Between darkness and Love

“Do you always look like that, or did you wake up today and decide to terrify the population? I swear someone shoved two lanterns into your skull.”

“Go to—”

“Fișira, stop. If Ms. Sheliua catches us again, she’ll have us dusting the library for a week. Come on—we’re already late.”

Fișira didn’t even turn. She checked her watch—the silver gleamed like a quiet threat—then lifted her gaze toward the four boys laughing far louder than she cared for.

“Ceila, we still have half an hour before the bell. More than enough time to show these clowns what gravity looks like when it’s applied face-first to the curb.”

She dropped her bag, raised her hands, and gathered her long black hair, twisting it up as if she were locking an entire night into a single knot. The air around her shifted—it wasn’t just anger. It was that dangerous kind of stillness that comes right before chaos breaks loose.

The boys fell silent. One swallowed hard. Another let his bag slip from his shoulder, trying—without much success—to look brave.

“Uh-oh… storm’s coming,” one of them muttered.

Ceila grabbed her hand quickly. “Wait. You don’t have to. Seriously—you don’t. We’ll be in serious trouble.”

Fișira didn’t even look at her. “Let go. Some lessons aren’t taught in a classroom.”

“Maybe—but not in the university courtyard either,” Ceila insisted, pulling her back with more strength than she seemed to have.

For a moment, Fișira paused. She drew in a slow breath, then exhaled. Then she lifted two fingers to her eyes and turned them, unhurried, toward the boys.

A simple gesture—for most, it meant I see you.

For one of them, it meant you’re dead.

Ceila sighed, tired, a trace of dry irony in her voice. “Twenty-one years old, and people still see lanterns in my eyes. You could at least set them on fire with some elegance, don’t you think?”

A faint smile touched Fișira’s lips, the corner of her mouth lifting. “Elegant? Please. I’m a refined disaster.”

The girls burst into laughter. Ceila bent down to pick up Fișira’s bag from the ground.

“If you’re going to destroy people, at least do it in an organized way…”

She didn’t get to finish. A boom—like thunder that had come too early, gone astray.

The bag slipped from her hands and hit the ground. Every head snapped upward at once.

The sky was no longer clear. Ash-gray clouds rolled in, heavy, almost black. The morning light began to drain away, as if someone were dimming the world by half.

“Um… Fișira…” Ceila said more quietly, forcing a smile. “Calm down.”

Fișira didn’t even blink. She glanced up, then back at her.

“It’s not me.”

Then, with a raised brow, she added, “Though I’ll admit—the style is good. Dramatic. I like it.”

Ceila didn’t laugh. “Very funny.”

“But maybe it’s… your thing?”

“Fișira.”

Ceila’s tone sharpened, the edge of humor gone. The wind stirred, lifting strands of her red hair. The clouds swallowed the sky whole, dimming everything, and then the rain broke—sudden and violent—striking the ground and skin with a biting cold. Students scattered toward the entrance in disarray—shouts, hurried footsteps, shadows vanishing into shelter.

But Ceila didn’t move. Her gaze stayed lifted, fixed somewhere beyond the clouds, as if something were calling her. A strange feeling tightened in her chest—a sweet, dizzying fear tangled with a pull she couldn’t explain. Her breathing slowed.

Lightning split the sky, turning everything white.

When the light died, he was there.

In front of her.

Tall, motionless—like a presence that did not belong to this world. Damp blond hair fell across his forehead, dark clothing threaded with silver lending him an aristocratic air, like a lord stepped out of a nightmare. But it was his green eyes that held her. So deep that Ceila felt her entire body lock. She couldn’t blink. Couldn’t breathe properly. It was as if her will had been pulled clean out of her.

He took a step.

Just one—and he was already beside her.

His hand closed around her throat, firm, cold at first—then, in the next instant, heat flared. He lifted her without effort, her feet barely brushing the rain-slick ground.

A faint sound slipped from her lips. Her hands rose, closing around his wrist. His skin was warm—too warm. The heat spread from her palm through her body, like a fire that didn’t burn, only consumed.

Her throat began to sting—not sear. Her breath faltered, lips parting involuntarily. Something strange slid down her spine—a blend of fear and something else, something that made her not want to pull away. Not entirely.

His gaze never left her. Studying. Measuring. His fingers tightened just enough to draw a shiver from her. The heat deepened, turning intoxicating, sending her pulse racing… not only from fear.

Rain lashed around them, but she burned.

A red fire flared to life—liquid, like blood set ablaze—dancing along her hands. Ceila saw it clearly, every fiber of her skin lit from within, as though something foreign were trying to break through to the surface.

His voice came from nowhere and everywhere at once—low, cutting, laden with a force that clenched around her heart:

“Mi sharu iva le ciu mii caceari fyranu!”

In the next instant, everything snapped.

