother's death.
The first person who had made her feel like she wasn't alone, not truly, not in the way she had been alone for years.
The thought of losing him made her stomach churn.
A hand clutched at her chest as if she could hold the panic down physically, as if ribs and lungs could be forced to behave by sheer will.
What if he didn't want to see her anymore?
What if she looked into his eyes and saw the same disgust she had shown him this week?
Breathing grew shallow, vision blurring, body trembling harder as the spiral of thoughts dragged her down.
She didn't know how long she stayed crouched in the dirt, sobbing until her throat went raw.
Eventually, strength left her.
Eyes closed, heavy with exhaustion and tears, body tipping sideways, and she fell onto the garden floor with a soft, miserable thud.
••✦ ♡ ✦•••
The next day, disinfectant hit her first.
The smell, clean and sharp, and the feeling of fresh sheets under her fingers, smooth fabric against skin that still felt wrong and heavy.
Her eyes opened slowly.
White curtains.
Soft light.
The faint sound of footsteps somewhere beyond the partition.
The infirmary.
For a moment, her mind floated between past and present, hazy and blank.
Then yesterday's memories slammed back into place, and tears welled immediately, hot behind her eyes as if her body had decided crying was the only thing it could do now.
She pulled her knees up and hugged them to her chest, ignoring the tight pull of muscles still tired from collapsing in the garden, breathing in shaky bursts that didn't feel like they reached her lungs properly.
A nun approached with a gentle smile and told her to rest, that a substitute had already been assigned to cover her lectures for the day, voice soft and practiced in the way people spoke to someone fragile.
The words washed over Lilliana without sticking, in one ear and out the other.
Her mind was elsewhere.
The last week replayed in cruel snapshots, avoided conversations, bitter thoughts, the way she had turned her back on him, the way she had watched him flinch internally and kept walking anyway.
"How do I fix this…?"
She wanted to apologise.
Wanted to explain that something had been wrong, that she hadn't been herself, that her mind had been twisted into something ugly against her will.
Even in her thoughts, the excuses felt cheap.
She had still hurt him.
She had still watched his expression tighten with quiet pain and done nothing.
What if she couldn't get him back?
The fear wrapped around her ribs and squeezed until it felt hard to breathe.
Eyes burned as she pressed her forehead against her knees, shoulders shaking again, and the thought that surfaced was raw enough to make her stomach twist.
'I don't want to lose him. Not him… anyone but him…'
Time blurred.
Nurses came and went, curtains shifted, the light outside changed angle, and still she stayed curled up, trying to gather courage like it was something she could scoop into her hands.
It was only when a familiar colour flickered past the window that her body reacted.
A flash of crimson, vivid enough to cut through the infirmary's dullness like a spark.
Breath hitched.
Before she could think, her legs were moving.
She swung them off the bed and stood too quickly, the floor tilting for a second beneath her feet, stomach lurching as her body protested, but she didn't stop.
"Professor Roseblood, wait—!" a nun called, voice startled.
The rest didn't reach her.
She pushed open the infirmary door and ran.
Feet pounded against stone, echoes chasing her down the corridor as if the academy itself were trying to keep up, heart hammering so loudly it drowned out everything else, and ahead, there it was, the back of a cloak, white hair tied loosely, familiar shoulders slightly hunched as if the world was heavier than it should have been.
Her hand shot out.
The moment she was close enough, she grabbed the edge of his cloak and held on tightly, as if it was the only thing keeping her upright, fingers trembling so badly she could feel each pulse in her fingertips.
She refused to let go.
Slowly, her gaze lifted, climbing from cloak to shoulder, to the side of his face, and then finally, finally, to his eyes.
The colour she had grown to love stared back at her in quiet surprise.
Red.
————「❤︎」————