Date: April 28, 542 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored.
A week had passed since that conversation in the training hall. A week in which Eliza tried hard to pretend nothing had changed. She went to lectures, met Rein and Mira at the fountain, helped Lis with his perpetually late assignments. But something inside her had shifted, and that "something" refused to return to its place.
This morning dawned overcast. Heavy clouds hung over the academy's spires, and the air smelled of an approaching storm. Eliza sat in her fundamental energy lecture, mechanically copying down another formula for inner essence distribution as the professor spoke. Her quill moved across the parchment, but her thoughts were far away.
She was thinking about last night.
Lis had come to the fountain with a bruise under his eye. He tried to joke, said he'd fallen, but Eliza saw the truth. It was the "Night Owls." The group whispered about in the corridors, whose members didn't hide their contempt for the "rabble," as they called anyone without a pedigree. They had broken the arm of the boy from the orphanage, and now they'd gotten to Lis — simply for laughing too loudly in the library.
Eliza wanted to go to the instructors. Rein stopped her.
"Do you think they don't know?" he said, and his voice was bitter. "They don't care. Or do you think the daughter of a baroness will complain about the 'Night Owls,' and anyone will take it seriously?"
She had no answer. Because he was right.
"Eliza."
The professor's voice snapped her back to reality. Eliza raised her head, feeling heat flood her cheeks.
"Please continue the formula," the elderly man said dryly, not a trace of leniency in his voice.
She looked at the board, at the broken formula the professor had written before calling on her. Her mind, usually sharp and quick, now refused to work. She opened her mouth, but the words wouldn't come.
From her left, someone whispered a prompt. Eliza didn't catch it, but it was enough to remember the necessary coefficient. She finished the formula, and the professor, grimacing, nodded.
"Sit down. Next time, pay more attention."
She sat, feeling dozens of eyes on her. Some looked with sympathy, some with mockery. Eliza lowered her gaze and gripped her quill until her knuckles went white.
After the lecture, she was leaving the auditorium when Aduvio caught up with her. He looked as impeccable as always, and his presence made several students respectfully step aside.
"You were off today," he remarked, falling into step beside her.
"Just didn't sleep well," Eliza replied, not looking at him.
"Because of your friend? The one the 'Night Owls'…" he didn't finish, but she understood.
"How do you know?"
"At the 'Golden Stronghold,' everyone knows everything," Aduvio shrugged. "The question is who does what about it."
They stepped into the inner courtyard. The sky had darkened further, and the first drops of rain began to fall on the stone slabs.
"I can help," Aduvio said, stopping under the colonnade's canopy. "The 'Night Owls' aren't the kind to take on alone. But the 'Circle of the Falcon'… we could talk to them. Explain that some people are under our protection."
Eliza looked at him. In his eyes was no mockery, only the calm confidence of a man used to solving problems.
"And what would you ask in return?" she asked quietly.
Aduvio smiled, and there was something almost tender in that smile. "Nothing, Eliza. Just come to our next gathering. See what we do. And think about where you belong."
The rain intensified, drumming on the colonnade roof. Eliza stood, feeling drops reach her face, cold and sharp.
"I'll think about it," she said.
"I know," Aduvio replied, and with a nod of farewell, vanished into the curtain of rain.
That evening, she came to the fountain. The rain had stopped, and the air was fresh, smelling of wet stone and earth. Rein, Mira, and Lis sat in their usual spot. Lis looked more cheerful, though the bruise under his eye was still visible.
"You were off today," Mira remarked as Eliza sat down beside them.
"Just tired," she replied.
"It's because of Aduvio, isn't it?" Rein asked, and there was a strange note in his voice. "I saw you talking after the lecture."
Eliza was silent, and that silence was more eloquent than any words.
"He asked you to join his group again?" Lis whistled. "Look, I get it. He's cool. And strong. But those 'Falcons'… they're not like us."
"They could protect us," Eliza said quietly. "From the 'Night Owls.' From…"
"From everything," Rein finished for her. "But at what cost, Eliza? Have you thought about the cost?"
She looked at her hands. On her palms, where her golden thread usually flared, there was nothing.
"I don't know what to do," she admitted. "I want to protect you. But when I look at the 'Night Owls,' at what they do, at how everyone stays silent… I realize my strength isn't enough."
"Your strength is enough," Mira took her hand. "It's just… different. You connect us. You make us stronger when we're together. Isn't that enough?"
Eliza wanted to answer, but the words stuck in her throat. She remembered how Lis had looked at her yesterday when she could do nothing. She remembered how Rein had pulled her hand back when she wanted to go to the instructors. She remembered how easily Aduvio, with one word, had offered to solve a problem she couldn't solve for weeks.
"I don't know," she repeated.
The rain began to drizzle again. Drops fell on Eliza's face, mingling with what she refused to call tears.
That night, she couldn't sleep. She lay on her bed, listening to her roommate's steady breathing, and stared at the ceiling. Her golden thread pulsed inside her, reminding her of its warmth. Eliza closed her eyes and allowed it to emerge.
The thread slipped from her palm, thin, almost weightless. It stretched upward, towards the ceiling, and there, in the darkness, began to weave a strange pattern. Eliza watched as golden lines intertwined, creating something resembling a web.
She thought about Rein, about Mira, about Lis. About how they laughed at the fountain, shared their last bread, whispered about plans for the future. She thought about how vulnerable they were. About how her golden thread, no matter how strong, could not become steel.
The thread trembled. For a moment, Eliza thought it grew darker, denser, heavier. But it lasted only a second. She opened her eyes, and the thread, obedient to her will, became golden again, thin, almost weightless.
But something had changed. Eliza felt it. Somewhere deep inside, in the place where her power lived, a crack had appeared. Small, barely noticeable. But it was there.
Eliza clenched her fist, and the thread vanished. She turned on her side, closed her eyes, and forced herself to breathe evenly. Tomorrow would be a new day. And in that new day, she would have to choose again.