Children of the Light- Chapter 9, Page 14
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Story and Art by @saltnpepperbunny
With Christmas around the corner and progress steadily approaching the final two chapters of Crown of Exile, I've decided to make the current Patreon demo available to the public for a limited time.
Time start: 21 Dec 2024, 8AM GMT +2
Time end: 22 Dec 2024, 10AM GMT +2
Link to game.
How it works:
During this time, the demo up until Chapter Ten will be made available on the public game page on itch.io. It will be available only to be played in the browser – no downloads will be available, sorry!
You will be unable to use saves from the current public demo so you'll need to restart the game from the beginning. The demo will remain until the end time on 22 December 2024, afterwards, it will be removed and the old demo up to Chapter Eight will return to the game page.
Why are you doing this?
It's been a hot minute since the last public update and a lot has been written since then. Everyone who has followed me on Tumblr and itch.io have been incredibly supportive and without you, a lot of the early chapters wouldn't have made it online. This is a thank-you gift for Christmas and a way for me to gather feedback from the broader public outside my Patreon.
Please keep in mind that I've been working on new chapters, not edits, so nothing new has been added to the earlier chapters. This demo access will allow you to play Chapters Nine and Ten.
None of this would be possible without my incredibly generous Patrons who voted overwhelmingly in favour of allowing public access to the demo for a limited time.
Speaking of, though, we can all agree that Eret is a slave, right? He has Drago crest on him, his life is easily forfeit, Drago is not someone he can just escape from.
But they never say out loud what that brand marks him as, do they? Eret shows the mark and Hiccup and Astrid are disturbed to see it, but it's never named, never talked about. All we see is just how much it's existence continues to be a burden Eret all throughout the second movie. And yet, this franchise that's supposed to be for all ages never says outright what that mark makes Eret.
But the children's book says outright; it's a slavemark. It marks you as a slave, an outcast from society whether you deserved to be marked or not. Easily given, impossible to take away. And it's given prominently on the main character's, a CHILD'S, head. And that after it was made very clear that this mark was given to other people, to other children.
The Httyd books aren't just the more adult version because it's darker, but because it dares to take themes like this and just call it what it is. They don't imply, they state. And I do believe that's what the books have that's way better than the movies.
Hell, the movies can't even stay consistent on Httyd 1's plotline that PEOPLE WERE DYING. Like, the Vikings of Berk get a lot of blame thrown their way even from themselves when from their perspective it does genuinely look like these dragons were just coming to their island (and other islands) to steal their lives and their food. And somewhere along the way, that got ignored. The dragons and the humans were both Victims of the Red Death.
Larissa Weems x musicteacher!Reader
"The Knock Beneath"
words: 5,145
AO3 link
Later that night, you wake with a start, heart pounding so violently it feels less like a heartbeat and more like something knocking from the inside of your ribs.
The remnants of a dream—no, a vision—cling to your senses. The greenhouse again. That menacing light pulsing in the darkness, breaking through the ruined panes. Only this time, there is something inside it.
A figure? A presence? It’s leaning forward as if separated by an unseen barrier, pressing close enough that you feel the shape of its wanting without ever seeing its face.
The feeling of searching, reaching, returns tenfold. The urgency sinks its hooks in the space beneath your sternum and pulls. You sit up too fast, breath shallow, one hand fisted in the blanket as if bracing for an impact that never comes.
Just then, an arm slips around your waist—warm, insistent, instinctive. Larissa lies beside you in fractured moonlight, still half-asleep, her face softened by the kind of peace she so rarely lets herself keep. Her hold tightens with quiet certainty, drawing you back before panic can take root.
Even unconscious, her first instinct is to bring you closer. To ground you. To promise safety without saying a word. A wave of affection ripples through you, strong enough to momentarily drown out the echo still buzzing under your ribs.
You let yourself melt into her, forehead resting against the slope of her shoulder. The scent of her—clean linen and jasmine—wraps around you. Slowly, reluctantly, your body remembers how to be held.
