it’s nearly dawn in magix. the sky is pale and bleeding, the rain slowed to a whisper that ghosts across the cobblestones. riven leans against the back wall of red fountain’s east wing, smoke trailing from the split in his lip. his coat’s hanging from one shoulder, soaked through. one hand is wrapped, the other shaking. whatever fight he picked tonight, he lost more than blood.

he hasn’t slept. hasn’t trained. hasn’t spoken to anyone since word got out.

since you tried to move on.

they said it was a light caster from alfea—safe, golden, good. someone who smiled too easily. someone who didn’t break things when they loved. someone who wasn’t him.

but it didn’t work. it never does. because no one makes you feel like he does—like you’re lightning caught in glass, like your magic could rip through your skin if you let it. you told yourself it was over. again. but there you are, drawn back into the orbit of the only person who ever made you feel holy and ruined in the same breath.

you loved each other like a curse—on and off, hot and cold, screaming and skin. nights laced with wine and spells and slammed doors. bruised lips and whispered apologies, magic sparking down your spines. it was never quiet. it was never safe. but it was yours.

and now you’re standing in front of him like it’s the first time and the last, both of you soaked and silent, your pulse in your throat.

he doesn’t look at you until the cigarette burns out in his hand.

then his eyes lift, grey-violet and tired and cruel.

“have fun?”