The music from the party still rang in Adrian’s ears when he stumbled into the quiet corridor of the east wing. The laughter, the clinking of glasses, the smug voices of his so-called classmates — all of it seemed to throb against his skull. At first, he thought it was fatigue, too much noise and too little patience, but then the dizziness hit like a blow. His pulse hammered unevenly, sweat beading cold across his skin despite the suffocating warmth of the hall.

Something was wrong.

He loosened his tie, dragging air into his lungs as if that could steady the spinning world. His vision blurred, the sconces along the walls smearing into amber streaks. Each step down the corridor felt heavier than the last, as though the floor itself resisted him. He didn’t know what they had slipped into his drink, but instinct screamed at him: get away.

The common room loomed ahead, dim and empty, its fire reduced to glowing embers. He collapsed into the nearest armchair, the worn leather swallowing him whole. His chest rose and fell too quickly, his shirt sticking to his back. He pressed the heel of his hand to his brow, fighting to hold onto coherence.

He didn’t notice the door creak until the figure stepped inside. A boy — tall, broad-shouldered, with a smirk that had always carried a promise of cruelty. One of his rivals. Adrian tried to straighten, tried to summon his usual sharpness, but his body betrayed him. His limbs felt like lead. His words clung stubbornly to his tongue.

The boy moved closer, footsteps measured, deliberate. Adrian’s fogged mind barely registered the threat, only the prickle of unease, the instinct that he was prey with nowhere to run.

Then another shadow cut across the room.

Her.

Elara Duvall’s voice cut the silence like glass. “What exactly do you think you’re doing?”

The boy froze, surprise flashing across his face. Adrian turned his head sluggishly, his gaze catching the sleek fall of her black hair, the sharp glint in her dark eyes. Of all people, she was the last he wanted to see him like this. Enemy. Rival. The girl who could match him in wit and destroy him with a smile.

And yet she was the one who noticed what he could not hide.

“You’re pale,” she said, stepping closer. Her tone wasn’t taunting now. It was low, edged with something that almost resembled concern. She brushed past the other boy without waiting for an answer, dropping to her knees before Adrian’s chair. Her hand hovered near his face, then touched — fingers cool against the feverish damp of his skin.

He tried to speak, to form her name, but only a broken sound escaped.

Elara’s eyes narrowed. “He’s burning up,” she muttered, more to herself than to him. Then, sharper, to the rival boy: “Get out.”

“I was just—”

“I said. Out.”

There was no arguing with her when her voice took that tone. The boy faltered, muttered something under his breath, and left, the door slamming behind him.

The silence that followed was thick, broken only by Adrian’s uneven breaths. Elara stood, sliding her arm under his and hauling him up with surprising strength. He stumbled against her, too weak to resist, his head lolling against her shoulder. She smelled faintly of rain and smoke, of the party they had both abandoned.

“Come on,” she said softly, though her voice still held iron. “If someone else finds you like this, you’ll be finished.”

He barely registered the journey — the corridors blurred, the steps uncertain, his weight more a burden with each dragging step. He caught fragments: her hair brushing his cheek, the steady cadence of her footsteps, the faint tremor of her breath.

Then, her room. The door shutting them inside. The unfamiliar scent of her perfume and old books wrapping around him. She lowered him onto her bed, propped him against pillows, and tugged at his tie until it came loose, his shirt collar falling open. He wanted to protest, to remind her that they were enemies, that he didn’t need her pity. But the words drowned in the haze swallowing him whole.

A damp cloth pressed against his forehead.