Your eyelids grow heavy once more. The vision fades. You let the warmth stay. Larissa’s warmth stays.
And eventually, you fall asleep again.
—
The next morning, your head throbs dully, and behind every sound there is a faint shimmer of something else, as if the world was poorly tuned. The radiator clicks in the corner, and the noise scatters into your skull like tiny bells. Outside, students cross the grounds in uneven clusters, their voices rising and falling in overlapping waves.
Too loud. Too sharp. You wince before you could stop yourself.
Larissa’s arm tightens immediately. Larissa is awake before you. You know this because you can feel her watching you, her presence a quiet weight in the room.
“Darling?” Her voice is thick with sleep, lower than usual, the kind of sound that should have been illegal before breakfast. “What is it?”
You smile despite the discomfort. “Nothing. Just… everything is a bit much.”
She shifts at once, propping herself carefully on one elbow. The movement brings her face close to yours, her expression soft and serious in that devastating way she has when she is trying very hard not to panic. Her eyes search you, taking in the tension around your mouth, the hand still pressed against your chest, the way you are trying not to breathe too deeply.
“The sensory spillover?”
You nod. “Either that or the radiator has developed a personal vendetta against me.”
Her gaze flicks toward the offender in question. “I’ll have maintenance look at it.”
“Larissa.”
“What?”
“You cannot send a maintenance request because your almost-girlfriend was personally insulted by a radiator.” The word slips out before you could catch it.
Almost-girlfriend. Your mouth snaps shut.
Larissa goes very still.
The morning seems to hold its breath with you. For a horrible second, you wonder if you have stumbled too far too quickly, if the tenderness of last night was made safer by exhaustion and fear and the aftermath of a near-death botanical incident. Maybe daylight makes everything harsher. More complicated. More real.
Then Larissa’s lips curve.
“Almost?” she repeats, arching one brow with exquisite precision.
You stare at her. “I’m sorry, is that the word you’re taking issue with?”
“It does feel rather noncommittal.”
A laugh bursts out of you, immediately followed by a groan as your head pulses in protest. “Ow. Don’t make me laugh. I’m medically fragile.”
“Convenient.”
“I nearly got psychically fondled by a cursed greenhouse yesterday. I deserve some consideration.”
Larissa’s amusement dims slightly at that, concern moving back into place. Her fingers lift to brush a strand of hair away from your face. The touch is so gentle that it nearly undoes you.
For a moment, neither of you speaks. Her arm remains around your middle, warm and certain, and the quiet between you feels different than it used to. Not empty. Not awkward. Full, somehow. Waiting.
Then a knock sounds at your door. You both freeze.
A second knock follows, brighter and more enthusiastic.
“Professor?” Enid’s voice chirps from the hallway. “Are you awake? Principal Weems said there’s a faculty meeting this morning, and also Yoko said the greenhouse looks like it lost a fight with a rabid octopus, and I wanted to make sure you weren’t dead!”
You close your eyes. Larissa closes hers too, though for a different reason entirely.
“Why,” you whisper, “is she like this?”
“I ask myself that daily.”
“Professor?” Enid calls again, louder. “I brought tea! Well, I borrowed tea. From the faculty lounge. Actually, I think it was Professor Briarwood’s, but he never labels anything, so legally—”
“I’m alive!” you call, voice cracking slightly.
“Oh, good!”
There is a pause. Then, with horrendous timing, Enid adds, “Is Principal Weems in there too?”
Larissa’s eyes open. You stare at each other. The silence is damning.
From the other side of the door comes a very small gasp.
“Oh my god,” Enid whispers, clearly not quietly enough. “Okay. Cool. Normal. Faculty business. Very professional. I’m leaving the tea outside the door and walking away like a mature adult.”
A second later, you hear frantic footsteps retreating down the hall, followed by a distant, muffled squeal.
You cover your face with both hands. “I’m resigning.”
Larissa’s mouth twitches. “Your resignation is denied.”
