The Academy Infirmary was unusually quiet at this hour.
Only the soft glow of lanterns illuminated the long rows of pristine beds, their warm amber light reflecting against polished white stone.
The crisp scent of medicinal herbs lingered in the air, blending with the faint sweetness of crushed moonflowers steeping somewhere nearby.
A young nurse had practically shooed Lillian toward the adjoining washroom the moment she noticed the scrapes covering the girl’s knees and palms.
“You’ll only grind more dirt into them if you keep standing there,” she had insisted.
After one hesitant glance back at Roman, Lillian finally disappeared behind the wooden door.
The moment the latch clicked shut, the dying pureblood on the infirmary cot sat upright as though he had never been injured at all.
The tragic, pain-stricken expression he had worn moments ago evaporated without a trace.
Roman rolled one shoulder, stretched leisurely, then rested one ankle over the other atop the crisp white sheets, looking less like a patient and more like a king reclining upon his throne.
Standing before him with sleeves neatly rolled to his elbows was the academy’s Chief Healing Magister, Aelric Thornefield.
A fae whose silver hair had surrendered to age decades ago, though remarkably little else had.
His posture remained perfectly straight, his pointed ears peeked through neatly combed strands, and a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles rested low upon the bridge of his nose as he examined the wound with practiced precision.
Aelric looked from the poisoned cut to Roman’s face, noting how his gaze lingered on the door the girl had disappeared into before looking back down at the wound.
“My Lord.”
“Aelric,” Roman greeted easily.
“Good to see you’re still breathing. I was beginning to worry the academy’s air was turning you soft.”
A pause settled comfortably between them.
Then, in the driest voice imaginable, Aelric asked, “What exactly are you doing here?”
Roman sighed, offering the magister a lazy smile as he nudged his chin towards the gash on his arm.
“As you can see, I was injured.”
“I gathered as much.” The older fae cut through the ruined black silk of Roman’s sleeve with a pair of silver shears.
“My question was why are you here?”
”Because this is where people go when they’re bleeding, no?” Roman frowned ever so slightly.
“I thought a High Magister of your legendary stature would know that.”
“Precisely.” Aelric regarded him over the rim of his spectacles.
“You have attended Valerius Academy for a year, but you have never once allowed this infirmary to treat so much as a paper cut.”
Roman hummed, pretending to not hear a single word.
“You have, however, informed me on no fewer than seven separate occasions that House Laurent’s physicians are considerably less likely to accidentally kill you than academy healers.”
“And I stand by that,” Roman countered without missing a beat, scrunching his nose in mock disgust.
“Your junior staff brews tea that tastes like swamp water. I was simply protecting my palate.”
“And yet here you sit,” Aelric noted flatly.
“So unless your father secretly put me back on the Laurent payroll overnight, I fail to understand why you voluntarily walked through my doors.”
”What can I say?
Circumstances change, old man.
You can’t expect me to remain completely heartless forever.”
“They must have.” Aelric gently lifted Roman’s forearm, inspecting the black veins spreading beneath pale skin.
He pressed a thumb near the edge of the cut, watching the dark fluid hiss against his gloved hand before humming and setting the arm back down.
“Where is your antidote?”
Roman flexed his shoulder once.
“In my dormitory cabinet. Top drawer. Third vial from the left.”
“Top drawer. Third vial from the left,” Aelric repeated flatly.
He picked up a clean linen cloth from his tray and wiped his gloved thumb, looking at Roman as if the pureblood had lost his mind.
“Then why, pray tell, are you currently gracing my crisp sheets instead of walking back to your own room to drink it?”
“Walking?” Roman echoed in disbelief, placing a hand over his chest.
“Aelric… have you no compassion? Look at me. I’m practically at death’s door. The toxin is creeping through my delicate system as we speak.”
Aelric did not even blink.
He reached out and tapped the edge of his silver shears directly against Roman’s poisoned cut.
“Ow! Aelric!” The word came out instantly.
Aelric slowly lifted his gaze.
Roman held his expression for exactly three seconds before realizing he had reacted far too quickly.
He immediately schooled his features into a grimace, lowering his brows as if remembering he was supposed to be suffering.
“That hurt,” he added, with far more conviction than the situation deserved.
“Tragic. Truly harrowing.”
Roman looked offended.
“I don’t appreciate that tone.”
“You’re a Laurent, My Lord. Your immune system is currently isolating this low-grade warlock slop like a mildly annoying cold. In about an hour, your body will neutralize it on its own, and by tomorrow morning, you won’t even have a scar.”
“It’s the principle of the matter,” Roman argued, leaning back against the headboard and interlacing his fingers behind his head.
“I was attacked in a dusty, wind-blown riverbed. The psychological trauma alone requires professional medical supervision.”
“The psychological—” Aelric pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a long, exhausted breath.
