The Thorn Protects the Rose

Chapter 5

SODA BOTTLE

The sun hadn't even cleared the horizon before Elara was at the vanity, her hands gripping the edge of the mahogany so hard her knuckles were white. The wide, black voids from the night were gone. In their place were her own eyes, though the emerald green was as dull as dying moss, the whites threaded with bloodshot exhaustion.

She pulled her gaze away from the mirror and stared at the water running from the tap. The soft white noise and the scent of spring rain were almost enough to calm her. She released her grip and held her hand above the flow, wisps of magic grazing the air between her palm and the faucet.

The water bowed to her whim. It spiraled upward, forming a pristine, weightless sphere above her palm. She gathered more until the orb was the size of a softball, suspended in the air before her face. Elara closed her eyes, whispering quiet, frantic affirmations into the swirling liquid.

Her other hand rose in a soft, beckoning motion. On the wall shelf, jars of herbs rattled. Mint to wake her, lavender to calm her, and passionflower to dull the jagged edges of her stress. The dried leaves flew into her palm, where she crushed them into a fine powder and let them fall into the orb.

The water turned a pale, herbal green. With a flick of her fingers, she let the mixture wash over her face, the cool fluid swishing against her skin to rinse away the salt and fear of the night.

For a moment, she let the coolness of the wash refresh her face, losing herself in the quiet rhythm of the water.

Then, she heard it—a slight, aggressive hiss.

Her eyes shot open as a fleck of crushed herb caught her right in the eye. Instead of calming the angry red, the grit bit into her iris, turning the dull ache into a sharp, stinging irritation. The shock broke her concentration. The orb shattered.

The water and herbs dropped to the floor in a heavy splash, coating the porcelain basin and soaking her satin pajama bottoms. The fabric instantly clung to her legs and calves like a giant, suffocating cobweb. Elara stood in the mess, breathing hard, her frustration boiling over. As she stared down, her heart skipped; faint trails of steam were rising from what should have been cold water on the floor.

Rubbing her sore eye, she glanced from the mess back to the mirror. A stubborn lock of copper hair had escaped again, clinging to her damp cheek like a mocking finger. With a shaky, frustrated swipe, she slicked the wet hair back into the rest of her tangled waves, but her skin felt wrong—too hot, too tight.

What the hell is going on? What is wrong with me?

She jerked her hand angrily toward the wall. A hand towel flew from the rack and slapped into her palm. She pressed it to her face, trying to blot the sting out of her eye, but as she inhaled, the scent of mint and lavender was gone.

In its place was the faint, stifling smell of scorched, withered earth.

“Everything right in there, Elle? Need a hand?” Lyra’s voice was muffled but thick with that nagging, familiar concern.

The interruption only fed the heat in Elara's chest. “Just let it go,” she groaned at the door, her voice strained as she fought not to take her failure out on her only friend.

It’s not her fault. It’s not her fault.

Inside, Elara felt like a shaken bottle of soda. It was an unsteady, highly pressurized solution; it looked like a normal drink until someone dared to twist the cap. Volatile as she was, she knew she just needed to be left alone until the pressure subsided. She wouldn't be able to solve anything if she exploded on the first person to test her waters.

Standing over the puddle on the floor, she watched the last wisps of steam vanish into the cool morning air. She needed to get to class. She needed to find her uncle. But mostly, she just needed to make sure no one pulled her tab before she could find a way to vent the gas. She shook herself and exited the bathroom.

Before Lyra could get a word out, Elara crossed the room in two strides and pulled her friend into a crushing hug. She squeezed tight, as if trying to anchor herself to something that wasn't currently crumbling.

“I can’t handle words right now, Ly,” Elara whispered into her shoulder, her voice thick and frayed. “I love you, but I’m going to eat breakfast alone.”

She pulled back, holding Lyra at arm’s length. The explosive pressure was visible in the set of her jaw and the frantic light in her mossy eyes. Lyra didn't push. She just gave her a small, awkward smile and a slow nod—the look of a friend who knows when to hold on and when to let go.

Elara dressed in a blur of silent, jerky movements. She didn't check the mirror again. She didn't look back. She just grabbed her bag and slipped out the door, leaving the room in a wake of heavy, unsettled silence.

Lyra stood there for a long moment, staring at the closed wood with a deep, nagging furrow in her brow. She sighed, a small, worried sound, and turned back to the vanity to finish her makeup, the joyful energy of the morning officially extinguished.

Elara strode in a determined march. When she reached the main dining hall, she didn't even slow down. The smell of bacon and the low hum of hundreds of students felt like a world she no longer belonged to. She passed the doors completely, head forward, eyes locked on the heavy oak double doors of the faculty hall.

Her uncle’s office was at the very end of the corridor—a place of quiet leather and the scent of old parchment. Normally, she approached this hall with a sense of reverence. Today, it felt like a gauntlet.