“You can’t deny my resignation.”
“As your employer, I absolutely can.”
“As your almost-girlfriend, I think that’s abuse of power.”
Her expression softens, amusement giving way to something warmer. “Almost again?”
You lower your hands slowly.
Larissa looks entirely too pleased with herself for someone whose hair is adorably mussed and whose reputation has just been compromised by a teenage werewolf with no volume control.
Your heart does something embarrassingly acrobatic.
“Fine,” you say, quieter. “Girlfriend, then. If that is… if you want—”
“Yes.”
The answer comes before you finish the sentence. Your breath catches.
Larissa seems briefly surprised by her own swiftness. Color touches her cheeks, delicate and lovely. Still, she does not look away. “Yes,” she repeats, more softly. “I would like that very much.”
For a moment, the hum in your chest disappears entirely.
You lean forward and kiss her.
It is meant to be quick. A gentle punctuation mark. A thank you. A good morning. But Larissa’s hand comes to the back of your neck, and her mouth softens under yours with a small exhale that ruins every responsible thought you have ever had. You melt against her, fingers curling into the sleeve of her sweater, letting the kiss stretch until your lungs remind you they have practical needs.
When you pull back, her eyes are still closed. You have the terribly self-satisfied thought that you could get used to seeing Larissa Weems undone in little ways.
Then the radiator clicks again, and you flinch.
Larissa’s eyes open immediately.
The softness does not vanish, exactly, but it changes shape. Her gaze sharpens, tracking the discomfort you had almost managed to forget.
“Does it still feel as though something is there?” she asks.
You consider lying. You want to. Not because you think she cannot handle the truth, but because you hate the way fear sharpens her features. You hate being the cause of it.
Still, after everything, hiding feels like a poor way to begin.
“A little,” you admit. “Not as strong as last night. It’s more like… residue. A bad note still ringing after everyone has stopped playing.”
Larissa’s jaw tightens. “We’ll speak with Douglas again before the faculty meeting.”
“We?”
“Yes,” she says, as if the word is obvious. “We.”
You try not to savor it too visibly. She must notice anyway, because her thumb moves once across your cheek, a small and tender betrayal of her composure. “You are not handling this alone.”
“I wasn’t planning to,” you say softly.
Her eyes hold yours, and something unspoken passes between you. Not quite a promise. Not quite a confession. Something steadier than both.
Only then does the memory of the night return in full.
You stiffen.
Larissa notices instantly. “What is it?”
“I—I had a dream,” you say. “Or maybe a vision. I’m not sure.”
Her eyes snap fully to yours. “A vision?” Her tone is controlled but thin, stretched with worry. “Of what?”
You swallow and sit up beside her, the sheets pooling at your waist. “The greenhouse. But… there was something inside the light this time. Like a shape. It felt like it was… calling out. Searching again. Stronger, I guess.”
Larissa inhales sharply, and the sound seems to echo in the stillness of your small room.
“I see,” she murmurs, though her body has gone unmistakably rigid.
You gently touch her hand. “Larissa… I’m okay. I just wanted you to know.”
Her gaze softens only slightly before she exhales a long, controlled breath. “Thank you. And I will endeavor to remain calm—truly—but I am not fond of the idea of anything attempting to imprint upon you, especially not in sleep.”
The phrasing sends a shiver through you. Protective. Territorial. Afraid.
She clears her throat and pushes a hand through her hair. “Regardless, this confirms what I feared. We cannot treat this as an isolated incident.”
The vulnerability she allowed last night retreats behind a carefully rebuilt wall of professionalism. But you know her better now—you feel the subtle tremor beneath the mortar.
“Tea,” she decides, glancing toward the door. “Then infirmary. Then meeting.”
You sigh. “And here I was hoping for more kissing.”
Her gaze flicks to your mouth. “Behave, and I’ll consider it.”
You groan and let yourself fall back onto the pillow.
