His smirk faded, replaced by something quieter. Softer.

  “Lar,” he said, voice low, “you don’t need to be jealous. You’re the only one who has my heart.”

  I didn’t want to talk about his heart.

  Wasn’t even sure he had one.

  “Why are you here, Toru?” I asked, cutting him off before he could say something else I wasn’t ready to hear. “You know you shouldn’t be in my room. What do you want? To destroy my reputation before I’ve even unpacked?”

  He frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  I took a step back from him. Too close. Too intense. Too Toru.

  “You have a reputation,” I said, keeping my voice even. “And it’s not just Orion saying that.”

  “Orion doesn’t know shit.”

  “Maybe not. But it doesn’t matter. You being in here—people would talk. They’d assume things, and I’d be the one paying for it.”

  Toru’s jaw clenched. He looked away, exhaling through his nose. “I gave your grandfather my word that I’d protect you.”

  His voice was quieter now. Rougher.

  “I can’t do that from out there—not the way I could in Shadowvale. So yeah, I’m going to come check on you. You don’t have to like it, but it’s happening.”

  “And what if I’m not alone next time you drop in?” I asked. “What then?”

  His eyes snapped to mine.

  Something shifted. Fast.

  The room felt smaller. Warmer. Sharper.

  Toru stepped forward, closing the space between us like it belonged to him. And maybe it did.

  “What if you’re not alone?” he repeated, voice low and dark. “Elara, do you honestly think anyone else could protect you the way I can?”

  I swallowed hard.

  There was something in his eyes now—possessive, sharp, hungry. And I hated that it sent a shiver down my spine.

  My thoughts tangled. “But we’re not…” I started, but the words got lost somewhere between my chest and my throat.

  Toru reached out, slow and deliberate, his fingers brushing my cheek. Just barely.

  It was gentle. Intimate. Territorial.

  And it made my breath hitch.

  We weren’t anything.

  So why did it feel like everything?

  “We’re not what, Elara?” Toru murmured, his voice brushing against me like silk over an open wound. “You can pretend all you want, but we’re bound by more than just words. I’m not going anywhere. And neither are you.”

  He leaned in, so close I could feel the heat of his breath against my ear, and I swear the room tilted.

  “So if you’re not alone when I show up…” His voice dropped lower. Rougher. “I’ll make sure they know exactly who you belong to.”

  The words hit like a spark to dry kindling.

  I couldn’t breathe.

  The possessiveness in his tone scorched through me, and I hated how part of me liked it. Wanted more of it. Wanted him. But I couldn’t—wouldn’t—let him see that.

  “I meant,” I said, forcing the words out before my brain completely short-circuited, “I meant other girls. What if I’m in here with friends? A study group? Girl talk? Y’know—normal things?”

  His lips curved like I’d told him a joke. “I’d sense them before I walked in,” he said, voice low and certain.

  Of course he would.

  I sighed, suddenly so tired it hurt. The day had been too much—too fast, too bright, too everything—and now Toru was standing in my room like a storm refusing to pass.

  “Look,” I whispered. “I’m just tired. Tomorrow’s a new day. I want to start it fresh. Can you please—just go?”

  As if summoned by my words, laughter echoed from the common room outside. The sound of students settling into their new lives. Chatter. Footsteps. The normal rhythm of the Institute.

  Toru didn’t move.

  “I’ll stay,” he said quietly. Firmly.

  I blinked. “You don’t have to,” I replied, though my voice didn’t sound as steady as I wanted it to.

  “I want to,” he said. “I promised your grandfather I’d look after you.”

  Something in his tone pulled at me, sharp and soft all at once. But I couldn’t let it in. Not now. Not tonight.

  “Please, Toru,” I said. “If you trust me—really trust me—then go. That’s how you can prove it.”

  He hesitated. I saw it in the set of his jaw, the flicker of resistance in his eyes.

  But then he looked away.

