Saturday mornings at Stellaris had a strange kind of quiet.
It wasn't peaceful, and it wasn't comforting.
It felt more as though the academy was holding its breath while the rest of the world caught up, a brief pause between the week's chaos and whatever new disaster the students would create by lunchtime.
The walkways weren't empty, because nothing at Stellaris ever truly was, but they were calmer than usual.
There were fewer loud groups clustered around benches, fewer people sprinting as if being late was a crime punishable by death, and the usual background noise had softened into something more distant.
The mana lamps along the paths still burned faintly from the night before, their glow paling under the early light, stubborn little orbs that hadn't yet accepted their shift was over.
Soren walked with his hands in his pockets and his hood half-up, more out of habit than any genuine desire to hide.
He had slept.
Not well, and not deeply, but enough to stop feeling as though his bones were filled with wet sand.
Waking up still dragged the rest of the world back with it, though, all the thoughts that had been pushed aside by exhaustion rising the moment his eyes opened.
Lev.
The elixir.
That single sentence that had echoed through Soren's head since he had gulped it down without thinking, sharp and ugly every time it repeated.
— It was made for self-destruction.
Soren exhaled through his nose and looked toward the infirmary building ahead, the stone structure sitting at the edge of campus with its clean windows and unassuming doors, as if it wasn't the place where students limped in pretending they weren't in pain and limped out pretending they were fine.
It wasn't that he didn't trust Lev.
It was that Soren didn't trust the system.
He had spent too long treating the world like it came with rules that could be learned, memorised, exploited.
Too long believing that if something existed in the game, then it was safe by default, as long as you used it "correctly," as long as you followed the tooltips and didn't do anything stupid.
Lev had, very casually, shoved a knife through that belief, and the worst part was how easy he had made it sound, like this was obvious, like Soren had been foolish for ever assuming otherwise.
So here he was.
Playing it safe.
Doing the sensible thing.
Getting checked.
It didn't feel like panic.
His heart wasn't racing, and his hands weren't shaking.
It was a quieter kind of fear, the kind that didn't scream, only kept you moving, only refused to let you sit still with uncertainty pressing against your skull.
Soren stepped inside.
The infirmary smelled the same as always: clean sheets, herbs, and that faint medicinal bitterness that clung to the air no matter how often the windows were opened.
A handful of students sat in the waiting area, most of them looking bored rather than injured, slouched in chairs with the weary expressions of people who had discovered consequences existed.
One of them had a bandage wrapped around their forearm and was arguing quietly with a healer about whether a cut "really needed" to be treated.
"It's just a scratch," the student insisted.
"And scratches get infected," the healer replied, tone flat, clearly having had this conversation a thousand times.
Soren ignored them and walked to the front desk, resting his elbow on the counter.
A staff member looked up.
Their expression shifted immediately into that tired patience that came with working in a building full of young people who thought they were immortal right up until they weren't.
"Yes?"
"I need a check-up," Soren said.
The staff member blinked once, then glanced down at the paperwork as if hoping the answer was hiding there.
"Injuries?"
"No."
They paused, pen hovering.
"…Symptoms?"
"No."
The staff member stared at him.
Soren stared back, expression flat, as if this conversation had already tired him out and it hadn't even properly started.
He could feel the staff member deciding whether to dismiss him, and he didn't blame them.
The infirmary had enough work without students treating it like a reassurance station.
After a moment, the staff member sighed.
"Then why are you here?"
Soren hesitated for half a second.
He could lie.
It would be easy.
He could say he felt dizzy, nauseous, that his mana felt unstable, and they would wave him through without questions.
But if Lev was right, if the original recipe had been designed to kill someone slowly, then lying about symptoms now would defeat the point.
He wasn't here to get treated for something he could feel, he was here to let someone else look for problems he couldn't sense yet.
"I consumed an elixir," Soren said.
The staff member's posture changed, not alarmed, just more attentive.
Their pen moved again, the irritation in their eyes shifting into professional focus.
"What kind?"
Soren's mouth tightened.
"Elixir of Growth."
The staff member's eyes narrowed as though they were trying to remember whether that was even a thing.
It wasn't a common potion, not the kind sold openly at student stalls, and it wasn't something a normal first-year should be casually drinking before breakfast.
"And you're here because…?"
"Because I was told the original recipe is poisonous," Soren said bluntly.
A pause followed.
Then the staff member's expression slid into something dangerously close to disbelief, the kind people got when they were trying to decide if they were being pranked.