Larissa rises with far more grace than anyone should possess after sleeping in someone else’s bed, smoothing her hair into place with a few practiced motions. It doesn’t fully obey. A few loose waves remain stubbornly at her temples, softening her in a way that makes you want to pull her back down and keep her there.
Instead, you watch as she collects the tea from outside your door with her usual authority, as if there is nothing at all unusual about the headmistress of Nevermore Academy retrieving contraband tea from the corridor after spending the night in the music professor’s quarters.
When she returns, she hands you the mug first.
You look down at it. A sticky note is plastered crookedly to the side in pink ink.
SORRY IF I INTERRUPTED SOMETHING!!!!
Also not sorry because this is very exciting.
Drink tea. Don’t die.
— Enid
Larissa reads it over your shoulder. “Good Lord,” she murmurs.
You laugh until your head hurts again.
Within the hour, Larissa ushers you to Nurse Douglas and the emergency meeting with trusted faculty members.
—
Nurse Douglas does not look surprised to see you.
This is annoying.
He is in the infirmary sorting small glass bottles into a cabinet when you and Larissa arrive. The second the door opens, he glances at you, then at Larissa, then down at the careful way her hand hovers near the small of your back without quite touching.
His eyebrows lift. “Eventful night?”
“Professional follow-up,” Larissa replies.
You choke on air.
Douglas looks at you. “Uh-huh.”
Larissa’s hand finally lands on your back, perhaps in warning, perhaps in support. You cannot tell which. Both feel equally thrilling.
“I’m experiencing heightened sensitivity,” you say quickly, desperate to regain control of the conversation before the nurse can make another observation. “Sounds are sharper. The imprint is still there, but faint.”
Douglas’s expression sobers at once. “Any visions?”
“No.” The answer comes too fast.
Larissa notices. Of course she notices. Douglas notices too. You hate observant people.
“Not exactly visions,” you amend. “More like… impressions.”
Larissa steps closer. “What impressions?”
You look at the tiled floor. There is a small crack near the leg of the examination table, thin as a hair. You focus on it for a second too long.
“When I woke up, before everything else got too loud, I thought I heard something underneath it all. Not words. A rhythm. Almost like something knocking from very far away.”
Douglas exchanges a look with Larissa.
You lift your head. “I hate when people exchange looks about me.”
“It may simply be residual resonance,” Douglas says, reaching for the same pearly crystal he used the night before. “Your abilities interact with vibration and matter. If that energy tried to imprint on you, it makes sense that your system would interpret it through sound.”
“And the knocking?”
He holds the crystal near your sternum. For several seconds, nothing happens.
Then it flickers. Not violently this time. Not the angry hornet buzz from before. Instead, the runes pulse faintly in uneven intervals.
Three quick flashes.
A pause.
Two slower ones.
A longer pause.
Three again.
Larissa’s face goes very still.
Douglas frowns. “That’s new.”
You stare at the crystal. “Is it… communicating?”
“I wouldn’t jump to that conclusion.”
“That is exactly the kind of thing someone says when they think it might be communicating.”
Larissa’s voice cuts in, low and controlled. “Could the pattern be involuntary? A magical aftershock?”
“Possibly,” Douglas says, though he does not sound convinced. “But it’s too regular for ordinary residue.”
The air around you seems to thin.
Three. Two. Three.
You feel the rhythm now, not as sound but as pressure. Like fingers tapping against the inside of a locked door. Your stomach turns.
“It feels like it’s trying to find the right frequency,” you whisper.
Larissa’s hand closes around yours.
Douglas lowers the crystal immediately. The pulsing stops.
“Then we don’t encourage it,” he says. “No power use. No resonance work. No attempts to listen closer. If something is knocking, Professor, you do not open the door.”
You want to make a joke. Something about hospitality. Something about how Nevermore has very strict guest policies. But Larissa’s fingers are tight around yours, and for once the humor lodges in your throat.