“Get off my cot, young Lord. Go back to your dorm and swallow your own potion. I have actual students with actual injuries coming in tomorrow morning, and I refuse to waste my linen on someone who is putting on an opera for a girl.”
“I am doing no such thing,” Roman declared with unearned dignity.
“You walked into my infirmary leaning half your weight on a girl who looks like she could barely held you,” Aelric pointed out, gesturing vaguely toward the wooden washroom door.
“You looked like a tragic painting of a dying prince. I almost brought out the ceremonial shroud.”
A wickedly satisfied smirk broke across Roman’s face.
“Did it look convincing? Be honest.”
“It looked absurd.”
“If it looked so absurd, then do your job and heal me, Magister.” Roman hold out his arm again with an insufferably charming tilt of his head.
“Since you’re so eager to reclaim your pristine cot.”
Whatever strange, incomprehensible madness had taken root in the boy’s mind, it was clearly beyond the reach of any medical knowledge he possessed.
“I swear, whatever poison you ingested tonight didn’t go to your bloodstream. It went straight to your brain,” Aelric muttered under his breath, reaching for a small crystal phial of soothing moonflower extract and a silver scalpel to draw out the isolated toxin.
“Careful, old man,” Roman purred as the fae began drawing out the dark, corrupted fluid.
“A proper physician shouldn’t insult his most prominent patient.”
“A proper patient doesn’t turn a scratch into a five-act theatrical production,” Aelric countered dismissively, dabbing a clean piece of linen into a soothing salve.
“If your father saw you right now, he would disown you on the spot.”
“My father isn’t here,” Roman noted with unbothered charm.
“And besides, I’m simply utilizing the academy resources. I pay tuition, don’t I?”
“You don’t pay tuition. Your family has contributed enough to this academy that I doubt anyone would dare send you a bill,” Aelric deadpanned, applying the stinging salve directly over the wound.
“Details, Aelric. Details.”
Aelric cleanly wrapped the linen around Roman’s forearm, tying off the bandage with a sharp, brisk tug that was entirely unnecessary.
Once he was done, he wiped his hands, shaking his head in disbelief as he set his instruments down.
“There. The ‘deadly’ toxin is purged, Lord Laurent. You’ll survive the night. Though I doubt the same can be said for my patience if you pull a stunt like this again.”
“I make no promises,” Roman chimed, his gaze already drifting back toward the wooden washroom door as the sound of the latch unclicking echoed across the room.
He immediately smoothed his posture back into a picture of fragile endurance, casting Aelric a sharp look.
The Magister narrowed his eyes in confusion at the warning.
Though the moment the washroom door opened, Roman’s attention had shifted completely.
Lillian walked over, her dark hair still slightly damp around her face from rinsing away the dust.
The tears in her trousers exposed the scraped fabric around her knees, but the raw skin beneath was already smooth and pristine.
Her cardigan was already cleaned, and her crimson eyes were still wide with that same fierce, lingering anxiety.
She stopped right beside his cot, her eyes dropping immediately to the neat white bandage wrapped around his forearm.
“How is it?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Is the black blood gone?”
“Completely,” Roman nodded, offering her a reassuring smile, looking healthier than he had been before the injury.
“The Magister claims I’ll live to see tomorrow. Though I think he’s just disappointed he didn’t get to write my obituary.”
Lillian let out a long breath, her shoulders visibly dropping as the sheer weight of the night’s panic finally washed out of her.
“Don’t joke like that. You were bleeding black ten minutes ago.”
“Nothing can kill me that easily,” Roman cooed.
He shifted slightly on the cot, making room as his eyes held hers with an intensity that made the infirmary feel entirely too small.
“Come here. Sit down.”
Lillian hesitated for a second, glancing nervously at the Magister who was intentionally ignoring them both while scrubbing a silver tray with excessive vigor.
Seeing that the Magister was not paying them any mind, she stepped closer and sat on the very edge of the white mattress.
“Your knees are fine?” Roman asked, his attention drifting down to the tears in her trousers before returning to her face.
“It’s fine, they healed in five minutes. You’re the one who got cut by a poisoned blade,” Lillian said, her eyes lingering on the tight white linen binding his forearm when a troubled shadow crossed her face.
“…I should have been faster. If I had just reached the ravine a minute earlier, maybe—”
“Lils,” Roman interrupted softly, cutting off her trailing apology before it could take root.
He reached out, his long fingers lightly tapping against her knuckles to draw her focus back to him.
“If you hadn’t thrown that rock, Vance would have shattered the entire vial directly over an open wound. You didn’t make things worse. You saved me a world of trouble.”
Lillian looked up, meeting his steady gaze.
“You don’t have to spare my feelings. I know how close it was.”
“No worries, I never spare anyone’s feelings,” Roman smirked.
“I’m only telling you the truth. You broke every rule in the book, sprinted into a restricted gorge, and managed to knock a Vanguard off balance with a rock. It’s very impressive.”
