Page 43

I smirked. “She’s got a heart that could use a kind soul like yours. And a partner who actually appreciates your ridiculous potion skills.”

Leander’s cheeks warmed, and for a moment, I saw a flicker of hope amid the jealousy and apprehension.

Leander’s fingers hovered over the vial of distilled fog water, the hesitation brief but telling. Then, with a quiet breath, he nodded.

“Maybe you’re right,” he murmured, though his voice was low—like he was still trying to convince himself. His eyes drifted toward Lydia, and I could see it in the set of his jaw: the way Julian’s easy charm had wormed its way under his skin.

Right on cue, Julian flashed one of his signature grins across the table.

“Careful with that onyx dust, Lydia,” he called, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Wouldn’t want to blow us all up before the ball.”

Lydia rolled her eyes, but the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her amusement. Her soft laugh rang out, clear and effortless.

And for a brief moment, even Leander smiled—small, fleeting, but real.

Leander’s hands trembled slightly as he added three drops of firefly luminescence to our cauldron.

The liquid caught the light, dancing with ethereal brilliance before dissolving into the murky depths of our potion.

His eyes, however, kept drifting across the room to where Julian stood with casual confidence beside Lydia, his posture relaxed yet commanding.

Even in the simple act of stirring a cauldron, Julian exuded a natural grace that made several students glance his way admiringly.

“It’s not fair,” Leander muttered, his brows drawn tight as he measured charred lotus with painstaking care. Each movement was deliberate, but his mind was clearly elsewhere.

I followed his gaze across the table.

Julian was demonstrating a stirring technique to Lydia, his broad shoulders angled protectively toward her.

His sleeves were rolled up, revealing the lean muscle built from weeks of Magical Combat drills.

Lydia leaned in, fully engaged, while Professor Thornbriar lingered just a little too long, nodding in approval.

“What’s not fair?” I asked, though I didn’t need the answer.

Leander exhaled, barely more than a breath.

“Everything about him,” he said quietly. “The way he looks. The way he moves. The way people look at him. ”

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“The way she looks at him.”

Our potion simmered, releasing tendrils of violet smoke that curled around us like curious spirits. I carefully added another pinch of brimstone ash, watching as it dissolved into the thickening brew.

“Leander Stirling,” I said quietly but firmly, leaning just close enough that he’d have no choice but to listen. “You’re selling yourself terribly short.”

He didn’t look up, but his hands stilled over the cauldron.

“Julian may have... physical advantages,” I continued, “but there’s more to attraction than that. You know it. I know it.”

A bitter smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Is there?” he murmured. “Because from where I’m standing, the universe handed him every charm in the book.”

He gestured vaguely to where Julian was laughing across the room.

“He’s the literal definition of tall, dark, and handsome. ”

Then his hand drifted back to his own chest with a half-hearted shrug.

“And I’m just… this. ”

I had to smother a laugh—soft and fleeting—even though the ache in Leander’s voice twisted something deep in my chest.

Across the room, Julian’s laugh rang out, bouncing off the stone walls as he said something that made Lydia giggle. The sound seemed to wound Leander. His shoulders slumped just a little more.

“Look at me, Elvana,” he said quietly, gesturing to himself.

His freckled face. The copper hair that refused to stay in place. The guarded tilt of his mouth that never quite let you see how much he felt .

What he didn’t gesture to—what he couldn’t—was what I saw.

Leander Stirling was clumsy. Yes.

But he was also one of the sharpest minds I’d ever met. I’d watched him unravel enchantments others couldn’t grasp. I’d seen his quiet kindness offered without fanfare—even to classmates who deserved far less.

“You know what I see when I look at you?” I asked, keeping my voice low, just above the bubbling and hissing of nearby cauldrons.

“I see someone who notices the things others miss. Someone who remembers Lydia prefers blackberries to raspberries. Someone who knows exactly when to offer encouragement. Someone who understands the weight of silence.”

The smoke from our cauldron thickened, creating a miniature storm cloud above our workspace. Leander stared into it, his copper hair catching the dim light, freckles standing out against his pallor.