He sighs. “You document everything. Sounds, dreams, patterns, physical symptoms. We compare it to whatever remnants we can safely collect from the greenhouse. And we ask someone with more knowledge of botanical spellwork than I have.”
“Professor Briarwood,” Larissa says.
Douglas makes a face.
You blink. “Isn’t he the botany professor?”
“He is,” Larissa replies in a tone that suggests this is not necessarily a reassurance.
Douglas hands you a small notebook from a drawer. “Write everything down. Even if it seems insignificant.”
You turn it over in your hands. The cover is plain black, the pages cream-colored and thick. It looks absurdly serious. Like a diary for haunted academics.
Larissa takes it from you, opens to the first page, and writes something in her elegant script before handing it back.
You look down.
No strange magical knocking without supervision.
Underneath, she has signed her initials.
You press your lips together to avoid smiling too broadly. “Are you prescribing me rules now?”
“Yes.”
“Is that allowed?”
“I’m the headmistress.”
“You keep saying that like it ends every argument.”
“It often does.”
You want to argue. Truly. On principle.
Instead, you tuck the notebook carefully into your cardigan pocket and let her lead you toward the faculty meeting.
—
By the time you arrive in the conference room by Larissa’s office, the mood has shifted. The warm intimacy of your bedroom is gone, replaced by Nevermore’s familiar atmosphere of measured tension.
The room has the uneasy energy of a dinner party where everyone knows the host has hidden a body but no one wants to mention the smell.
The room is filled with a select few whose discretion she trusts implicitly. Professors sit around the long oak table in various states of concern, exhaustion, and poorly concealed curiosity.
Professor Briarwood has actual leaves stuck in his beard, which suggests he has already been poking around the greenhouse despite Larissa’s instructions. Ms. Alvarez from Divination is wrapped in a shawl patterned with constellations, her eyes half-lidded in that unnerving way that makes it impossible to tell whether she is sleepy or communing with forces beyond comprehension. Professor Parris from History keeps tapping his pen against the table until you consider using your powers to somehow explode it.
You don’t.
Larissa stands tall at the head of the table, now in a cream blouse and knee length skirt. Her posture is impeccable despite the exhaustion still clinging to her frame.
When you enter, her gaze flicks to you briefly—checking, affirming, softening for the barest heartbeat before returning to its steely focus. It warms you more than it should.
“Thank you all for coming on such short notice,” she begins, voice steady. Every conversation dies instantly.
It is one of Larissa’s more unfair talents, commanding a room without raising her voice. The faculty straighten as if pulled by invisible strings. Even Briarwood stops picking twigs from his sleeve.
“As many of you witnessed last night, we contained an emergent magical phenomenon in the eastern greenhouse grounds. The situation, however, is not resolved. Until further notice, no student is permitted within fifty yards of the greenhouse. Faculty access is restricted to those I explicitly authorize.”
Briarwood raises a hand.
“No,” Larissa says. At that, he lowers it.
You bite the inside of your cheek.
Larissa continues. “We need to determine whether the event was an isolated magical eruption, a delayed consequence of Joseph Crackstone’s resurrection, or something deliberately introduced onto school grounds.”
At that, murmurs threaten to ripple among the table.
You feel it before you see it—the subtle change in posture, the tightening of shoulders, the faint spike of fear moving through the space. Nevermore is accustomed to danger in the same way old houses are accustomed to drafts. Still, Thornhill’s betrayal leaves marks. You can hear them now in the silence between breaths.
Ms. Alvarez’s eyes open fully. “It was deliberate.”
Everyone turns toward her.
Larissa’s expression does not change, but you see her fingers tighten around the edge of the table. “Explain.”
The divination professor smooths one hand over her shawl. “I went near the perimeter this morning. Not inside,” she adds quickly when Larissa’s gaze sharpens. “Near. There’s a residue around the eastern wall. Not the greenhouse’s magic. Not the school’s. Something placed.”
Briarwood frowns. “A seed?”
“An invitation,” Alvarez says.
The word moves through the room like cold water.
Your chest hums.