"…Who told you that?"
"My alchemist."
"Your alchemist," the staff member repeated, as if tasting the words.
Soren didn't elaborate; he didn't explain how he, a first-year with far too many problems, had ended up with an exclusive alchemist under contract.
That was a separate issue he had no desire to unpack in a public waiting room, especially not within earshot of students who looked bored enough to eavesdrop for entertainment.
The staff member exhaled, pinched the bridge of their nose, then gestured toward a side corridor.
"Alright. Follow me."
Soren obeyed without comment.
They guided him into a small examination room, not the main treatment hall with multiple beds and white curtains, but a quieter space designed for check-ups and minor assessments.
A clean bed sat against one wall, a cabinet of instruments against another, and near the ceiling an enchanted panel glowed faintly, the kind used for scanning mana irregularities.
The staff member pointed at the bed.
"Sit."
Soren sat.
"Name?" the staff member asked, pen ready.
"Soren Arden."
The pen paused for the tiniest fraction of a second.
Soren pretended not to notice, keeping his expression neutral even as a small part of his mind filed it away.
Names meant things here, and his had started to mean more than he wanted.
The staff member's eyes flicked over him once, quick and clinical, not lingering on his face or his build, not judging, only cataloguing.
"Any history of reaction to potions or elixirs?"
"No."
"Any recent injuries? Internal or external?"
Soren's mind flashed briefly to blood and blades from the day prior, but he kept his voice even.
"Nothing important."
The staff member hummed, not convinced, then lifted a hand.
"Hold still."
A faint green circle appeared above Soren's chest, hovering in the air like a sideways halo.
It rotated slowly, lines shifting and tightening as it took readings, and Soren felt a gentle pressure against his skin, the sensation of a palm pressing into the space in front of him without actually touching.
The circle brightened once, then dimmed again.
The staff member moved to the side and adjusted the panel near the ceiling. The glow sharpened, and a thin layer of mana brushed over Soren's skin, cool and light, not unpleasant, more like a breeze passing over him in a way that didn't belong indoors.
He waited.
This wasn't uncomfortable.
If anything, it was familiar, reminding him of getting his blood pressure checked back on Earth, that same quiet stillness where you let someone else measure you and decide whether you were fine.
The only difference was that the "technology" here was mana, and it still sometimes felt too advanced for a fantasy world, nevermind for a place that also had people carrying swords down hallways like it was normal.
After a minute, the staff member lowered their hand and glanced down at their notes.
"No toxin buildup," they said.
Soren felt his shoulders loosen slightly before he could stop them.
It wasn't relief in the dramatic sense, but the tension behind his eyes eased, just a fraction.
"And no signs of internal corrosion," the staff member continued, tone dry. "Which is what most people mean when they say a potion is 'poisonous,' by the way."
Soren didn't respond, because if he spoke he would probably say something sarcastic, and sarcasm felt like a bad choice when he was the one who had potentially poisoned himself.
The staff member's gaze flicked up.
"You really drank an Elixir made from an unverified recipe?"
Soren stared at them, unimpressed.
"Yes."
The staff member exhaled through their nose, clearly fighting the urge to say something harsher.
Professionalism won out, barely.
"Your mana circuits look… fine," they said instead, as if "fine" was the nicest word they could manage. "Actually better than I would expect from someone your level."
Soren's mouth twitched faintly, not quite a smile.
"Your vitals are stable. Heart rate normal. No fever. No signs of nausea response." They tapped their pen once against the clipboard, then added, "If there's a problem, it isn't visible right now."
"So I'm not dying," Soren summarised.
"Not today."
Soren nodded once.
It still wasn't relief, not entirely.
It felt more like the removal of a pressure he hadn't realised was sitting on his chest, something that had been there since Lev's voice cut through his assumptions last night.
The staff member handed him a small slip of paper with a stamped seal.
"If you experience chest tightness, persistent dizziness, weakened mana flow sensations, or sudden fatigue that doesn't match exertion, come back immediately," they said, and their eyes sharpened, "and for the love of the gods, don't make a habit of drinking experimental elixirs because some alchemist with an attitude told you it would be funny."
Soren's eyes narrowed.
"It wasn't funny," he said flatly.
The staff member paused, as if surprised by the sincerity in that, then nodded once.
"…Good."
Soren stood.
He didn't thank them.
Not because he was rude, but because gratitude felt awkward in a place he associated with pain, and because he was still thinking too hard about what could have happened if he had kept using the original recipe without ever questioning it.
