Alicia von Valerion — POV
I had chosen the bench long before I chose the time.
It sat just beneath the academy archway, positioned so that the afternoon sun filtered through stone and shadow in equal measure. From there, I could observe without being observed—students passing through, guards at their posts, the slow rhythm of the city beyond the gate. It was a controlled place. Predictable.
I arrived early. Early enough that impatience never had the chance to form.
The book in my hands was familiar, its weight reassuring. The cover was worn, the lettering fractured by age and language—only the first few characters were clear enough to read at a glance. Sed—. That was intentional. If Alden noticed it, the ambiguity would distract him. Curiosity was easier to manage than clarity.
Still, my eyes moved over the same paragraph again and again without absorbing a word.
My attention kept drifting to the gate.
When Alden finally appeared, the shift in my focus was immediate and irritatingly absolute. I closed the book too quickly, annoyed with myself for reacting so obviously—even though no one was watching.
He looked different.
Not drastically. Not enough that anyone else would comment. But the effort was there, subtle and deliberate. Clean lines. Dark tones. Hair actually tamed, if only barely. He had dressed with intent.
For me.
The realization settled warmly in my chest, followed closely by the need to suppress it.
Our walk through Oakhaven unfolded slowly, naturally. The city was quieter than the Academy, its sounds softer—footsteps on old stone, distant voices, water moving through canals. Alden seemed to relax with every step, shoulders loosening, gaze wandering instead of scanning.
I liked him this way.
At the café, I watched him more than the surroundings. The way his fingers curled around the cup. The brief pause before his approval. The easy smile when he enjoyed something simple I had chosen.
It felt… domestic. Grounded.
By the time we reached the fountain, dusk was approaching, lanterns beginning to glow. The water reflected blue and gold, mist drifting upward like breath in cold air.
I turned toward him then.
I had rehearsed the words. Not a confession—nothing reckless—but something honest. Something that would anchor this moment as real.
I opened my mouth—
"Alden!"
The sound shattered the space.
I felt irritation spike instantly, sharp and unwelcome. Edwin's voice carried its usual confidence, followed by Sarah's gentle warmth. I did not turn right away. I didn't need to.
Of course it was them.
I reassembled myself before facing them, smoothing my expression into polite composure. When Alden greeted them, I reached for his hand without hesitation and laced my fingers through his.
A statement. Quiet. Clear.
Edwin noticed. I saw the flicker before his smile returned.
Sarah noticed more than she let on.
When they suggested walking together, refusal hovered on my tongue—but Alden's voice cut through my irritation, calm and considerate, suggesting we could continue later.
Later.
I accepted.
We walked as four, the formation natural but irritatingly imperfect. Edwin and Sarah moved easily together, comfortable, practiced. Alden and I followed just behind.
I told myself I was merely observing.
Then Sarah stopped at a vendor.
The pastries were small, warm, dusted with sugar. She bought one, broke it in half, and offered it to Edwin with an easy smile.
He leaned down. Accepted it without hesitation.
I felt something tighten—not sharp, not violent, but precise.
Before I could overthink it, I stepped toward the same stall. Chose carefully. Honey-glazed. Aromatic. Balanced.
I broke it cleanly and turned to Alden.
"You should eat," I said evenly. "You didn't earlier."
He looked surprised. Then pleased.
When he took a bite, honey caught at the corner of his mouth.
I didn't pause.
I lifted my hand and wiped it away with my thumb, the motion smooth and unhurried. His skin was warm beneath my touch. I let my fingers linger just long enough to register the slight hitch in his breath.
"There," I said. "You missed some."
His eyes widened—just a little.
Sarah glanced back. Her smile remained, but something thoughtful entered her gaze.
Good.
As we continued, I stayed close to Alden. I adjusted his sleeve when it slipped, guided him gently around uneven stone, spoke to him more often than the others. Nothing overt. Nothing inappropriate.
Just presence. Consistency. Familiarity.
I wasn't trying to win.
I was simply making sure the balance was correct.
When Alden smiled at me again—unguarded, genuine—I returned it calmly, my pulse steady.
The interruption had delayed what I meant to say.
But it had not erased it.
Later, I promised myself again.
Later, I would finish this—
on my terms.
The walk did not end immediately.
Instead, it stretched on in small, ordinary ways—down side streets softened by lanternlight, past shops closing their shutters for the evening, through pockets of laughter and music drifting from open windows. Edwin and Sarah gradually fell into their own rhythm, occasionally stopping to talk to a vendor or point out something Sarah found interesting.
That gave Alden and me moments—brief, stolen, but real.
At one point, he stopped near a stall selling carved trinkets, lifting one shaped like a small star and turning it over in his hand.
"This one reminds me of you," he said without thinking.
I paused. "How so?"
"It looks sharp," he added quickly, then smiled. "But it's actually smooth."
I took the carving from him and examined it carefully. "An accurate assessment," I said. "Though incomplete."
"Oh?"
"Yes. You failed to mention that it's also difficult to break."
He laughed quietly, and for a moment, the world narrowed to that sound.
I was aware of the time. I always was.
The lanterns had fully lit now, their glow reflecting in Alden's eyes. Edwin and Sarah were walking just far enough ahead that their voices blurred into background noise. This—this—was the opening I had been waiting for.
I slowed my steps.
Alden noticed immediately. He always did.
"Everything okay?" he asked.
I nodded, then stopped walking altogether. He stopped with me. The others continued a few steps before Sarah glanced back and gently tugged Edwin to a halt.
I turned to Alden, searching for the right phrasing. Not rehearsed words—those never survived contact with reality—but something honest and measured.
"There's something I wanted to tell you," I began.
His attention sharpened. Fully on me now.
Before I could continue, a soft chime echoed through the street.
My communicator.
I didn't look at it right away. I didn't want to.
The chime repeated—polite, insistent.
I exhaled slowly and raised my wrist. The message was brief, formal, and infuriatingly well-timed.
Valerion Residence Reminder:
House curfew enforced during recess period. Return required within the next thirty minutes.
I stared at it for a second too long.
Alden noticed. "Curfew?"
"Yes," I replied, lowering my arm. "House obligation."
Edwin blinked. "Already? That's strict."
"It always is," I said evenly.
Sarah stepped closer, apologetic. "I'm sorry… we didn't mean to keep you out so late."
"It's not your fault," I replied. It wasn't a lie. Timing was no one's fault. That was what made it unbearable.
Alden hesitated, then smiled at me—soft, understanding, completely unaware of what I had almost said.
"Rain check?" he asked.
The word settled into me slowly.
"Yes," I said. "A rain check."
He held my gaze for a moment longer, like he wanted to say something too, then nodded. "I'll walk you back to the gate."
"That won't be necessary."
"I know," he said. "But I want to."
We separated from Edwin and Sarah there, exchanging brief goodbyes. As Alden walked with me toward the Academy gate, the city sounds faded again, replaced by familiar stone and shadow.
At the archway, we stopped.
The moment lingered.
"Today was… nice," he said.
"It was," I agreed.
He shifted slightly, hands in his pockets. "We should do it again. Just us."
I met his eyes. "Yes. We should."
He smiled, then turned and headed back toward the city, not once looking over his shoulder.
I watched until he disappeared into the lanternlit streets.
Only then did I allow myself to move.
I sat back down on the same bench where the day had begun, the cool stone grounding beneath me. Slowly, I retrieved the book from my ring and rested it on my lap.
My fingers traced the fractured lettering on the cover.
Sed—
I closed the book without opening it.
"Later," I murmured to the empty space beside me.
Not tonight.
But soon.