The Thorn Protects the Rose

Chapter 8

ANCHOR

The heavy oak door swung shut with a muffled thud behind Lyra and Elara, leaving Professor Eldridge alone in the vast, stone-walled room. The sudden silence was broken only by the angry, deepening hum of the black-and-green portal, which now pulsed ominously in the center of the practical exam area. It dwarfed the painted Tree of Life beneath it, sucking at the very air, its edges already fraying the delicate threads of a nearby tapestry. The quill, still quivering, floated abandoned beside the fallen notepad on the floor, seemingly too terrified to approach its master.

Eldridge, his face pale and etched with grim determination, took a deep, shuddering breath. His eyes, usually glinting with a quirky amusement, were now wide with a fear he rarely showed. He knew he had to act fast. This wasn't just a failed summoning; this was something far more dangerous, a raw, uncontrolled tear in the fabric of magic itself. He took a step towards the swirling abyss, his hand instinctively reaching for his wand at his belt.

"This isn't possible..." he muttered, glancing briefly back at his quill, which still lay ignored. "I knew she had potential but... This wasn't supposed to be possible." He lifted his wand, his knuckles white, and began making slow, deliberate counterclockwise turns in the air, directly opposite to the malevolent swirl of the portal. The dark energy within the anomaly seemed to resist, but slowly, the portal's furious growth began to falter.

It slowed and eventually stopped expanding, but to Eldridge's mounting concern, it did not shrink or disappear as he had expected. A single bead of sweat formed at his brow, tracing a path down his temple as he concentrated, pouring all his will into the counter-spell.

"I have to get this closed before they escape!" he gritted out, and moved another step closer to the pulsing void, hoping the closer proximity would strengthen his hold on his own magic. The portal began to spark violently, seemingly angry to be pushed back, but almost imperceptibly, its dark, swirling edges started to recede.

Suddenly, movement started inside the portal—a churning within the black and green mist, as if something was pushing from the other side. Eldridge tried to circle his arm faster, but the air around him had grown thick and heavy, like trying to move through molasses. As the portal started to shrink, a sharp, red crystal shot out of its center, just missing his face and cutting a searing line along his jawline.

His deep-seated fear grew, twisting his features, and he looked back where the projectile had embedded itself deep within the sturdy wooden desk behind him. Caught off guard by the near miss and the sudden sting, he lost his grip on his wand.

The portal, sensing his momentary lapse, took no time to capitalize on it, its powerful suction intensified immediately, trying to drag him in. He struggled, digging his heels into the stone floor, his feet sliding precariously.

"NO!" he yelled, his voice strained against the unnatural pull. He twisted his head, yelling at his abandoned quill and notepad, "BRING THE GIRLS! QUICKLY!!"

He twisted his body with great effort, trying to hold on to something, anything. His desperate fingers scraped against the unyielding stone of the floor as he fell, trying to grapple at immovable desks, but to no avail. The quill, which had perked up, still shaking violently, knocked sharply on the pad, which rose slowly, trembling but obeying. The quill then motioned frantically towards the door, and both implements zoomed into sudden flight, disappearing just before colliding with the heavy oak. Eldridge's hold on the stone floor loosened as the pull became too powerful, an irresistible force dragging him inward. With the weary sigh of a man who’d just realized he’d left his keys at home, Eldridge muttered a dry, “Damn it all…” right before he disappeared entirely into the void.

As the door shut behind them,

Elara ran, her heart pounding in unison with her hurried feet, the professor's frantic "LEAVE NOW!" still echoing in her ears. She was sprinting now, her eyes burning from unshed tears as she put more and more distance between herself and Lyra. Behind her, Lyra wasn’t running; she was jogging at a clip that suggested she was more annoyed by the cardio than the mishap they were running from. She watched Elara’s retreating back with a baffled, growing irritation.

"Oh, get stuffed," Lyra muttered, coming to a halt and reaching out a hand as if to snatch a fly from the air.

A swirl of irritated purple magic flared, manifesting as a shimmering rift directly in Elara’s path. With a spatial wrench, the stone hallway vanished. Driven by her own desperate momentum, Elara overbalanced and went flying, colliding with the mountain of pillows piled in front of their bay window. She fell face-first into the plush heap with a muffled oomph. Mr. Wiggles, who had been napping peacefully, shot out of the mess in a panic, gave a hiss, and darted under Elara’s bed. Seconds later, Lyra stepped out of the haze with a slow, deliberate walk, her expression one of pure exasperation.

She stood with a hand on her hip, waiting impatiently. Elara slowly lifted her head from the suffocating pillows, her head pounding a rhythmic beat, while her heart tried desperately to remember its normal rhythm. She turned around to face her friend.

"Well?!" Lyra demanded, her voice sharp with a mix of frustration and concern. "What in all hells WAS that?!" Her Australian accent, usually a melodic lilt, was now sharp enough to draw blood.

Elara looked around the dorm room as if the answer was written on the walls somewhere, or perhaps hidden amongst the scattered books."I..." she started, but the words felt thin. She raised a trembling hand to her head, trying to ground herself; her skin felt too tight, every nerve raw and humming. She felt the air passing her lips, leaving them parchment-dry and chapped as she struggled to make the words come out.

Lyra’s face faltered, her irritation vanishing beneath a wave of concern. She let out a long, slow breath. "Right. You’re spiraling, love. Just focus on your breath for me." The edge was gone from her voice, replaced by a steady, quiet strength. She closed the distance between them in two swift strides and crouched down, bringing her face level with Elara's.

Elara blinked, a dawning realization hitting her. Lyra was right; she was still desperately trying to catch her breath, her lungs burning. The edges of her vision were beginning to blur, and her body buzzed as if a thousand needles poked at the edges of her nervous system. She forced her gaze to focus on Lyra's steady, familiar face.