Instead, he nodded once more and turned toward the door.
He stepped out into the hallway.
The infirmary corridors were quiet, clean stone and white curtains hanging at intervals.
Somewhere deeper inside, someone was being scolded for trying to walk on a ruined ankle, and the sharp tone of the healer made it clear they weren't in the mood to entertain bad decisions today.
Soren walked toward the exit at an even pace, the slip of paper folded between his fingers.
He was two steps away from the door when it opened.
And she walked in.
Yvette Astrin Yggdrasil.
Soren's body reacted before his brain could do anything intelligent, not by flinching, not by freezing in panic, but by stilling.
It wasn't dramatic.
He didn't become a statue, and he didn't forget how to breathe.
His feet simply stopped moving in the same instinctive way they would if something unexpected stepped directly into his path.
Yvette entered with her hood up, long braid falling over one shoulder.
She didn't look injured.
There were no bandages, no blood stains, no fresh cuts, and if anything, she looked cleaner than most students ever did after a duel.
But her eyes—
Half-lidded, dulled by exhaustion that didn't look like normal sleepiness.
It looked as though she had been awake for too long, and her body had started resenting her for it, a tired sharpness that still refused to soften.
Her gaze flicked toward Soren.
For the briefest moment, something shifted in her expression.
Not warmth, and not recognition in a friendly sense, just a small pause, as if her mind reached for a label it hadn't expected to use again.
The memory of a pretty "girl" in an alley.
The one she had patted on the head.
The one she had called "Sweetie."
Soren watched her eyes narrow slightly, not in hostility, but in thought, and that pause lasted just long enough for him to feel it in his ribs, a strange, uncomfortable echo of the night she had appeared like a force of nature and then, against all expectation, treated him gently.
Then the voice from the front counter carried down the corridor, loud enough to reach them both.
"All done, Mr. Arden?"
Soren's spine tightened.
Yvette's expression changed.
It wasn't slow, and it wasn't subtle.
It was immediate in the way a wound response was immediate, something snapping into focus and turning sour before she could stop it.
Her gaze sharpened, and what rose first wasn't anger.
It was disgust.
Not theatrical, not exaggerated for an audience, not the kind of disgust meant to insult.
It looked real, the kind that hovered close to nausea and was held down by pride, as though her stomach had twisted and she refused to let it show any more than it already had.
Soren saw it and understood it too quickly, because he had seen that same involuntary spike yesterday from the stands, and he had already suspected what it meant.
He hadn't even had time to say anything.
She had hesitated at the door because she didn't know.
Now she did.
Yvette's fingers tightened on the edge of her cloak.
The fabric creased under her grip, and for a heartbeat her shoulders looked tense beneath it, like a person bracing against something they couldn't physically strike.
Then she took a half-step sideways.
She didn't retreat.
She created distance.
The staff member at the counter glanced between them, sensing the shift in atmosphere even if they didn't understand it, and their tone turned brisk, eager to keep things moving.
"Mr. Arden, you can go."
Soren didn't move immediately.
He felt the temptation to speak rise in his throat, that stupid, stubborn urge to do something "right," to salvage their first real interaction before it even properly happened.
His mind offered him lines as if this was a scene he could fix with the correct dialogue choice.
Say her name.
Explain.
Prove you weren't trying to trick her.
But that impulse was exactly the kind that led to pushing boundaries you had no right to push, and last night, in the quiet after his own internal shift, he had promised himself he wouldn't be that person anymore.
So he stayed still, watching her carefully without staring too hard.
Yvette's eyes fixed on him now, sharper than before.
Her mouth opened, and when she spoke, her voice was quiet, not gentle, not soft in the way it had been in the alley.
Quiet in the way a blade was quiet.
"Arden."
Soren didn't answer.
It wasn't defiance.
It was restraint, because any response would be an opening, and she had already told him what she wanted without needing to say it yet.
Yvette's gaze dragged over him once more, as if confirming something she already hated, and her lip curled faintly, not quite anger, but the beginning of one.
Her jaw clenched, and beneath the disgust, something else flickered for half a second, brief enough that most people would miss it.
Self-loathing.
It wasn't aimed at him.
It was aimed inward, sharp and ugly, as if she was furious at herself for hesitating at the door, for feeling that instinctive softness for a fraction of a moment, for being "tricked" into it.
Soren recognised that kind of anger too well.
He didn't like it.