Every step Elara took seemed to echo too loudly against the polished stone. She passed a junior professor who gave her a curious look, but she didn't offer the customary top student smile. She couldn't. If she opened her mouth, she was afraid she would burst.

She reached the heavy oak door labeled: Arch-Mage Eldridge Thorne / Dean of Manifestations and Arcane Theory.

She didn't knock. She paused, her hand hovering over the doorknob. Her thumb grazed the cold brass surface where the letter “T” was embossed in an elegant, sweeping font.

He’s family, she told herself, trying to shove down the rising heat in her throat. He has to tell me. He might be the only one who knows the weight of the name. He’s never kept things from me before... So why would he start now?

She took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

Instead of her uncle, she found Adelaide, his secretary, organizing a stack of files on the mahogany desk. Elara opened her mouth to ask for Eldridge’s whereabouts, but the words died as she caught a flicker of movement behind the woman—a dark, sleek shadow that lashed out like a tail before snapping back into the secretary’s silhouette.

Elara blinked, her head spinning. For a split second, the air in the room felt heavy and humid, smelling of damp earth and crushed leaves rather than old parchment.

“Dean Thorne is in the faculty dining hall, Ms. Thorne.” Adelaide straightened, flashing a knowing, impossibly perky smile.

Her lips glistened with a coat of bright pink gloss that looked almost wet. She was leaning over the side of the desk, her pencil skirt hugging her curves so tightly it looked uncomfortable. Her white, silk button-down blouse strained against her chest, the fabric fighting a losing battle to keep her cleavage contained. There was a vibrant, untamed energy radiating off her that felt entirely at odds with the sterile office.

Elara stood frozen, her blush deepening as she realized she was staring. The shadow was gone. The smell of the forest was fading.

"I—right. Thank you," Elara muttered, her voice high and breathless. She retreated a step, her mind racing. Adelaide’s perky mask felt just as thin as Elara’s professional one.

She turned and darted back into the hallway. The door clicked shut behind her, the change in pressure kicking up a stray, brittle autumn leaf from the stone floor.

As Elara approached the Dean in the dining hall, he was talking around a biscuit in his mouth to the Professor of Elemental Understanding. Instead of waiting patiently, she cut in with a polite, “Excuse me, Professor Eldridge.”

Her tone was a few shades calmer now, the lingering embarrassment from the office acting as a temporary anchor for her irritation.

Eldridge took a large gulp of tea and turned to her. Anyone else would have seen Elara’s "Top Student" mask—the perfect posture, the calm wall. But Eldridge had helped raise her. He saw the cracks.

“Yes, Miss Thorne? Is everything alright?”

The sympathy in his voice almost made her snap. Why does everyone keep asking that? She fought back a sigh and forced a tight smile. “Of course,” she lied.

He wasn't buying it. His brow creased.

“I just wanted to know if we could have breakfast together and catch up,” she said, her voice dropping an octave. “We haven't seen each other much this semester, and I’m... well, I'm starting to miss the bad dad jokes.”

It was a pathetic excuse and an obvious lie. The Elemental Professor next to them pointedly ignored them, suddenly fascinated by the steam rising from his Earl Grey. Eldridge stood up, moving closer to her so they could speak in hushed tones.

“What’s going on with you, Little Star? You’re acting strange.”

A real sigh escaped her this time. She looked at him not as a Dean, but as the man who had been her rock. “I-I’m sorry. This whole week has been... loud. I’d like to talk to you. If you have time.”

Eldridge’s face softened, but his eyes flickered toward the massive stack of rubrics on his table. “I’m sorry, Elara, but with the Manifestation exams tomorrow, I’m buried. Why don’t you meet me after class tomorrow afternoon? We can talk while I grade. You’ll feel better once the test is behind you.”

“Yeah...” Elara breathed, feeling completely and utterly shut down.

He offered a warm smile and squeezed her shoulder gently. “I’ll do whatever I can. If you need me in the meantime, send me a quill,” he said, winking at their little family joke. He gave her a quick, paternal embrace before returning to his meal.

The contact was supposed to be grounding, but as Elara stepped away, the weight in her chest didn't loosen—it calcified. He was too busy. The man who had always been her safety net had just pushed her back into the deep end.

He's right, she told herself, the thought sharp and frantic. It’s just the exam. It’s just nerves. The fire is just a metaphor.

It was a desperate, manic delusion, but she clung to it like a life raft. Feeling a sudden, hollow surge of hunger, she grabbed a glazed doughnut from a tray as she crossed the threshold back into the student dining hall. She bit into it, the aggressive hit of sugar rushing into her blood, coating her anxiety like a cheap bandage. It tasted like air, but she kept chewing, forcing herself to believe that for a few minutes, the world was almost normal again.