Three. Two. Three.
You press a hand to your sternum.
Larissa’s eyes snap to you.
You shake your head slightly, trying to reassure her, but the pressure has returned. Faint. Insistent. As if something has heard its name spoken in a crowded room.
“What kind of invitation?” Mr. Parris asks.
Alvarez looks toward the windows, where the ruined greenhouse stands somewhere beyond the walls. “A door left cracked open. Something on the other side noticed.”
Your mouth goes dry.
Briarwood pushes his chair back with a scrape. You flinch at the noise.
Larissa notices that too.
“I need to see the remains,” he says. “If something was introduced, the root structure will tell us.”
“You will examine samples brought to you,” Larissa replies. “You will not enter the greenhouse unsupervised.”
“With respect, Headmistress, plants do not prefer committee work.”
“With respect, Professor, neither do I, and yet here we are.”
A few faculty members wisely look down at their papers.
You love her a truly unreasonable amount.
Briarwood huffs but relents.
Larissa turns to you then, and the shift in her expression is subtle enough that no one else would recognize it. Professional concern softens at the edges into something intimate. “Professor, you were closest to the source when it collapsed. Can you describe what you felt before it was severed?”
You sit a little straighter.
The room’s attention swings toward you. You hate that part. Being observed makes the hum feel louder, like whatever residue lives beneath your sternum enjoys an audience.
“It wasn’t just anger,” you say slowly. “At first I thought the plants were panicking. Like they were being forced to grow past what they could handle. But when we got closer to the mass, it felt more… focused.”
“Focused on what?” Parris asks.
You look at Larissa.
She gives you the smallest nod.
You exhale. “Me, eventually. Or my abilities. I’m not sure. It reacted when I tried to harmonize the vibrations around it. Like it recognized the method.”
Briarwood’s frown deepens. “Recognized?”
“I know how that sounds.”
“No,” he says, more serious now. “That is precisely the problem.”
Larissa’s gaze moves to him. “Elaborate.”
Briarwood leans forward, the leaves in his beard trembling with the motion. “Some botanical curses are not self-sustaining. They require a carrier, a sympathetic force. A song, a spoken phrase, blood, grief, memory. If this mass responded specifically to resonance work, it may not have been attacking randomly. It may have been waiting for something compatible.”
The room blurs slightly at the edges.
Compatible.
You swallow. “That’s a horrible word.”
“I agree,” Larissa says, voice hard.
Nurse Douglas steps forward with his crystal in hand. “My examination supports that,” he explains, nodding toward you. “Their abilities repelled most of the interference, but not all of it. Something attempted to connect to their resonance frequency. Remnants linger.”
Another professor, silver-haired and sharp-eyed, leans forward. “Which means the spellwork wasn’t seeking life. It was seeking… amplification.”
Amplifying what, though?
Alvarez tilts her head, studying you in a way that makes your skin prickle. “Have you experienced dreams?”
You hesitate.
A cold wave travels down your spine. Larissa’s hand twitches where it rests on the table. She does not reach for you. Not here. But you feel the desire in the air between you.
Larissa’s voice cools. “Last night, it tried again to connect. Through a dream-state visitation.”
Alvarez’s expression suggests she does not believe the distinction matters.
Your irritation flares. “Just say it if you know something.”
Larissa murmurs your name, quiet but cautioning.
Alvarez’s face softens, to your surprise. “I don’t know. That is what worries me.” She folds her hands on the table. “But when I stood near the greenhouse, I heard a woman crying.”
The room goes absolutely still as faculty members stiffen.
You look down at your hands. Your heartbeat thuds once.
Then again.
Larissa’s voice drops. “A woman?”
Alvarez nods. “Behind glass. Or beneath soil. It’s difficult to explain. The impression was obscured.”
A strange coldness spreads through you.
Behind glass.
Beneath soil.
Your mind flashes with an image that does not belong to you: green light pulsing through dirty panes, a hand pressed against the other side, nails broken, palm streaked with soil.