"In with me," Lyra instructed, her voice a calm, low anchor. "One, two, three. And out. One, two, three."

Elara clung to the rhythm like a lifeline, focusing solely on the count. Lyra didn't look away, her steady presence unruffled by the gale in Elara's head. Slowly—agonizingly slowly—the world started to come back into focus, the swirling colors at the edges of her vision receding, and Lyra's face became clearer; a lighthouse standing firm in the storm of her panic. Elara finally righted herself, pushing off the pillows, her lungs finally accepting a full, cool draft of air.

The moment Lyra saw the color return to Elara’s cheeks, the soft composure vanished. She snapped back to full height, hands finding their familiar perch on her hips as her features settled into a look of heavy-duty expectation.

"Right then. Spill it, cupcake," Lyra demanded, her voice sharp with a mix of relief and "give-me-answers-now" impatience.

Elara let out a weak, brittle chuckle at the nickname, but the amusement died as quickly as it came. Her gaze drifted to the floor as the chaos of the practical exam replayed in her mind.

"It’s that damned dream, Ly," Elara finally said, her voice low but certain. "The one from Monday. I thought if I just made it to Friday—if I just got the 'Top Student' grade and talked to Eldridge—that it would stay buried. But it didn't stay in my head. It... it leaked."

She wrapped her arms around herself, her gaze dropping to the floor."When Finn’s casting splintered, I tried so hard to hold it in. I was fighting to keep the cap on, but I was just too exhausted to keep the pressure down. I felt that same heat from the nightmare, and when I finally snapped..." She looked up, her mossy eyes dark with a new kind of shame. "It was just like Finn's mess, Ly. Only worse. I wasn't in control anymore. I could only feel the fire, and I think I need to know what’s actually in there, because I can’t fight it alone anymore."

Lyra’s expression shifted. The sharp demand for answers evaporated, replaced by a heavy, quiet realization. She looked at Elara, really looking at her, seeing the exhaustion she’d been trying to ignore since Tuesday.

"The dream? Still?" Lyra asked, her voice dropping. "I thought you’d sorted that after the library Monday." She gave a small, knowing shake of her head. "Right. I saw the look on your face that night and I knew you weren't tellin' me everything. I figured if I just gave you the space you were clearly beggin' for, you’d come 'round when you were ready. And then after yesterday morning..." She trailed off, the memory of Elara’s crushing, silent hug hanging heavy between them.

Elara finally let out a long, shaky breath and used the windowframe to pull herself up from pillow mountain. With some effort, she made her way to her bed and sank onto the edge of her mattress, her legs still feeling like jelly. Almost instantly, Mr. Wiggles hopped up beside her, letting out a soft, concerned trill as he began to knead his paws into her thigh.

Lyra stepped forward, her scowl finally crumbling into genuine regret. She sat down on the bed beside her friend, close enough for their shoulders to touch. "Look, El... I'm sorry,” she said, her voice now soft. “I knew you were vibratin' like a tuning fork all week, but we both made a deal to just get you to the exam. I reckon I was so busy tryin' to let you vent the gas that I didn't see you were actually drowning."

She pulled Elara into a tight, grounding hug. "We’ll figure it out, I promise. But look at me—you’re still shakin’. We can’t go diggin' into your family history while you’re this much of a hair-trigger. You’re already red-linin', babe. I'm goin' with you to talk to Eldridge. We're findin' out what's happenin' to you together." 1798/2072

A scratching sound, too high up to be a cat, echoed from their dorm room door, startling them both. They broke the embrace, a fresh wave of alarm sweeping through the room. Elara forced her still-recovering legs to move, pulling herself up and stepping toward the door. Lyra was right behind her, readying her hands for a defensive spell. Elara, with her ever-present mask of composure, moved towards the door. "Is someone there?" she called out, her voice surprisingly steady and intimidating.

That was all the invitation the Quill needed. In an instant, it phased directly into the room alongside the Notepad—which had hastily flipped to a fresh page, seemingly determined to maintain some shred of academic decorum even in a crisis. As both of the objects approached, they hovered in a starkly different manner: the Notepad hung at eye level, stable, remaining perfectly perpendicular to the floor. The Quill, however, was a mess of frantic energy. It didn't just float; it jerked and spasmed as if it was unable to contain its message any longer. It began to scratch across the paper with such ferocity that it threatened to tear the parchment, seemingly oblivious to the pairs' dumbfounded stares. The sound of the nib digging into the paper was like a frantic heartbeat, the only noise in the room until the Quill finally stopped with a sharp, final dot.”

The Quill gave a final, violent tap on the paper before freezing mid-air. Elara didn't reach for the pad immediately; she watched the fresh ink bleed into the fibers. It wasn't his usual handwriting. It was jagged, the letters leaning at a frantic tilt as if the pen had been screaming.

Finally, she snatched the pad from the air. Her face twisted in fearful confusion, her eyes tracking the three words over and over, unmoving.

Lyra leaned in, reading over her shoulder. "He wants us to come speak with him?" she asked, her voice regaining some of its usual confident cadence. "Look, if he’s sendin’ for us, it means he’s fixed the portal—thank the gods. Though I reckon it also means you’re in for a proper reamin' from the Dean." She glanced at Elara, a flicker of her usual spark returning. "But why’s he want me there? I’m just the witness, aren't I?"

Elara didn't look up. Her thumb traced a stray drop of ink that had splattered like a bloodstain across the margin.

"I don’t like this, Ly," Elara whispered. Her voice was flat, devoid of its usual academic polish. She looked from the page to the door, already putting the pieces together.