Chapter 20: The Unseen Scar
The walk to the illusory arts classroom was a blur of granite corridors and sidelong glances. Every step sent a fresh, sharp throb from the center of Elara’s back, a deep, bone-deep ache that radiated out to her shoulders and down her spine. The phantom sensation of cold iron chains seemed to whisper against her skin, a memory that was all too eager to surface when the pain got bad. She’d been stupid. So stupid to leave the bindings on all night. The usual careful morning ritual of loosening them, of letting the cramped membranes breathe for just ten minutes, had been sacrificed to panic after oversleeping. Now she was paying for it.
She slipped into the sun-drenched room just as the chime sounded, the air already shimmering with beginner-level spells. A faint scent of ozone and damp earth hung in the warmth. Floating orbs of soft light drifted near the vaulted ceiling, and in the corner, a student’s attempt at a illusory waterfall was leaking a fine, cool mist across the floor.
Her usual seat was near the back. She all but fell into it, her movements stiff and careful. Placing her notebook on the desk took concentrated effort.
Lysander was already there, two rows over and diagonal. He usually waved, a broad, bright thing that took up space. Today, his head turned, and the smile that started to form died on his lips. His pale lavender eyes fixed on her. She watched him watch her, saw his gaze drop to the white-knuckled grip she had on her pen, then flick up to the strained set of her jaw. He saw everything. He always saw too much.
Professor Lin began speaking, her voice a melodic drone about layering visual and auditory illusions. Elara tried to focus. She wrote a single word: ‘Resonance.’ The letters wobbled.
The pain was a living thing. It wasn’t a steady throb anymore; it was a series of spikes, each one a hot needle jabbing between her shoulder blades, right where the topmost joints of her wings were pressed into a brutal, unnatural fold. A fine sweat broke out on her temples. She was trembling. She dug her teeth into her lower lip, the metallic taste of blood a sharp anchor.
Across the room, Lysander hadn’t touched his own notes. He was angled in his seat, one long leg jiggling with nervous energy. He kept glancing from the professor to Elara and back again, his fingers drumming a silent, frantic rhythm on his thigh. She could feel his concern like a physical pressure. It should have been comforting. Instead, it felt like one more weight she couldn’t bear.
Just breathe. Just get through this hour.
She attempted the simple exercise Professor Lin assigned—conjure the image of a rose and sustain it. A pale pink blossom flickered above her palm for a second before dissolving into a shower of pathetic, glittering motes. The drain of maintaining her personal illusion, the one that smoothed the severe, painful lump on her back into a believable silhouette, was sucking all her focus dry. The classroom itself seemed to pulse in time with her agony. The floating lights were too bright. The whisper of the false waterfall was a roar.
“Elara?”
She jumped, the sound of her own name a shock. Lysander had moved. He was now in the empty seat directly in front of her, turned around, his voice low. His usual chaotic warmth was gone, replaced by a taut, quiet intensity.
“You’re white as a sheet,” he said, no preamble. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m fine.” The lie was automatic, brittle. She couldn’t manage to look at him.
“Bullshit.” The word was soft, but absolute. “You’re not fine. You’re in pain. I can see it.”
“It’s a headache. Just a migraine.” She grasped at the easiest explanation, her eyes fixed on the failed rose dust on her desk.
“Elara.” He said her name like a plea. His hand twitched on the back of her chair, as if he wanted to reach out but didn’t dare. “Please. You’re scaring me.”
The raw honesty in his voice undid her. A small, pathetic sound escaped her throat, something between a gasp and a sob. She clamped her mouth shut, humiliation burning through the pain. She was scaring him. She was a spectacle. Just like she’d always been.
From the doorway, a new presence entered the room. A late arrival. The subtle shift in the light, a cooling of the air, made Lysander glance over. His expression shifted, a complex flash of guilt, relief, and worry.
Rowan Iverson slid into the seat next to Lysander, his movement smooth and silent. He was all shadow and sharp angles where Lysander was light and flame. Dark hair, darker eyes that swept the scene and understood it in an instant. He didn’t ask. He just looked from his boyfriend’s strained face to Elara’s drawn one, his own features impassive.
“Everything’s not fine,” Lysander muttered to him, a quiet, strained report.
Rowan’s gaze rested on Elara’s back for a second too long. A subtle, knowing chill seemed to emanate from him. He saw the illusion for what it was—not a perfect disguise, but a strain of magic holding back a truth. He gave a single, almost imperceptible nod.
Professor Lin was walking the rows, offering critique. She was getting closer.
Lysander’s leg bounced faster. He looked back at Elara, desperation in his eyes. “Let me help. After class, just… let me walk you to the healers, or… fuck, Elara, just let me do something.”
The professor was three rows away.