You gasp.
Larissa abandons professionalism in an instant.
She is beside you before anyone else can speak, one hand on your shoulder, the other at your wrist. “What happened?”
You blink up at her, the faculty room snapping back into place too sharply. “I saw—” You stop, trying to catch the image before it vanishes. “A hand. Glass. Someone trying to get through.”
Alvarez whispers something under her breath.
Larissa turns on her. “If you have something useful to say, say it clearly.”
The other woman does not seem offended. “That was not a vision from the past.”
Your stomach drops.
“What does that mean?” you ask.
Alvarez looks at you. “It means something may still be reaching.”
The hum in your chest pulses once.
Three. Two. Three.
This time, Larissa feels you react. Her grip tightens.
“That’s enough,” she says, nodding once. “We begin by isolating the source residue and preventing any further magical tethering. Professor Briarwood, you and Nurse Douglas will analyze the samples under warded conditions. Ms. Alvarez, I want a written account of every impression you received. Mr. Parris, review all records connected to Thornhill’s tenure, the greenhouse, and any procurement logs from the last academic year. Someone brought something onto my campus, and I intend to know who.”
The temperature in the room seems to shift.
There she is. The headmistress. The woman who can take fear and turn it into orders sharp enough to cut through panic.
Then her gaze lowers to you, and the steel softens.
“You,” she says more quietly, though everyone still hears, “are coming with me.”
You raise a brow, grateful for the familiar shape of teasing even under the circumstances. “Am I being dismissed from the meeting?”
“Yes.”
“Feels targeted.”
“It is.”
You stand because your legs are shaking and you suspect she already knows. The faculty watch with varying levels of concern and interest. You avoid all of their eyes.
As Larissa guides you toward the door, Briarwood speaks again.
“Headmistress?”
She pauses without turning.
“If this is what I think it is, the greenhouse may not be the source. It may be the nursery.”
The word lands heavily.
Larissa looks back.
Briarwood’s face is grave beneath the absurdity of his beard. “Something was grown there. But that does not mean it began there.”
Larissa holds your gaze a beat longer than necessary, something fierce and wordless passing between you. Something protective. Something afraid of almost losing you again.
—
Larissa does not speak until you are in her office.
The moment the door closes behind you, she turns the lock.
The sound is small. Final.
You lean back against the door, all at once aware of the space you are in. Her office feels different now. Not unfamiliar—you know its bookshelves, its polished desk, the media player you once touched with wonder while trying not to think about her mouth. You know the fireplace, the rug, the heavy curtains, the faint scent of paper and tea and her.
But standing here after everything, after waking in her arms, after watching her command a room while some unknown magical force taps at your chest like a patient predator, you feel the strange overlap of worlds. Professional and personal. Safety and danger. Want and fear.
Larissa crosses to you slowly.
“Look at me,” she says.
You do.
Her composure cracks the moment your eyes meet.
“Oh, darling,” she breathes.
That is all it takes.
You step into her arms, and she gathers you against her as if she has been waiting all morning to do precisely that. Your face presses into the curve of her neck. Her hand comes to the back of your head, holding you there, fingers threading through your hair with a tenderness that makes the pressure behind your eyes unbearable.
“I’m okay,” you mumble, even as your voice shakes.
“You are a terrible liar.”
“I’m a very charming liar.”
“You are a terrifyingly self-sacrificial liar with poor self-preservation instincts.”
You huff weakly against her throat. “That feels specific.”
“It is becoming a pattern.”
Her arms tighten.
For a long moment, neither of you says anything. You listen to her breathing, slow and deliberate, and try to let your own body follow. The hum in your chest dims against her. Not gone, but muffled. As though her presence places a blanket over the dissonance.
“I saw her hand,” you whisper.
Larissa goes still. “Her?”
You close your eyes. “I don’t know why I said that.”
But you do know.
Or some part of you does.