Ceila hit the ground, the air wrenched violently from her lungs. The man was gone—as if he had never been there—leaving behind only the rain and the echo of his presence.

She began to cough, convulsively, her fingers clawing at her throat as if she could tear the burning out from the inside. Her breath wouldn’t come. Not enough air—never enough.

“Ceila!”

Fișira was suddenly beside her, dropping to her knees. She grabbed her, pulling her close, then gathered her into her arms, ignoring the rain that soaked them both through. She carried her inside the university at a run.

The hall was crowded—students and teachers frozen in place, murmuring in hushed voices, their eyes turning toward them.

Some stepped back. Others simply stared, caught between fascination and unease.

Fișira didn’t stop. She set Ceila down on a chair in the middle of the hall, near the stairs. Water streamed off them, pooling on the floor. Ceila trembled, her chest rising in uneven, frantic pulls.

“Ceila, are you okay?” Fișira asked, but there was already an edge of fear in her voice.

“No… I can’t breathe…” Ceila whispered, barely audible, her lips slightly parted, her skin still hot—as if the touch hadn’t fully faded.

Fișira placed her hands immediately at Ceila’s throat and chest. A faint green light began to pulse beneath her palms—soft at first, then growing stronger. The energy spread slowly, like a warm caress trying to drive the fire out from within.

Ceila’s breath stuttered—then, for a moment, air seemed to return.

“I thought I was going to die…”

She dragged in a deep, greedy breath. Her chest still rose unevenly as she lifted her gaze toward the tall windows ahead.

The rain was easing. The black clouds were beginning to break apart, and pale strands of sunlight slipped through, cutting cold lines across the wet floor.

“What happened to you?” Fișira asked, her voice low, tight with tension.

“I… I don’t know… but a man was choking me.”

Fișira blinked slowly. One brow lifted, her gaze sharpening with disbelief.

“What man? When?”

“Just now… before you picked me up.”

A moment of silence. Fișira leaned back slightly, studying her. Then she turned her head, casting a quick glance around. Students had already gathered, forming an unsteady circle around them—murmurs, whispers, curious eyes.

She leaned closer to Ceila, her voice dropping to a near whisper against her ear.

“Ceila… no one touched you. You put your hands on your own throat… and started choking yourself.”

A cold shiver slid down Ceila’s spine, wiping away any trace of warmth left in her body.

“How… what do you mean?” she whispered. “He was there. Right in front of me… I saw him. I felt his hand… cold…”

But her voice lost certainty with every word.

Fișira shook her head slightly. “There was no one.”

For a moment, Ceila couldn’t tell whether the cold inside her came from the storm outside… or from something waking up within.

“Girls, are you all right?”

The voice was calm, yet edged with authority, cutting through the low murmur around them. Ceila looked up.

A tall, slender woman stood before her, her short grey hair cut with precise, almost clinical sharpness, the color cold and metallic. Large glasses framed her face, shadowing her eyes but failing to dull their intensity. A long white dress fell stiffly along her body, its rigid lines clashing with the heavy, oppressive atmosphere of the hall. In her hand, she held a wooden-bound notebook, her grip firm, controlled.

“Yes…” Ceila replied, the word leaving her mouth before she could think.

“No,” the woman interrupted, her tone unchanged. “On your feet. Follow me.”

Zirana did not wait for an answer. She turned and walked ahead.

The hall seemed to stretch as they moved, growing longer, darker. The corridor they entered was almost swallowed by shadow, the light barely brushing against the walls. At the far end, distance twisted the shapes—Zirana’s figure appeared to waver, dissolving into the darkness.

Fișira and Ceila exchanged a brief glance before rising to follow.

With every step, the air grew colder.

Ceila rubbed her arms, a faint shiver running through her. “Is it just the rain… or is it actually cold?”

“I don’t know, but I feel it too,” Fișira murmured, pulling her damp clothes tighter around herself.

The corridor seemed to swallow the light. No matter how far they walked, the end never seemed any closer.

Then, without warning, Zirana stopped.

Right in front of a wall.

No doors. No corners.

Fișira edged closer to Ceila, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Maybe… we’re stuck.”

“We’re not,” Zirana said calmly, her voice just loud enough to cut through them and freeze any further words.

Without turning, she raised her hand and placed her palm against the wall.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then the surface cracked.

Not with sound, not violently, but as if it were alive. The wall split apart, smooth and deliberate, revealing a hidden space beyond.

Ceila and Fișira went still.

On the other side was something else entirely. A vast, towering chamber, alive with light and color. Strange flowers spread across the corners, some faintly pulsing as if they had a life of their own. Crystals hung suspended in the air or were embedded into the walls, glowing in shades of white, violet, green, and red, casting shifting, hypnotic reflections.

Rows upon rows of old books stretched ahead—some leaning, others perfectly aligned, all steeped in quiet mystery.

