Her heart stops in her chest.
Blood runs cold, like ice water in her veins; she is no stranger to spirits, deeply versed as in the arcane as she was, but Linoan finds herself beset with a fearful agitation as she watches the man before her, reaching down to collect a stack of documents he'd seemingly dropped.
He was... younger. His features less defined, more softer—but there was no mistaking the scarlet hair emblematic of his house, or the sharpness of his eyes; once more, Linoan finds herself faced with another ghost.
The young duchess swallows the uncomfortable lump in her throat, lips pressing firmly together. She could be wrong in her assumption. It wouldn't be the first time she has erred. And yet, if Deirdre of Grannvale were here, there was no reason why her lord husband, the man who paved the way for Loptous and his ilk, couldn't be as well...
"Do you require assistance with that—" She stumbles on what to call him, deciding to settle on, "...Professor?"
He thought himself alone in his classroom. The quiet almost haunting, save for the autumnal winds echoing within these stone walls. But a sudden gust disrupts his attention and throws his papers to the ground; and as he bends to collect them, he feels eyes on him and a burning along his spine.
That damned mark, always hidden well beneath high collars and crimson tresses, pricks his skin. But he does not react. Only raises to his full height and casts his glance to the door. Light filtering through and haloing his guest. He tries to smile cordially at her, but still standing in shadow as he is, with Maera's blood turning cold, it twists his usual charisma into something more sinister.
"... Not at all." He whispers pleasantly and begins to walk past her. He can't stay here, he doesn't know why.
He pats her head as he leaves, acting as though everything is alright. "Run along to class now."
In the light of the courtyard, his fingers tremble. He clenches his fist to make them stop.














