By the time we finally peeled ourselves away from the warm tangle of blankets and shared heat, the sun was already high enough to spill golden light across the room. It streaked across the floorboards in long rectangles and lit the dust motes in the air like tiny floating constellations.
"Morning training is officially a lost cause," Seris said, sitting up and stretching her arms above her head with a slow, satisfied groan. "What a tragedy."
Lira blinked drowsily as she eased herself upright, one hand still resting lightly on my arm as if her body hadn't yet remembered she was allowed to let go. "We can still make it to breakfast," she said, voice soft but more awake now. "If we hurry."
Seris flopped back down on the mattress dramatically. "And there she is, the responsible one. I was worried you'd been replaced by a reasonable person."
Lira gave her a flat look, but the small smile tugging at the edge of her lips ruined any attempt at sternness. "You say that as if you don't get grumpy when you miss the good bread."
"That's different," Seris protested. "That's survival."
I laughed, rubbing my eyes. "I'll move. Just… give me a minute. I think my bones forgot they exist."
Lira's gaze softened. "You slept deeper than usual."
"Yeah," I said, exhaling slowly. "I did."
It felt different, waking up like this. Not alone, not braced for a nightmare, not halfway ready to defend myself from something I couldn't see. Just… here. Between them. Anchored by their presence in a way that lingered even now that we were slowly untangling ourselves.
Lira stood first, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle from her robe. Then she glanced down at me and—that same flicker of hesitation again.
"Do you… want us to wait outside while you change?" she asked gently.
"I mean, unless you want an audience," Seris said with a smirk.
Lira elbowed her sharply. "Seris."
"I'm joking," she muttered, holding up her hands. "…Mostly."
I shook my head, amused and embarrassed at the same time. "You two can step outside. I'll be quick."
Lira nodded and moved toward the door, but Seris lingered a moment longer, eyes flicking from my face to the faint glow of the mark at my collarbone.
"You sure you're okay?" she asked quietly, the teasing dropped for once.
"I'm better than I was yesterday," I said honestly. "That's because of you two."
The bond hummed with a quiet pulse at that—Lira's warmth brushing softly against my consciousness, Seris's steady heat pressing just behind it.
Seris's expression softened, something unguarded and almost vulnerable passing through it. "Good," she said. "We'll… be right outside."
The door clicked shut behind them, and for a moment, the room felt oddly empty without their breathing keeping time with mine. It was strange how quickly I'd gotten used to their presence at my side—how the silence now felt like something missing, instead of something peaceful.
I dressed quickly, splashing water on my face from the small basin, trying to chase away the last traces of sleep. The mirror above it reflected someone who looked tired but less haunted than before. My eyes were clearer. My shoulders, less tense.
The mark on my skin still glowed faintly, but not in warning.
More like a reminder.
When I stepped back into the hallway, Lira and Seris were waiting just where I knew they'd be—leaning against the wall, facing each other.
Seris was saying something low, hands moving animatedly, and Lira was listening in that quiet, focused way she had, lips pressed together in a half-smile. When they noticed me, both straightened.
Seris gave a small whistle. "Look at you. Awake, vertical, and not about to collapse. Impressive."
"You look better," Lira added, a faint flush touching her cheeks. "More… rested."
"I feel more rested," I said. "Thanks to both of you."
Seris slung an arm comfortably around my shoulders as we started walking. "Breakfast, then emotional crisis, then training? Or breakfast, training, emotional crisis?"
"Breakfast," Lira said firmly. "Without crisis. Please."
I nodded. "Breakfast first."
The halls of the academy were busy but not chaotic, students moving in small clusters, voices overlapping in bursts of chatter and laughter. A few heads turned as we passed—some curious, some wary. The triad had become a quiet rumor now, drifting through the student body.
I could feel their eyes on us. On me.
But instead of shrinking under it, I straightened slightly.
Lira walked close on my right, hands folded but not tense. Seris walked on my left, posture casually confident, eyes daring anyone to stare too long. With them beside me, the weight of attention felt… easier.
Not gone. But shared.
When we entered the dining hall, the warm smell of bread, spices, and something sweet wrapped around us like a blanket. The noise rose—clinking utensils, overlapping conversations, the occasional burst of laughter.
We paused by the entrance, scanning for an open table.
"There," Lira said, nodding toward a small empty corner table near one of the windows. "It's quieter."
"Good," Seris said. "Less chance of eavesdropping."
As we moved toward it, a few students whispered, but no one approached. Some gave us curious glances, others gave way quickly, as if wary of brushing too close.
We took our seats—Lira on one side, Seris on the other, leaving me in the middle once again.