  And I knew I’d won.

  So why didn’t it feel like a victory?

  “I’ll see you at breakfast,” he said at last.

  I nodded, afraid my voice would betray me.

  And then, without another word, he turned… and he was gone.

  Fourteen

  I didn’t sleep.

  Not even a little.

  I just laid there, staring up at the ceiling, tracing the same crack in the plaster like it held answers. Listening.

  For Toru.

  For the sound of his footsteps next door.

  For the soft scent of my grandfather’s cologne—still lingering in the apartment like a ghost that refused to leave, even though he’d been gone for years.

  Everything about this place was shiny and strange and laced with wonder.

  The Celestial Institute.

  It was beautiful. Magical, even.

  But it wasn’t home.

  Not yet.

  Maybe not ever.

  A stupid part of me wished I had let Toru stay. Not because I wanted him there. I didn’t. He was frustrating and smug and invasive.

  But also…

  He felt like the last piece of something familiar.

  Something that used to be mine.

  And maybe that’s why the bed felt colder without him.

  By the time sunlight slipped through the curtains in pale, accusing slats, my body ached with exhaustion.

  Today was going to suck. I could already tell.

  I peeled myself out of bed and stripped off my pajamas like they were made of lead. The school uniform wasn’t much better—too crisp, too stiff, like it didn’t know me yet. I ran a brush through my hair, winced at the tangles, and gave up halfway. Ponytail it was. With luck, the weather would stay kind and not turn my hair into a frizz halo.

  Makeup would’ve helped.

  Maybe.

  If I knew what to do with it.

  I didn’t.

  And I couldn’t look in the mirror—not this morning.

  I didn’t want to see the tired girl staring back. The one who didn’t belong.

  The one who felt like a fraud.

  Did I really belong here?

  Were they sure? Was I?

  You need a friend, a voice in my head whispered.

  One who isn’t your annoying, secret, emotionally confusing husband.

  I let out a breath and grabbed my book bag from the desk. I still hadn’t received my schedule and was hoping someone would hand it out at breakfast. Assuming I could find where breakfast even was.

  My stomach growled, sharp and impatient.

  I pressed a hand to it like that might quiet the need.

  That was on me. I barely ate last night. Couldn’t stomach more than a few bites.

  Now I was starving.

  I crossed the room and placed a hand on the doorknob, my heart hammering faster than it should. I inhaled deeply, bracing myself.

  This was it.

  My first day.

  And ready or not…

  I stepped out.

  I had one shot to make a good first impression.

  No pressure or anything.

  I exhaled slowly, rolled my shoulders back, and opened the door.

  This was it. I was as ready as I was ever going to be.

  The common room exploded with life.

  Sunlight spilled through massive arched windows, casting gold across the marble floor like it belonged there—like everything here was meant to shine. Voices layered over each other in bright, animated bursts. Laughter. Debates. Introductions.

  I stepped inside, clutching the strap of my bag a little tighter.

  The room buzzed with the energy of a first day. Of ambition. Of hope.

  And I felt all of it.

  Too much of it.

  Students milled about in every direction—talking, laughing, dreaming aloud. Some of them already in tight-knit groups, others bouncing between conversations like they’d known each other for years. Their uniforms shimmered with embroidered constellations—each representing their star sign. They caught the light like real magic, like the stars themselves had whispered approval.

  A girl with wild red curls and a fiery voice spoke passionately about balance and justice. A few feet away, a cluster of Aquarius students argued about innovation like they were rewriting the future.

  Two Gemini twins laughed as they tied some poor guy’s shoelaces together behind his back.

  A group of Virgos flipped through textbooks at lightning speed.

  Everywhere I looked—connection. Confidence. Camaraderie.

  I didn’t see a single person standing alone.

  Except me.

  This dorm was only for Sagittarius contenders. Which meant everyone in this room should’ve been just like me.

  But they weren’t.

  They were students. Already part of this world.