"I've heard enough about you," Yvette said.
Rumours, then.
Of course.
Soren didn't know exactly which ones had reached her, but he could imagine the shape of them easily enough, because he had been watching people's eyes and hearing the edges of conversations for months.
A first-year with too many women around him.
A pretty-faced boy who acted above his station.
A "player," a rumour that could be twisted into anything convenient depending on who was telling it.
And if those rumours painted him as the exact kind of man she hated most, then there was no world where she would look at him and think safe.
Yvette looked away first, like holding his gaze for too long might contaminate her.
"Don't talk to me," she said flatly.
Her voice didn't rise.
She didn't make a scene.
She didn't demand attention from the people around her.
She simply set the boundary like a door being shut and locked.
Soren's answer came without hesitation.
Not because it didn't sting, because it did, a small, sharp impact low in his chest, but because he had already decided what kind of person he wanted to be when the moment came.
"Okay," Soren said.
One word, clean and unmoving.
Then he added, just as plainly, "I'm leaving."
Yvette's eyes flicked back to him for the briefest moment.
Something in that glance looked almost like irritation, not because he spoke, but because he didn't push, because he didn't argue, because he didn't try to force himself into her space the way she clearly expected men to do.
That dissonance didn't soften her expression.
It hardened it.
"Good," she said.
Behind them, the staff member cleared their throat, clearly attempting to restore normality, their professionalism tightening like a belt.
"Yggdrasil, you're here for…?" they asked carefully.
Yvette didn't look at them when she answered.
"Sleep medication."
Two words.
No explanation, no apology, no embarrassment, only exhaustion so blunt it didn't leave room for anything else.
The staff member nodded once, taking the hint.
"Come with me."
Yvette moved immediately, following without hesitation.
Before she did, though, her gaze flicked toward Soren again, colder this time, more deliberate, as if she had chosen the expression rather than letting it happen.
"I don't make mistakes twice," she said.
It didn't sound like a threat.
It sounded like a statement aimed inward, sharpened by shame and anger, like she was warning herself more than she was warning him.
Then she turned and walked deeper into the infirmary corridor without looking back.
Soren didn't watch her go for long.
He didn't let himself.
Staring after her felt too close to chasing, and chasing was the exact opposite of what she had demanded.
He pushed the door open and stepped outside.
Cool air hit his face, clean compared to the infirmary's sterile scent.
The campus light had grown stronger while he was inside, morning settling into place properly now, and the lanterns along the path looked faint and pointless, their glow swallowed by daylight.
Soren stood on the steps for a moment, letting his breathing settle.
His chest felt tight.
Not panic or guilt.
Just impact, the aftershock of being shut down so cleanly, the moment landing exactly where he had expected it to land and still leaving a bruise.
He exhaled slowly.
So that was it.
The first contact.
The first reach.
And the result was exactly what he had anticipated, if he was honest.
Sure, he had held a little bit of hope that things may be different for him, but that wasn't the case.
Yvette didn't want him near her.
Yvette didn't want men near her.
And if the rumours had painted him as the kind she hated most, then there was no universe where she would look at him and see anything except a warning sign.
His fingers tightened around the folded slip of paper, then loosened again.
The paper pressed against his skin, a small, ridiculous reminder that at least one problem had been checked off the list today.
He didn't feel discouraged in the way he used to.
The old voice didn't rise to whisper, "You ruined it." "You shouldn't have tried."
There was no spiral of self-blame, no instinctive retreat into guilt dressed up as logic.
Instead, the thought that came was quieter, more practical.
'Okay,' he told himself. 'That's the boundary.'
No closeness.
No miracle moment.
Just a wall.
And walls didn't fall because you ran into them harder.
They didn't crumble because you proved how much you wanted them to, and trying to force them only left you bleeding on the ground while the other person felt justified in keeping them up.
Soren adjusted his cloak and started walking.
He didn't look back at the infirmary.
He didn't chase.
He didn't try to turn one ugly interaction into something meaningful by stubbornly refusing to accept what she had said.
He simply kept moving, the last of his lingering exhaustion still sitting in his limbs, and the stubborn resolve sitting under it.
Slow.
Unimpressive.
Real.
And for once, the act of trying didn't come with that poisonous flinch in his chest, the instinctive belief that reaching for something meant he deserved to be punished for it.
He could live with being shut down.
He could live with being disliked.
He could live with starting from nothing.
Soren walked on and let the morning swallow him.
————「❤︎」————