3: AFFECTION

CAMILA

By the third day, I stopped pretending I didn’t understand what was happening.

Lunaris Academy did not reject me openly. That would have been simple—clean, even. If they had told me outright that humans didn’t belong here, I could have fought it. Argued. Proved myself.

Instead, they did something far more effective.

They erased me.

Liliana Blackthorn never raised her voice at me. She never shoved me, never insulted me directly, never dirtied her hands with cruelty. She didn’t need to. Her presence alone was enough to set things in motion, like a single command whispered to a well-trained pack.

It began the moment she entered a room.

Her friends—wolves from powerful families, girls who wore confidence like a crown—would straighten, eyes flicking toward her for approval. And then, almost imperceptibly, their attention would shift to me.

The human.

My chair was missing when I arrived for morning lecture. When I asked where it was, one of the girls blinked innocently and said, “Oh? Was that yours?”

I stood through the entire class.

In runic studies, my notes vanished between sessions. I searched my bag, my desk, the floor beneath my feet.

“They probably blew away,” someone said, lips twitching.

In alchemy, a girl brushed past my table just as I leaned forward, sending my vial tumbling to the ground. Glass shattered. The contents hissed and smoked against the stone.

“Careless,” the professor said without looking at me. “Clean it up.”

I knelt while others watched.

No one moved to help.

When I returned to my seat, Liliana glanced back briefly—just long enough for our eyes to meet. Her expression was calm. Polite.

Satisfied.

That was the worst part.

If she had hated me openly, I could have hated her back.

But this? This was elegance sharpened into a blade.

By midday, my shoulders ached from tension alone. Every step through the halls felt measured, cautious. I learned which corridors to avoid, which staircases were safest, how to read the subtle shift in air when wolves gathered too closely.

I learned to keep my head down again.

I hadn’t done that in years.

During pack hierarchy studies, I answered a question correctly—carefully, factually, citing the text.

A girl behind me laughed.

“She memorized it,” she said. “Cute.”

The professor didn’t correct her.

He simply moved on.

Across the room, I saw Sebastian Blackthorn.

He sat among his peers, relaxed, commanding without effort. People leaned toward him when he spoke. Laughter followed him like gravity. He caught my glance—just for a second.

And then he looked away.

The realization stung more than I expected.

It wasn’t that I thought he would defend me. I wasn’t foolish enough for that.

It was the way he *chose not to see*.

By lunch, my stomach twisted—not with hunger, but with the familiar ache of isolation.

The dining hall buzzed with noise and life. Tables overflowed with groups, conversations overlapping, power clustering naturally where bloodlines ran strongest.

I carried my tray slowly, scanning for a place that didn’t feel like trespassing.

There wasn’t one.

When I finally sat at the far edge of an almost-empty table, someone bumped my arm as they passed. My drink spilled, dark liquid soaking into my sleeve and across the table.

Laughter followed.

“Oh no,” one of Liliana’s friends said, feigning concern. “Are humans allergic to clumsiness too?”

I wiped it up myself.

No one apologized.

I left early.

The afternoon classes blurred together after that—voices, faces, rules I followed perfectly and still failed. By the time the final bell rang, relief never came. The academy didn’t feel like something I escaped from at the end of the day.

It felt like something I endured.

Instead of returning to the dorms, I climbed.

The rooftop was quiet, open to the sky, the stone still warm beneath my palms. From here, Lunaris looked unreal—beautiful and distant, like it belonged to someone else entirely.

I sat near the edge and hugged my knees to my chest.

I told myself I wouldn’t cry.

I told myself I was stronger than this.

But strength, I was learning, didn’t mean you didn’t feel pain.

It just meant you learned to carry it quietly.

The wind brushed my face, cool and steady. I pressed my forehead against my knees and closed my eyes.

Footsteps echoed behind me.

I stiffened.

“Camila.”

His voice was unmistakable.

I looked up slowly.

Sebastian stood a few steps away, his expression unreadable. Up here, away from the crowd, he looked different—less untouchable, more… uncertain.

“I thought you might be here,” he said.

I swallowed. “I just needed air.”

He nodded, then reached into his pocket.

A handkerchief.

White. Clean. Carefully folded.

“You’re crying,” he said gently.

I hadn’t realized I was.

For a moment, I hesitated. Then I took it.

“Thank you.”

Our fingers brushed, and the contact sent a strange warmth through my chest—unexpected, unwelcome.

He sat down beside me, leaving just enough space to be respectful.

“I’ve heard things have been rough,” he said quietly.

I almost laughed.

“Rough,” I repeated.

He winced slightly. “Yeah.”

Silence stretched between us, heavy but not uncomfortable.

“I’ll talk to her,” he said suddenly.

I looked at him. “Your sister?”

He nodded. “Liliana. She doesn’t always realize how far things go.”

That wasn’t true.

But the fact that he said it—*that he promised something at all*—made my chest ache in a way I didn’t recognize.

“You don’t have to,” I said quickly, even though part of me wanted him to.

“I want to,” he replied. “You shouldn’t have to deal with this alone.”

Those words—*alone*—hit harder than anything else that day.

I nodded, afraid my voice would break.

He stood after a moment. “Just… hang on, okay? Lunaris tests people. It gets easier.”

“Does it?” I asked softly.

He hesitated. “…I think so.”

Before he left, he glanced back. “You’re stronger than you think, Camila.”

Then he was gone.

I remained there long after.

The rooftop felt colder without him.

I stared down at the handkerchief in my hands, clutching it like proof that something—*someone*—had seen me today.

It was nothing.

A small kindness. A promise without weight.

But to someone who had grown up with nothing at all?

It felt like affection.

And I didn’t yet understand how dangerous it was to confuse endurance with hope—or scraps of attention with love.

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