Threads of Worry
Morning Light in Crownshade
The sun rose lazily over Crownshade Academy, spilling golden rays across red-tiled roofs and dew-speckled courtyards.
Mist clung to the outer walls, retreating in slow ribbons as warmth spread through the air.
Birds perched along the parapets sang soft melodies that tangled with the sharper voices of instructors barking drills across the yard.
The courtyard was alive with movement.
Uniformed students stretched stiff limbs, sparred with wooden swords, or jogged in tight formations.
The clatter of steel, the crunch of boots on stone, the chatter of half-awake voices — all blended into the morning rhythm of Crownshade.
But not everyone shared that same energy.
On the dormitory steps of Division C, Lyra Dake sat curled in quiet patience.
Her tail was wrapped snug around her legs, her amber eyes fixed upward at the dorm windows.
The faint creak of wood, the shift of a curtain — every sound made her ears twitch in hope.
She knew it was him.
Aeron.
He hadn’t joined the drills.
His uniform still hung untouched on its stand.
He had returned at dawn from the Emberwood Grove, battered but breathing, and since then… silence.
Lyra pressed her hands together tightly, her ears folding back.
He says he’s fine.
But… that wasn’t fine.
Not with those wounds.
Not with the way he looked.
Her heart ached at the memory.
Bloodied clothes, soot-streaked skin, a faint smile as if nothing mattered.
He had brushed it off as “training,” but she had seen more in his eyes.
A weight.
A secret.
Something he bore alone.
“Still waiting?”
Lyra flinched and looked up.
Aira Everdon stood nearby, her blazer immaculate, her hair brushed to a glossy sheen that caught the sunlight.
She carried a small breakfast tray in her hands — warm bread, soft butter, herbal tea that smelled faintly of rosemary and mint.
The simple meal looked almost delicate against the gleaming silver plate.
Lyra’s gaze flicked to it.
“…For him?”
Aira tilted her chin, lips curving faintly.
“Who else?”
There was no venom in her voice, no sharp edge to the words.
And yet Lyra felt her chest tighten, a quiet pressure she couldn’t name.
Her eyes darted away, ears lowering slightly.
“You’re worried too,” Aira added, her tone gentler now.
“Aren’t you?”
Lyra hesitated, then nodded.
“…Yes.”
For a moment, silence stretched — two girls, different as dusk and dawn, bound by a single thread of worry for the same boy.
“He’s reckless,” Aira said at last, her gaze lifting to the upper windows.
Her fingers tightened faintly against the tray.
“He pushes himself harder than anyone I’ve ever known.
Even when his body screams for rest, he keeps going.
That… frightens me.”
Lyra’s tail uncurled slowly.
Her voice was quiet, but steady.
“But he has to.
If he doesn’t… how else will he survive here?
Everyone looks at him like he doesn’t belong.
But he still stands tall.
Even when people laugh, or whisper, he doesn’t bow.”
Her lips trembled, the words pulling something raw from her chest.
“That’s why I…”
Aira turned her head slightly, brow raised.
“Why you what?”
Lyra froze.
Her cheeks flushed hot, tail stiffening before curling nervously again.
“N-Nothing.
Forget it.”
Aira studied her for a long moment.
Then, to Lyra’s surprise, she laughed softly — not mocking, but amused.
“You’re not very good at hiding things.”
Lyra puffed her cheeks, embarrassed, and looked away.
Aira lowered her eyes to the tray, her expression softening as memories tugged at her.
“He was always stubborn,” she said quietly.
“Even as a child.
Once, he swore he’d climb the old oak near the Everdon estate just because no one else could.
He fell, broke his arm… and still tried again with the other.”
Her lips curved faintly, touched by something both tender and bittersweet.
“That stubbornness never left him.”
Lyra glanced at her, curiosity flickering before lowering her gaze again.
She knows him from before.
A childhood friend… someone already close to him.
Her heart pinched.
How can I compare to that?
But another thought stirred, softer, stubborn.
He doesn’t look at me with pity.
He doesn’t see my ears or my tail as something strange.
To him, I’m just… Lyra.
That’s why…
She pressed her lips together, her thoughts unfinished but burning bright.
Unspoken words hung between the two girls, invisible threads pulling tighter with each beat of silence.
The window creaked again.
Both girls looked up sharply.
His shirt was half-open, bandages visible beneath, hair still damp from a recent wash.
His expression was unreadable — steady gray eyes that lingered on them both, on the tray, on the unspoken worry etched across their faces.
Then, without a word, he pulled the curtain closed.
Lyra’s chest fluttered, her tail curling tighter.
Aira bit her lip, fingers tightening around the tray.
Neither spoke.
Not for a long while.
At last, Aira rose smoothly, brushing the hem of her skirt.
She steadied the tray in her hands.
“I’ll bring this to him.”
Lyra’s tail swished nervously.
“…Shouldn’t we both go?”
The older girl blinked, then smiled knowingly.
“Afraid I’ll steal him if you’re not there?”
Lyra’s face flamed scarlet.
“N-No!
I just—”
But Aira’s laugh was light, teasing, almost disarming.
“Relax.
I don’t bite.
Not unless provoked.”
The words carried a playful lilt, but something sharper glimmered beneath.
Lyra’s heart thudded faster, sensing it.
Still, she drew in a breath and nodded faintly.
“…Fine.
Together.”
And so, side by side — uneasily, awkwardly — the two walked toward Aeron’s door.
Each carried her own thoughts, her own fears, her own budding affection.
The knock echoed softly.
For a moment, there was only silence.
Then a low voice, steady but tired.
“Enter.”
The room smelled faintly of herbs and damp cloth.
Bandages lay coiled neatly on the desk, alongside a half-drained vial of healing tonic.
Aeron sat at the desk chair, torso wrapped in fresh white bindings.
His posture was straight, his expression composed, but faint shadows marked his eyes.
“You two again.”
Aira stepped forward, placing the tray on the desk with deliberate care.
“Eat.
Please.”
Aeron’s gaze flicked to her, then to Lyra lingering by the door, her hands nervously wringing the fabric of her skirt.
He studied them both for a long moment.
Then, with a quiet exhale, he reached for the bread.
“…Fine.”
He bit into it slowly, methodically, as though humoring them rather than indulging himself.
Yet when the warmth of food settled in his stomach, some of the tension in his shoulders eased.
The two girls exchanged a glance.
For now, that was enough.
But beneath the calm surface, threads continued to weave tighter — threads of worry, jealousy, and something neither dared name aloud.