“Julian wouldn’t know the first thing about who Lydia really is,” I said softly, reaching out to steady the vial in Leander’s hand before he could overpour the onyx dust. His fingers trembled slightly—whether from nerves or emotion, I couldn’t tell.

“He sees a pretty face. A challenge.”

I met his gaze.

“You see her.”

With quiet precision, I added the onyx dust myself, watching as the mixture darkened and began to swirl—ink and shadow folding into each other, hypnotic and alive.

“You’re funny,” I continued. “You’re caring. And please…”I glanced at him, my voice low but certain.

“Don’t ever think that just because you don’t look like Julian, you’re any less handsome.”

The potion glimmered as it thickened, its surface smooth as obsidian and flickering like shadowfire beneath the glass light overhead.

“You are far from ordinary, Leander, and I am not the only one who sees it.”

Professor Thornbriar glided past our table, her critical gaze assessing our work. “Excellent consistency, Miss Vale, Mr. Sterling. Though perhaps a touch more lotus next time for a denser cloud.”

Leander watched the swirling darkness of our potion, his freckled face still caught in contemplation. Then, as if struck by some unseen force, he straightened his shoulders and exhaled sharply.

“You know what?” he said, his voice quiet but charged with sudden determination. “You’re right. I—I can’t keep standing in my own way. Lydia deserves someone who sees her, who genuinely cares for her. And I want that to be me.”

He looked at me then, and for the first time all morning, there was a spark in his eyes. “I’m going to ask her to the ball.” I blinked. “Right now?”

“Yes. No. Well—not this second,” he said, running a hand through his copper hair, which only made it more unruly. “I want to do it properly. A grand gesture.” He turned to me, urgency creeping into his voice. “Elvana, will you help me?”

A slow smile tugged at my lips. “Of course I will. Do you have something in mind, or am I crafting this grand plan from scratch?”

He let out a nervous laugh. “Well, the worst she can say is no, right? And shatter my heart in front of everyone.” He groaned, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Okay, now that I’ve said it out loud, I hate this idea.”

I smacked his arm lightly. “No backing out now. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it properly.” I glanced toward Lydia, who was still at her workstation, deeply engrossed in her potion while Julian chattered beside her. “We need a setting. Something memorable. Something magical.”

Leander sighed. “I’d prefer something that doesn’t involve me making a complete fool of myself.”

“Oh, come on, that’s half the charm,” I teased before turning serious. “What about during the next meal in the dining hall? Everyone will be there. You could charm one of the enchanted quills to write your invitation in the air in glowing script.”

Leander shook his head fervently. “Too much room for error. What if my handwriting ends up looking like chicken scratch?”

I tapped my chin, thinking. “Alright, what about using Thornbriar’s fireflies? The moment Lydia opens it, the fireflies spell out your invitation.” His eyes lit up. “That... that could actually work.”

“And you could present it to her at the end of class,” I added, already mentally piecing together the plan. “It will be personal but still enough of a spectacle that everyone will know it was you.”

He swallowed hard, nodding. “Okay. Let’s do it.” Then he glanced at me hesitantly. “You’ll be there, right”

I placed a hand over my heart dramatically. “Leander Sterling, I would never abandon you in your moment of triumph or impending doom.”

He huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “You are truly the worst influence.”

“On the contrary,” I said, watching as Professor Thornbriar moved toward the front of the classroom to conclude the lesson, “I might just be the best thing that ever happened to you.”

Leander rolled his eyes, but I caught the grateful smile he tried to hide. He might not fully believe in himself yet, but by the end of this, Lydia would. And that, I thought, was what truly mattered.

As Professor Thornbriar dismissed the class, Leander hesitated only a moment before squaring his shoulders and approaching her desk.

I didn’t need to hear their conversation to understand what was happening—it was all in the way Leander nervously gestured, his hands moving in small, uncertain circles, and the way Professor Thornbriar’s eyes glimmered with interest.

She listened intently, nodding, her hands folding gracefully before her.

Then, slowly, a smile spread across her lips—warm and knowing.

Whatever Leander said next earned an approving tilt of her head, and she turned toward the tall wooden cabinet behind her desk.

With a flick of her wrist, the cabinet door swung open, revealing a cluster of softly glowing jars.