High above, near the ceiling, a large round window let sunlight pour in, spilling across the room like a divine spotlight.

“Wow…” Ceila whispered, taking a step forward. “I didn’t even know something like this existed in our university.”

“Neither did I… I thought the biggest discovery here was the renovated cafeteria,” Fișira muttered, glancing around with a mix of awe and suspicion.

Zirana stepped inside first, without hesitation. The girls followed.

The moment they crossed the threshold, a wave of warmth wrapped around them. It wasn’t just heat—it settled into their skin, their bones, almost soothing, yet faintly oppressive.

“Ceila, lie down on the table.”

“What?”

Zirana had already pulled a book from one of the shelves and turned back to her, flipping through the pages with calm focus.

“Are you hard of hearing?”

“No…”

“Then why are you asking questions instead of doing what I told you?”

Fișira bit her lip, then leaned closer to Ceila, lowering her voice. “Ceila… I really don’t think you should argue with her.”

Ceila exhaled softly. She walked toward the table, then paused, eyeing it with suspicion.

“If this is an autopsy table, I’d like to know in advance.”

Fișira rolled her eyes. “If it were, you wouldn’t be asking.”

Ceila lay down, stiff.

“Fine… but if I die, I’m haunting you first.”

“Great. I’ll clear a spot for you on the couch,” Fișira murmured.

While their banter still lingered in the air, Zirana lifted her gaze from the book—and allowed herself a faint smile.

Fișira stepped closer to Ceila and took her hand, gripping it instinctively.

“Oh, save the affection for later,” Zirana remarked, her tone unchanged.

“We like men!” they both blurted out at the same time—far too quickly to sound natural.

Zirana slowly lifted her gaze from the book she had just placed on the table beside Ceila.

It was old. Heavy. Bound in dark leather. An owl’s head was carved into the cover, finely detailed, and set in the center of its forehead was a deep ruby that seemed to catch the light… or perhaps hold it too well.

Zirana’s eyes moved over them, one brow arching slightly. A faint, ironic smile touched the corner of her lips.

“Really? Because you look like a couple that’s been together for forty years… and just came in to find out how much time one of you has left.”

The girls glanced at each other—and instantly let go of each other’s hands as if burned.

“Okay, that was… uncomfortable,” Fișira muttered.

“Very,” Ceila agreed, trying to sound composed, though her body remained stiff against the table.

Zirana had already opened the book, flipping through its thick, yellowed pages. The sound of the paper was dry, unsettling—like a faint hiss.

“Professor Zirana…” Ceila began, her voice quieter now. “Is there something wrong with me?”

“I don’t know yet,” the woman replied simply. “But the mark on your neck… I don’t like it.”

Instinctively, Ceila’s hand flew to her throat.

Fișira stepped closer at once, leaning in for a better look.

The redness was no longer just a trace.

It had formed into a pattern—thin, but precise, like a delicate design encircling her neck.

“I see…” Zirana murmured, pausing mid-page. “Ceila… this is going to hurt.”

She turned without haste and opened a small compartment hidden in the wall. From inside, she took out a tiny stone, no larger than a pea.

It wasn’t a true ruby. Its color was wrong—yellow-green, like light trapped in a drop of poison. It glowed faintly, but in a way that felt deeply unsettling. Ceila watched it without blinking.

“That… doesn’t look reassuring,” she murmured.

“I’m glad you noticed,” Zirana replied flatly.

She brought the stone to Ceila’s throat and pressed it directly against the mark.

“Fli mo nea.”

The gem flared.

Its light burst outward, the sickly yellow sharpening into something almost white.

Pain tore through Ceila—sharp and sudden, as if invisible hands had clamped around her throat over an open wound.

“Aah—!”

Her back arched off the table, fingers digging into its edge.

“What’s happening?!” Fișira shouted, stepping forward.

The gem’s light pulsed wildly. Ceila struggled to breathe, forcing air through clenched teeth as tears sprang instantly to her eyes. The pain kept building—

Then the stone cracked.

A thin fracture split across its surface, and in the next second it shattered, breaking into small pieces that scattered across the table.

For a moment, all three of them froze.

Ceila’s hand flew to her throat as she gasped for air.

“What… what was that?” she asked, her voice unsteady, eyes still wet with tears.

Zirana stared at the fragments, both brows lifting slowly.

“So… he really did place the spell on you.”

“What spell?” Ceila asked immediately.

Zirana pulled a chair closer and sat down, letting out a long breath, as if something had just been confirmed—something she had hoped wasn’t true.

“You said a man tried to strangle you. That it felt like you were burning. Describe him.”

Ceila slowly pushed herself up from the table. She looked at her hands for a moment, then lifted her gaze.

“Tall… blond… very handsome…”

Fișira nodded right away. “Promising start.”