The hand in the vision was slender. Pale. Dirt under the nails. Familiar? No. Not familiar exactly. But charged with significance, the way certain notes in a song announce themselves before you understand the melody.
Larissa draws back enough to see your face. “Did you recognize anything else?”
“Green light. Glass. Soil. It felt like someone was trapped, but…” You frown, trying to untangle sensation from meaning. “No. Not trapped. Contained.”
Larissa’s expression shifts.
“What?”
She hesitates.
“Larissa.”
Her gaze moves briefly toward the windows. Beyond them, Nevermore carries on in strange normalcy—students crossing paths, gargoyles watching from stone perches, the ruined greenhouse hidden from view but not from thought.
“When Laurel Gates infiltrated this school, she had access to the greenhouse,” Larissa says carefully. “She used her position as botany teacher to move freely, to store materials, to cultivate poisons. We searched her rooms and the obvious storage spaces after Crackstone was defeated.”
“But not everything.”
“We believed we had enough.” The admission costs her something. You can hear it. “Wednesday’s evidence, Thornhill’s disappearance, the aftermath of the attack… there were priorities. Injured students. Parents demanding answers. Police interference. My own recovery.” Her mouth tightens. “It is possible we missed something.”
You reach for her hand. “You were poisoned and almost died. You don’t have to make that sound like an administrative inconvenience.”
Her eyes soften, but the guilt does not leave. “If Laurel left something behind—”
“Then she left something behind because she was manipulative and dangerous, not because you failed.”
Larissa looks at you for a long moment.
“You say that with such conviction,” she murmurs.
“Because it’s true.”
Her thumb traces over your knuckles. “I wish truth were always enough to quiet the mind.”
You know that feeling too well.
The office settles around you, quiet except for the distant murmur of the school. Then, from somewhere near Larissa’s desk, a faint crackle sounds.
Both of you turn.
Her desk radio sits beside a tidy stack of correspondence, silent and unlit.
It crackles again.
Your skin goes cold.
Larissa moves first, placing herself slightly in front of you. “That shouldn’t be receiving anything.”
“I thought Nevermore had terrible radio reception.”
“It does.”
The radio hisses. Static fills the office, low and wavering. You clap a hand over one ear at the sharpness of it, but beneath the noise is something else. A rhythm.
Three. Two. Three.
Larissa reaches toward the radio.
“Don’t touch it,” you say quickly.
She stops.
The static shifts. For one terrible second, a voice threads through.
Not clear. Not whole. Just a broken whisper folded into the interference.
“Found…”
The radio sparks.
Larissa yanks you back as the glass dial cracks straight down the center.
Silence slams into the room.
You stare at it, breathing hard.
Larissa’s face has gone pale.
“Tell me you heard that,” you whisper.
“I heard it.”
“What did it say?”
Her jaw works once.
You already know, but you need her to say it. Need proof it isn’t only inside you.
Larissa looks at you, fear and fury mingling in her eyes.
“Found,” she says.
The hum in your chest answers. Not with sound this time.
Another Riorgail/Slaine parallel (because Garrick knows how to time his words full of foreshadowing lol ;-)
Riorgail in Fourth Wing (bonus) chapter 9:
"Aetos. She could use a little less protection and a little more instruction." I level an accusatory look on him until he nods, then turn and walk away.
"You in the mood to spar with first-years?" Garrick asks, keeping pace with me once I'm a few steps from Second Squad, a smile tugging at his mouth. "Or just that particular first-year?
"Sometimes I hate how fucking observant you are."
"It's hard to miss the way you look at her," he says, lowering his voice.
"Like I want to kill her?" I retort, spotting an interesting match in Claw Section.
"Or fu—"
Slaine in Onyx Storm chapter 28:
Dain's tone sharpens. "I don't coddle first-years anymore, so train. Your. Signet."
"Asshole," she whispers, and the flush in her cheeks deepens.
I lift my brows at the look she shoots him, mostly because I can't tell if she wants to stab him in his seat or—"Fuck," Garrick mutters—