Lillian ducked her head, clearly unconvinced.
“I wasn’t trying to fight him. I just wanted to stop him from hurting you.”
Roman’s heartbeat betrayed him all over again.
“Yeah,” he said softly.
“You did…”
The teasing edge disappeared from his smile, replaced by something far more genuine.
His eyes remained fixed on her, unable to look away now that she was sitting safely beside him.
It was such an odd feeling.
Roman had been born into a house where strength was expected long before affection was ever considered.
From the day he could walk, every lesson had taught him the same thing: survive, adapt, overcome.
A Laurent did not need comforting after an injury.
He needed to learn why it had happened and ensure it never happened again.
Worry was a luxury reserved for families who could afford weakness, and House Laurent had never been one of them.
And for a long time, he had been content with that.
Throughout his life, people had looked at him with countless emotions.
Fear.
Respect.
Envy.
Admiration.
Resentment.
Calculation.
Some sought his favour.
Others coveted his position.
While many assumed that a boy born with power, wealth, and an ancient bloodline could never possibly need saving.
After all, what was there to worry about?
Roman Laurent always won.
Roman Laurent always survived.
Ever since the ridiculous misunderstanding in Room 213, Roman had been captivated by the sheer honesty of her expressions.
She wore every emotion without realizing it, and he had found himself watching them with idle fascination.
That was why he found it entertaining to tease her.
Tonight, however, that fascination had twisted into something far less innocent.
Because her panic had been for him.
He understood how absurd that was.
He knew Lillian would insist she had done the same for anyone.
She would probably believe it too.
But understanding, unfortunately, did nothing to silence the greedy part of his heart.
Because it wanted that expression again.
And it wanted to be the only reason she would look like that ever again.
Maybe that was why he found himself suddenly saying, “But you looked terrified.” His thumb lightly traced the back of her hand, almost absentmindedly.
“You looked at me like…” He swallowed, wondering if it was even the right thing to say.
“…Like losing me would’ve broken you.”
Lillian’s breath caught.
The words struck so unexpectedly that, for a fleeting moment, she could only stare at him.
Heat rushed to her face before she could stop it, her heart stumbling in her chest.
“I…” Nothing came out.
Flustered, she instinctively pulled her hand from his and folded her arms tightly across her chest as if the gesture alone could shield her from the way he was looking at her.
She turned her face aside, unable to meet his eyes.
“I was startled,” she corrected quickly.
Roman’s gaze dropped to his now-empty hand.
His thumb lingered where hers had rested before his fingers slowly curled into his palm, like he was trying to hold onto a warmth that had already slipped away.
“Earlier,” he reminded her, lifting his eyes back to hers, “you admitted you were worried about me.” A faint smile touched his lips.
“Don’t take that back now.”
Lillian’s expression faltered for the briefest instant.
She had only admitted it because she was panicking.
The confession had escaped before reason could catch it, raw and unguarded.
Now, seeing the quiet hope in his eyes, she felt an inexplicable urge to push it back behind safer words.
“Anyone would be startled seeing black blood,” she insisted.
“You… you would’ve reacted the same way.”
Roman studied her in silence.
Right.
Anyone.
What was he thinking?
For a brief, irrational moment, he wanted to ask if she truly believed she would have searched the Black Ravine in the dead of night for just anyone.
If she would have looked at anyone else with the same fear that had been written so plainly across her face.
But she sat before him with complete sincerity, unaware that she had already confessed more than she intended, unaware that he had treasured every word since.
Roman chuckled to himself, the weird ache in his chest softening into something oddly tender.
“No,” he said.
She looked at him.
“No?”
“No.” He held her gaze without the slightest embarrassment.
“I wouldn’t have chased after someone because I was worried.”
Lillian stared.
Roman merely hummed, strangely unbothered by his own admission.
“…You’re kinder than I am, Lils.”
Her expression softened just a little.
“I don’t think that’s true.”
“I do.”
She shook her head.
“I was only doing what anyone should.”
Roman almost laughed.
There it was again.
That impossible, maddening way she reduced everything extraordinary about herself into something ordinary.
And somehow… that only made her more extraordinary to him.
“I suppose,” he murmured, unable to stop looking at her, “that’s exactly why I find it difficult to believe.”
“Believe what?”
“That everyone would’ve been lucky enough to have someone like you running toward them.”
Lillian blinked once.
Then immediately looked away, clearly deciding that Roman had once again started saying inexplicably strange things after being poisoned.
“…The Magister should probably check your head too.”
Roman laughed.
A real one this time.
Across the room, Aelric paused while organizing his instruments.
He glanced over at Roman, who was smiling like a man who had just been handed a priceless treasure instead of surviving a minor poisoning.
The old fae stared for a moment.
Then he quietly returned to his work.
Some conditions, he decided, were beyond the reach of healing magic.