It felt natural now.
A few moments later, the food arrived—simple but comforting. Bowls of porridge, fresh rolls, sliced fruit, and something that smelled faintly of cinnamon. Seris immediately reached for the bread, tearing into it with a familiar fervor.
"See?" Lira murmured. "You'd have been insufferable if we missed this."
Seris pointed half a roll at her. "I can still be insufferable and fed. It's called balance."
I shook my head, smiling despite myself.
Lira's plate was neatly arranged—fruit on one side, bread on the other, porridge in between. Seris's plate, by contrast, was already a minor storm of crumbs. I noticed Lira glancing down at my bowl, then quietly shifting it a little closer to me, as if making sure I didn't forget to eat.
"You don't have to fuss over me," I said.
She met my gaze, unflinching. "I know. I want to."
The bond buzzed softly at that, like a quiet spark.
Seris caught it. She paused mid-bite, eyes flicking between us.
"Just so we're clear," she said, swallowing her bread, "I'm officially claiming responsibility for making sure you eat enough, sleep enough, and don't run headfirst into spiritual fractures alone."
Lira raised an eyebrow. "That's a lot to claim."
"Good thing I'm ambitious," Seris said.
I laughed. "You don't have to do all of that alone either."
Seris gestured between herself and Lira with her spoon. "We're a team. She does the calm nurturing thing, I do the aggressive protecting thing, and you…" She tilted her head at me. "You try not to die. That's your job."
Lira tried to hide her smile behind her cup. "It's a good division of labor."
Porridge had never tasted so good.
It wasn't the food. It was the way everything felt… softer.
Safer.
Lira watched me as I ate, not hovering, but quietly pleased. Seris nudged half a honeyed roll onto my plate when she thought I wasn't looking.
"You need energy," she muttered. "Entity-watching probably burns calories."
"Pretty sure that's not how that works," I said.
"Shh," she replied. "Let me justify caring."
Lira nearly choked on a laugh.
The entire morning might have passed like that—easy, warm, almost normal—if not for the moment when the hall's lanterns flickered for half a breath.
It was so quick most people didn't even register it.
But we did.
The bond tightened instantly. Lira's hand froze halfway to her cup. Seris's muscles tensed, jaw clenched.
The wards hummed overhead, then settled.
The pressure I'd felt the night before didn't return, but the memory of it lingered like a ghost against my skin.
Lira exhaled slowly. "It's not pushing. Not right now."
Seris's gaze flicked toward the nearest wall rune. "But it's close enough to watch."
"Let it watch," I said quietly, more to myself than anything. "It can't be the only one learning."
They both looked at me.
I met their eyes, one after the other.
"I don't want to spend every moment being afraid of it," I said softly. "I can't stop feeling it. But I can choose what to do with that."
Seris leaned back slightly, watching me with something like respect. "That's a good answer," she said.
Lira nodded, eyes thoughtful. "Then we'll help you make sure that choice doesn't break you."
I looked down at my hands, at the faint mark glowing under my sleeve. At the way their presence muted the throbbing ache I used to feel when I thought too much about the fracture.
"With you," I said quietly, "I don't think it can."
For a while after that, we just ate.
No heavy words.
No deep revelations.
Just shared space and soft glances and the occasional brush of hands reaching for the same plate.
At one point, Lira reached for the fruit at the same time I did; our fingers brushed. She pulled back immediately, cheeks flushing.
"Sorry," she whispered.
I shook my head. "You don't have to apologize for that."
Seris, watching, raised an eyebrow and nudged the bowl closer to both of us. "You're allowed to touch him, you know. It's not a crime."
Lira flustered. "That's not— I just—"
I covered her hand gently with mine.
"It's okay," I said softly.
She stilled.
Her fingers relaxed under my touch, her gaze flickering up to meet mine. For a second, the noise of the hall faded, and it was just us at that small table, in that small moment, with the bond humming warm between us.
Then Seris reached over and plucked a piece of fruit from the bowl. "If you two stare at each other any longer, the Council is going to add it to the triad documentation."
Lira withdrew her hand, flustered but smiling. "Seris…"
I laughed, shaking my head. "You're impossible."
She grinned. "You say that like it's new information."
The rest of breakfast passed with that same easy rhythm—moments of softness, interrupted by light teasing, stitched together by the quiet certainty that whatever happened next, this was ours.
A table for three.
A small island of something gentle in the middle of a storm we hadn't yet fully seen.
And as we stood to leave, I realized that this—sitting between them, laughing with them, sharing something as simple as a meal—felt more powerful than any seal or ward.
Because this wasn't made of magic.
It was made of choice.