  I was the outsider.

  The late arrival.

  Toru didn’t count.

  And he wasn’t here, anyway.

  I pressed my thumb to the side of my finger and squeezed. A habit. A grounding.

  Don’t do this.

  You chose this. You knew it would feel like this.

  Even still, I hated the way my throat tightened.

  I focused on the mural covering the far wall—an expanse of stars and constellations swirling together in intricate celestial patterns. It looked like the sky at its most alive. Like the kind of thing you could fall into if you stared too long.

  I let myself fall.

  Just for a second.

  Then I took a step forward.

  Then another.

  I was trying not to make eye contact. Not to draw attention.

  Just blend in.

  I could do this.

  I would do this.

  “Hey.”

  A pause.

  “Hello?”

  Another beat.

  “Elara?”

  I froze.

  Not because of the voice.

  But because they’d used my name.

  A hand waved in front of my face.

  I blinked, jolting out of my head like I’d been yanked through fog. I’d been staring at the tapestry again—some celestial stag frozen mid-leap across a starfield—and hadn’t noticed I’d stopped walking.

  “Oh. Hey,” I said, trying to act normal, like I hadn’t been standing in a corridor zoning out like a complete weirdo.

  Vespera Rivers tilted her head, smiling like the kind of girl who woke up with perfect skin and energy and a purpose. She looked effortlessly beautiful in that maddening way that didn’t feel rehearsed. Just natural. Like the stars had personally blessed her.

  And judging by the constellation embroidery shining across her collar, maybe they had.

  I hated how easy it probably was for her to fall asleep last night. How she didn’t look like a ghost who’d argued with her ceiling for eight hours and lost.

  If she wasn’t so genuinely kind, I might have hated her on principle.

  She held out a piece of paper. “I thought I’d catch you before breakfast and give you your schedule. You weren’t in the common room when they handed them out. Toru vanished too, so I said I’d track you down.”

  I took the paper. “Thanks. Yeah, I… left early.”

  She raised a single brow. Not judgmental—just perceptive. The kind of look that said, You’re not fooling me, but I’ll let it slide.

  I cleared my throat and glanced down at the schedule even though I didn’t really process it.

  “You hungry?” she asked.

  Didn’t wait for an answer. She turned and started walking.

  I followed.

  We moved down a long corridor—tall windows, impossibly high ceilings, and sunlight so bright it made the dust in the air sparkle. The tapestries followed us, each one more elaborate than the last. Phoenixes, sea serpents, winged wolves… all woven in threads that shimmered faintly when you looked too long. Like magic was stitched into every inch.

  It was stunning.

  And a little suffocating.

  I didn’t belong in this world of celestial legacies and embroidered heritage. I had frizzy hair tied in a too-tight ponytail, shadows under my eyes, and the distinct vibe of someone who’d slept about four minutes and regretted all of them.

  The dining hall buzzed as soon as we stepped inside.

  Laughter. Forks clinking. The rich scent of pastries and coffee wrapped around me like a weighted blanket. It should’ve been comforting, but instead I felt like I was floating just above the moment.

  Like I hadn’t landed yet.

  We got in line. I grabbed a croissant I didn’t really want and poured some orange juice, hoping it would wake me up or at least anchor me in my body.

  Vespera sipped her coffee like it was the elixir of life and leaned casually against the counter. “So. How was your first night?”

  I hesitated. Then, “It was okay.” Not a lie. But also not the truth. “It felt weird not being home.”

  “Yeah, I get that.” She wrapped both hands around her cup like it could absorb her homesickness. “Took me a few days, but now? It’s the opposite. Going home feels strange.”

  I nodded like I understood.

  But I didn’t.

  Home was everything. Home still smelled like my grandfather’s cologne, even though he hadn’t been there in years. It had the creaky window latch, the chipped tile in the bathroom, the lightbulb in the hallway that flickered like it was haunted.

  It was mine.

