CH- 47
CH- 47
Sera’s POV
I’ve been at Blackthorn long enough to see empires rise and fall inside these walls. Students come, bonds flare and burn, blood is spilled, vows forgotten. The academy endures.
And yet nothing unsettles me quite like him.
Professor Kael Thorne.
He’s been here less than a month, and already the entire rhythm of this place bends around him. The headmistress pretends she’s still in control, but when Kael speaks, people listen.
Even the students—their eyes track him as if the air itself is tethered to his voice.
And mine…
Damn it. Mine too.
I tell myself it’s only because I remember him.
Because years ago, in another life, we were thrown together in a ruin of a battlefield, our wrists raw from ritual chains, our magic fused for a single fight.
Because once—just once—we almost lost ourselves in the wrong kind of closeness.
I remind myself of that every time he looks at me with those storm-grey eyes—eyes that see too much, that cut through the walls I’ve spent years building.
Eyes that make me feel exposed, vulnerable, like he knows exactly how close I am to unraveling.
But tonight, in the dimly lit confines of the faculty quarters, the reminder falters.
The door slams shut behind him with a finality that echoes through the small room, reverberating in my chest. He doesn’t pause, doesn’t hesitate.
Long strides eat up the distance between us, his broad shoulders catching the flickering torchlight as if he’s been carved from shadow and flame.
There’s no softness in him tonight—no trace of the man who once whispered promises I couldn’t afford to believe. Only steel remains.
He doesn’t ask permission. He never does.
“You knew she wasn’t ready,” he says, voice low and edged with accusation, each word landing like a blow. “You sent her into this knowing full well she’d break.”
My fingers tighten around the quill in my hand until it digs into my palm, a futile attempt to ground myself against the rising tide of anger—and something else I refuse to name.
“And you think she ever will be?” I counter sharply, my voice slicing through the tension like glass breaking. “Aria is marked. Claimed. Every day she survives is a miracle—”
“She’s not meant to survive,” he snaps, cutting me off before I can finish. His words are fire, searing and relentless, biting into me with an intensity that undoes the careful composure I’ve honed for decades. “She’s meant to conquer.”
I rise to face him, unwilling to let him tower over me any longer. My chair scrapes against the stone floor, the sound jarring in the charged silence.
“And what would you know about conquering, Kael?” The bitterness in my tone surprises even me, sharp and unfiltered. “You, who abandoned your post. You, who—”
“Who what?” he demands, stepping closer, so close now that the heat of him presses against me, unsettling and undeniable. His storm-grey eyes burn into mine, daring me to say it.
To finish the sentence. “Who saved you?” His voice drops lower, rougher, heavy with memories neither of us has ever fully escaped.
“Don’t forget who dragged you out of that pit, Sera. Don’t forget whose hands you clung to when the walls caved in.”
I flush, furious—not just with him, but with myself for letting him get under my skin like this. For making me remember things I’ve worked so hard to bury.
“That was survival,” I spit out, my voice trembling despite my best efforts to steady it. “Not salvation.”
But my body remembers differently. Betraying me. My pulse hammers erratically, blood rushing loud enough to drown out reason. My lips part instinctively, drawing his gaze downward for half a second—just long enough for me to notice the flicker of hunger in his eyes. Like he wants to devour the memory along with everything else between us.
The space between us hums with something dangerous, electric, alive. It crackles in the air, thick enough to choke on, pulling at both of us like gravity we can’t escape.
He steps closer still, until his chest nearly brushes mine, the faint scent of steel and smoke clinging to him like a second skin. Beneath it lies something darker—the faintest trace of blood on his breath, metallic and sharp. “She’s walking blind into a war,” he murmurs, his voice low and urgent, brushing against me like a touch. “And if you don’t stop hesitating, she’ll die. Just like—”
“Don’t.” My hand flies up before I can think better of it, gripping the front of his shirt tightly, fingers twisting into fabric as though I could tear the words right out of him. “Don’t you dare say his name.”
His hand closes around my wrist—not to pry it away, but to hold it there. His grip is rough, grounding, too intimate. Too familiar. My breath stutters, caught somewhere between protest and surrender, and for a moment, I hate myself for how much I want him to keep holding on.
For a heartbeat, we’re suspended. Frozen. His lips hover impossibly close to mine, near enough that I can feel the warmth of each exhale, taste the weight of everything unsaid hanging heavy between us.
My body sways toward him before my mind catches up, traitorous and reckless.
Then his free hand rises—slow, deliberate—fingers brushing lightly along my jaw, sending a shiver racing down my spine.
My lips part involuntarily at the contact, and when his thumb grazes the corner of my mouth, the world narrows to that single touch. Nothing else exists—not the Trials, not Aria, not the ghosts of our pasts clawing at the edges of the present.
His head dips slightly, so close now that his lips nearly graze mine, ghosting a breath of heat that makes my stomach twist violently.
For a split second, I almost close the distance. Almost let the years of restraint snap like brittle twine.
But then sanity—or maybe fear—slams back into me, and I force myself backward, shaking free of his grip, heart pounding wildly in my chest.
“We can’t,” I whisper, the words barely audible over the roar of my pulse in my ears.
His gaze hardens, storm-grey eyes darkening with something unreadable—but his voice lowers to a promise, soft and lethal. “We won’t stop next time.”