Nepenthe • Something that can make you forget grief or suffering.
Never feeling like they belonged was a feeling that Lissa Dragomir lived with, even with her family and life long best friend, although they aided in that feeling not being so strong...
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The communal lounge near the east wing had always been one of Lissa's favorite places at the Academy. It was one of the few spaces that didn't feel overtly political—no formal seating arrangements, no ancestral portraits glaring down in judgment. Tall windows framed the snowy grounds outside, and enchanted lamps cast a warm amber glow that softened the stone walls and made the couches feel almost inviting.
Almost.
The moment Lissa stepped inside with Christian, Aaron, and Mia, the room shifted.
It wasn't dramatic. No one gasped or openly stared. Instead, conversations dipped just enough to be noticeable. Laughter thinned. A pair of Moroi near the far table glanced over and then quickly looked away, as though being seen watching would be worse than the watching itself.
Lissa felt it like a familiar pressure, tight and cold against her ribs.
"They're doing it again," Mia muttered, dropping onto a couch with exaggerated casualness. "You'd think we grew extra heads."
Christian's mouth curved into something sharp as he leaned against a pillar, arms crossed. "We're inconvenient."
Lissa glanced at him. "Inconvenient how?"
"We survived," he replied simply. "And we didn't do it quietly."
Aaron lingered near an armchair, letter in hand, clearly distracted. He unfolded it, refolded it, then folded it again with careful precision, as though the paper might shatter if he wasn't gentle enough.
Mia noticed immediately. She always did when it came to Aaron, "Aaron?" she asked softly.
He looked up, startled, then let out a breath. "Sorry. Family."
Lissa's expression softened, her usual gentleness giving way to concern. She leaned forward closer, feeling Christian's hand linger on her lower back. "Bad family, or normal royal-family bad?"
Aaron huffed, a humorless sound. "The usual."
Christian snorted. "Let me guess. They've decided they know what's best for you."
Aaron gave him a look that was half amusement, half exhaustion. "That obvious?"
Lissa studied Aaron as he sank into the chair opposite her. The weight he carried was different from hers, but she recognized it anyway. Royal expectations had a way of sinking into your bones early, shaping you long before you understood what they were asking of you.
It was strange, sometimes, how far they'd all come.
They'd known each other as children—really known each other. Dominion galas in the capital, sprawling halls filled with silk and crystal and too many adults pretending children were invisible. Lissa remembered running through those halls with Aaron and Christian and a few other Royal Moroi children, skirts too long, laughter echoing as someone trailed behind them with a grin and a mischievous spark in their eyes.