  This place?

  This place didn’t even have shadows in the corners.

  No wonder my grandfather stayed in Shadowhaven. He would’ve hated it here. All the glittering ceilings and hushed whispers and power wrapped in velvet. He wouldn’t have cared that they had magical murals or world-class instructors or a coffee bar with six celestial blends.

  He would’ve said it was all too much.

  I smiled to myself and traced the rim of my glass with a fingertip.

  “So,” Vespera said, leaning in. “What’s your schedule? I didn’t peek.”

  I unfolded the paper, trying to shake off the ache of nostalgia. “Astrology and Celestial Magic with Professor Lyra Nightshade.”

  I didn’t mean to make a noise.

  But I grunted.

  Loud enough to be heard.

  Vespera blinked. “That bad?”

  “I mean, I don’t know her personally, but…” I sighed.

  Vespera snorted into her coffee. “Oh yeah. That sounds like Nightshade.”

  I glanced around the room again, schedule in one hand, croissant in the other.

  Maybe today wouldn’t be the worst.

  Maybe.

  But Lyra Nightshade.

  The Libra Guardian.

  Of course it had to be her.

  I stared across the dining hall, the heels of my boots tapping against the polished floor like a warning bell only I could hear. She was laughing at something Toru said, fingers brushing his sleeve like she had every right to touch him.

  And he let her.

  He leaned in, smirking like he always did when he knew he had someone’s attention—effortless, magnetic, stupidly charming.

  My stomach twisted. Not in jealousy. I wouldn’t call it that. That would imply I had a right to be jealous.

  And I didn’t.

  Because no one knew.

  Because it wasn’t real.

  Because we weren’t real.

  Our marriage—if you could even call it that—wasn’t love. It was strategy. A promise forged in the ashes of obligation, sealed by my grandfather’s dying wish and whatever broken sense of honor Toru still clung to.

  It was for protection.

  Just protection.

  So what if he flirted with her? So what if she was older, more powerful, absolutely gorgeous, and radiated the kind of confidence that made you forget your own name?

  It didn’t matter.

  I scowled, chewing the inside of my cheek until it ached.

  Stupid magical politics.

  Stupid secret marriage.

  Stupid Toru.

  I didn’t even want to be married. Especially not to someone who treated it like a mission, not a choice. And especially not when it made me feel like the world’s most invisible bride.

  He could flirt with whoever he wanted. I didn’t care.

  Really.

  And someday, when I met someone worth caring about—someone who saw me, not just my bloodline—I’d flirt back.

  I would.

  If I ever figured out how to flirt.

  “Uh… Elara?”

  Vespera’s voice snapped me back to reality.

  I blinked. “Sorry. Zoned out.” I tried for a casual shrug, like I hadn’t just been emotionally spiraling over my not-a-real-husband and his taste in Guardian flirtations.

  “You had this look on your face,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Not a fan of Professor Nightshade?”

  I hesitated. “I… don’t really know her yet.”

  Vespera grinned, clearly unconvinced. “Mm. Sure. Well, just wait ‘til you see her in action. She’s powerful, she’s sharp, and every guy here acts like she invented gravity.” She rolled her eyes and sipped her coffee. “Boys are dumb.”

  That got a genuine smile out of me. “Yeah. A little.”

  We finished eating in comfortable silence—Vespera humming something under her breath; me pretending not to glance at Toru every time he laughed a little too loud.

  As we walked back toward the common room, I let myself breathe. The halls were quieter here. The chaos of the morning rush fading behind us, replaced with the hush of ancient stone and stained glass shadows.

  Still, something itched beneath my skin.

  I was here to train. To become the Guardian of the Sagittarius Stone. I wanted this.

  Didn’t I?

  And yet… I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was an echo in a world that hadn’t been built with me in mind. These students—these legacies—they wore magic like second skin. Like they’d grown up breathing stardust and reciting incantations over breakfast.