Elara’s vision swam. The pain crested, a wave of such intense, wrenching agony that her illusion stuttered. For less than a heartbeat, the careful glamour over her back vanished. The fabric of her blouse pulled taut over the hard, pronounced outline of the complex bindings beneath, a grotesque silhouette of straps and constrained form.
It lasted only a moment. She slammed the illusion back into place, a surge of panic giving her a second wind. But it had been enough.
Lysander’s breath caught. His eyes went wide with a horrified understanding. Rowan went very, very still beside him.
Professor Lin paused at the end of their row. “Is there a problem, Mr. Vale?”
Lysander’s head snapped toward her. The chaos in him warred with a sudden, terrifying clarity. He opened his mouth, closed it. The truth was right there, a wildfire in his lavender eyes.
But it was Rowan who spoke, his voice a calm, deep baritone that cut through the tension without raising a decibel. “No problem, Professor. Lysander was just concerned about our classmate’s migraine. It seems severe.”
Professor Lin’s kind eyes turned to Elara, who could only manage a weak, desperate nod. “Perhaps you should visit the infirmary, dear.”
“After class,” Elara whispered, the words scraping her throat raw. “I’ll go after.”
The professor moved on. The moment passed, but the silence between the three of them was now a charged, fragile thing.
The final minutes of the lecture were an exquisite torture. Elara held on by a thread, her entire world narrowed to the battle of maintaining her illusion and not vomiting from the pain. When the dismissal chime finally rang, it was less a sound and more a physical release.
She moved to stand, but her legs buckled. She caught herself on the desk, a low cry escaping her.
In an instant, Lysander was there, his hand under her elbow. “Okay, that’s it. We’re going. Now.”
There was no argument left in her. She leaned into his support, the solid warmth of him the only thing holding her up. Her pride was ash.
Rowan fell into step on her other side, a silent, watchful guardian. He didn’t touch her, but his presence created a buffer, clearing a path through the chattering students leaving the room. His shadow seemed to lengthen around them, dampening the noise, softening the glare of the hall lights.
“My room’s closer than the infirmary,” Lysander said, his voice firm, leaving no room for debate. “And it’s private.”
Elara wanted to protest, but the words wouldn’t come. The idea of a public space, of strange hands poking at her, was worse than the pain. She nodded, a tiny, defeated movement.
They moved through the halls, a strange, urgent procession. Elara, supported by Lysander, Rowan a step behind, his dark eyes scanning, ensuring their passage was unobstructed. The journey was a haze of sidelong glances and muffled sound. She was past caring.
Lysander shouldered open the door to his dorm room. It was a comfortable chaos—books piled on the floor, a vibrant quilt on the bed, the scent of sandalwood and something cinnamon-like in the air. He guided her gently to the edge of the bed.
“Sit,” he said softly. He knelt in front of her, his face level with hers. All his bright energy was focused into a fierce, gentle intensity. “Elara. I need you to listen to me. I know. I know about your wings.”
The world stopped. The pain, the fear, the hum of the room—it all receded into a high, silent ringing in her ears. She stared at him, utterly exposed.
He didn’t look away. His expression held no pity, only a profound, aching empathy. “I’ve known for a little while. I didn’t say anything because… fuck, because it wasn’t my place. But this?” He gestured to her, to the agony she was radiating. “This is different. You can’t keep doing this to yourself.”
Tears, hot and silent, finally broke free, tracking through the sweat on her cheeks. The last of her resistance crumbled.
“They’re bound,” she whispered, the secret she’d carried for a lifetime finally spoken aloud in a trembling breath. “They hurt.”
“I know, sweetheart,” Lysander said, his own voice thick. “I know they do.” He looked over his shoulder at Rowan, who was leaning against the closed door, a solemn sentinel. A silent communication passed between them. Rowan gave a single, definitive nod.
Lysander turned back to her. He reached out, so slowly, and took her cold hands in his warm ones. “Will you let us help you? Please?”
Behind him, Rowan pushed off from the door and walked toward the bed, his movements deliberate and calm. He came to stand beside Lysander, looking down at her with an unreadable expression that wasn’t unkind.
“The bindings,” Rowan stated, his voice quiet. “Are they magical, or physical?”
The question was so practical, so devoid of horror or shock, that it grounded her. “Physical,” Elara breathed. “Leather. And… and silk straps. With a locking clasp I can’t reach.”
Rowan nodded again. He looked at Lysander. “You have it?”
Lysander fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a small, multi-tool knife, the metal glinting. “Always prepared for a random engineering problem,” he said, attempting a weak version of his usual grin. It didn’t reach his eyes.
Elara looked from the blade to Lysander’s earnest face, to Rowan’s steady, waiting presence. The terror was still there, a cold knot in her stomach. But beneath it, something else flickered. A fragile, desperate trust.
She closed her eyes,