“But his eyes were the most striking. Very bright…”

She turned back to Zirana.

“Green.”

Zirana let out a slow breath. “I see. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen eyes like that.”

She rose and began to pace the room.

“What I don’t understand is why he would need you.”

“Who?” Fișira asked.

Zirana stopped abruptly and turned to face them.

“Lord Shain.”

Silence fell.

“Shain?!” they both exclaimed at once.

Fișira pressed a hand to her chest. “That’s not possible. He’s imprisoned.”

“Wait… or is he actually dead?”

“He’s alive. Just banished to the realm of monsters. And yes—that Shain,” Zirana replied.

Ceila frowned. “But he’s… too handsome.”

Zirana blinked at her. “I’m sorry?”

“I mean, seriously—if he’s as dangerous as the legends say, I expected him to be… less attractive.”

Fișira nodded immediately. “Exactly. More terrifying. Scars, horns, something.”

Zirana closed her eyes for a brief moment, as if gathering what remained of her patience. “Please stop believing those idealized portraits. They’re over five hundred years old.”

Ceila tilted her head, thinking. “Exactly. After five hundred years, he should look… older.”

“Yes, wrinkles. A lot of emotional damage on his face,” Fișira added.

Zirana looked at them for a long moment.

“He doesn’t age. And don’t forget,” she said, her tone sharpening slightly, “those of royal blood never do.”

“So he’s five hundred years old… and looks like that?”

“No. He’s seven hundred and twenty-three.”

Fișira folded her arms.

“Unfair.”

“Extremely unfair,” Ceila murmured.

Zirana stared at them, completely expressionless. “You’ve just learned that one of the most dangerous immortal lords has placed a spell on you… and you’re upset because he’s too attractive?”

Fișira shrugged. “Well… that is a problem.”

Ceila nodded, perfectly serious. “Yes. It makes the situation more confusing.”

Zirana pressed a hand to her forehead. “Gods, give me patience…”

Then her expression hardened again.

“Because no matter how he looks… if Shain has marked you, Ceila, your life has just become very dangerous. Not just for you—but for the entire empire.”

She shifted, bringing a hand to her chin as her gaze dropped to the open book. The drawing on the page was chaotic—lines twisting into one another, broken symbols, letters even she couldn’t read fluently.

“But… what did he do to me?”

“He placed a spell on you,” Zirana replied, her eyes never leaving the page. “But I don’t know which one. This book is missing too many pages… and from what’s left, I can only guess.”

She turned one page, then another.

“You could be bound to him, like a soldier—something he can control. Or you might be his eyes—what you see, he sees. Or… something else.”

Fișira crossed her arms. “‘Something else’ doesn’t sound reassuring.”

“It isn’t,” Zirana said flatly.

She half-closed the book.

“But it doesn’t make sense. If he intended to use you… he would have hidden the mark. He wouldn’t have left it so visible.”

“What am I supposed to do? Just remove the spell!” Ceila demanded.

Zirana finally looked up at her.

“I can’t. The one who cast it is the only one who can undo it. It’s too old, too complex. This isn’t the kind of thing you simply untie like a knot.”

Ceila’s breathing grew heavier. Zirana watched her in silence for a few seconds, then added, almost irritably,

“What I don’t understand is… why you.”

“What do you mean?” Ceila asked, a hint of hurt in her voice.

“I mean…” Zirana said bluntly, “you’re of no particular use. You have no magic. No training. Nothing that would justify his interest.”

Fișira lifted a brow. “Wow. Subtle.”

“If it had been Fișira,” Zirana continued, ignoring the comment entirely, “I would understand. She has potential. But you…”

She gave a small shrug.

“You’re… normal.”

“Thank you. Very encouraging,” Ceila replied, forcing a smile.

“You’re welcome.”

Zirana suddenly stood and closed the book in her hand.

“Fine. Decision is simple. Ceila, you go home. Until I understand exactly what’s on your neck, you do not leave the house.”

Her gaze shifted to Fișira.

“You’re going with her. You protect her.”

“Excuse me? Me?!” Fișira stared at her.

“Yes. If his servants come, you might be able to slow them down.”

“Slow them down?” she repeated. “Wow… comforting.”

“But what if he comes?” Fișira asked, more serious now.

“Then pray,” Zirana replied. “I’m going to Carol. I need to report this.”

Ceila stepped forward. “But… I won’t be safe at home. Why don’t we stay here? Or come with you?”

Zirana shook her head.

“Because there are students here. Professors. And artifacts too valuable to risk. I won’t endanger the university—or the empire.”

Fișira crossed her arms, her expression sharpening. “But you’re willing to risk us?”

Without hesitation, Zirana answered, “Yes.”

“Okay… that was honest,” Fișira muttered.

Zirana was already walking toward the exit.