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Chapter Text

The gates of the academy looked like monuments. Carved stone older than any student who passed beneath them, older even than the families who sent their heirs through. They towered high and solemn, as though silently declaring, “this is why you leave behind who you were, and step into who you must become.”

Ashswag entered first, dragging the silence out of the morning with him like a stormcloud. His voice carried across the entrance long before the rest of him did.

“House of Devotion in the flesh!” he boomed, striding with all the exaggerated confidence of someone twice his age. His satchel swung again his side as he gestured broadly at no one in particular, as if the entrance were a stage. “Remember this face, upperclassmen! You’ll see it everywhere soon enough!”

A few of them, older students in near uniforms, barely turned their heads. Others smirked, exchanging quiet comments. It didn’t matter whether they thought him arrogant or foolish. To Ashswag, attention was attention. He straightened his back and strode forward as through their silence was awe, as through the heavy stone steps themselves bent beneath his presence.

He belonged here. Or at least, that’s what he told himself with every loud weird, with every laugh that shook the air. If he bragged loudly enough, maybe it would echo back as truth.

Among the crowd was Squiddo. She hadn’t stepped fully into the entrance yet, but lingered at the edges of the stone path, half in shadow. The sketchbook balanced against her palm was open, but her pencil hovered idly above the page. She wasn’t sketching today. Just watching.

Her gaze flickered over the faces, gestures, and different uniforms that clearly showed the hierarchy between normal students and those part of the Houses. The little details that might one day find their way into her lines. Ashswag, loud and blazing in the center of it all, was impossible not to notice. Still, she didn’t lift her pencil. Some things didn’t need to be captured to be remembered.

He caught her eyes, just for a second.

It was startling, how familiar it felt. After all, they had known each other for years. Childhood summers tangled together at banquets, fleeting conversations while parents talked politics over gilded tables. She knew his laugh, his arrogance, his need to be seen. He probably remembered her too. The quiet girl at the edge of the room, sketching a chandelier while everyone chased conversation.

But now was different.

This wasn’t a passing evening in some grand villa. This was the academy. The place where they would live side by side, where meals would be shared, classes attended, traditions upheld. Here, their presence wasn’t temporary. It was constant. Inescapable.

Their eyes met. Brief, ungraded.

And then, almost at the same moment, both looked away.

Ashswag through his voice back into the entrance, resuming his parade of boasts with twice the energy, as though to smother the flicker of silence. Squiddo lowered her gaze to her sketchbook, pretending to draw lines that didn’t exist.

Neither spoke. Not yet.

But already, beneath the grandeur of the gates and the murmurs of students filing in, the air between them shifted. The academy had a way of forcing people together.

Ashswag’s voice then carried over the courtyard this time like a trumpet blast. He had somehow already found an audience–three upperclassmen, weary-eyed but mildly amused–and he was gesturing wildly with both hands as though he were already delivering some grand oration.

“House of Devotion!” he declared, his chest puffed out. “The proudest, loudest, strongest house in this entire academy! And now, blessed by fate itself, they have me. Ashswag!”

The upperclassmen exchanged looks, fighting smiles. One muttered something about “another one of those Rivalry types accidentally sorted wrong,” which only made Ashswag throw his head back in laughter, unbothered.

Squiddo had been leaning against the low stone wall at the edge of the courtyard now, sketchbook balanced on her knee. She hadn’t intended to listen (Ashswag’s volume made it impossible not to), but the scene was almost too perfect not to capture. Her pencil moved quickly, scratching faint outlines of his overblown gestures, the curve of his grin. She told herself she was simply practicing motion sketches. It wasn’t as if she cared.

Their eyes met once again. Hers, steady and amused. His, bright and full of challenge. A flicker of recognition passed between them, the kind that only comes from years of occasional childhood gatherings under the House of Devotion’s banner. They had played tag in the gardens of MinuteTech’s villa once, when they were both younger. She remembered him declaring himself “the fastest in all the land” before tripping into a rosebush. He, apparently, had forgotten that part.

She looked away first, flipping her page as though the sight of him had no weight at all. “Still bragging, Ashswag?” Her voice cut across his laughter like a pebble tossed into a pond. Soft, but enough to ripple his moment of glory.

Ashswag turned sharply, grin widening when he spotted her. “Squiddo!” He drew out her name like it was the most entertaining word he had ever spoken. “I thought I smelled the faint odor of sarcasm lurking nearby. How delightful that it was you all along.

She rolled her eyes, snapping her sketchbook shut. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, unforgettable,” he shot back without missing a beat. He strutted closer, lowering his voice only slightly, as if secrecy was a game he refused to play properly. “Pray tell, did you enjoy my grand entrance? The upperclassmen were practically trembling.

“They were trembling with secondhand embarrassment,” she said, brushing a stand of hair from her face. “Not awe.”

Ashsawag placed a hand over his chest, stumbling back as though struck by an arrow. “Cruel! To wound me on my first day! Squiddo, you’ve already had a wicked streak.”

“Someone has to keep you tethered to reality.”

Their words overlapped with an ebb and flow of new arrivals, but it felt like a bubble formed around them anyway. This rhythm, the boast and the rebuttal, the drama and the deadpan, wasn’t new. It had existed between them for years, little flashes during family gatherings or brief exchanges at House functions. But now, for the first time, it wasn’t fleeting. This was the academy. The same House, the same corridors, the same days stretched endlessly forward.

Squiddo could already imagine the headache of hearing him announce his every minor achievement at breakfast, or worse, his booming laughter echoing through the study hall.

Ashswag, meanwhile, silently thrilled at having a sparring partner. Most people rolled their eyes and ignored him. Squiddo rolled her eyes and answered back. That made all the difference.

He leaned closer, lowering his voice in mock seriousness. “You’ll regret mocking me, you know. One day, when the Elders finally notice me, you’ll wish you’d been kinder.”

She arched a brow, unimpressed. “Or maybe I’ll draw the caricature that hangs right beside it. Loudest voice in the academy, tiniest ego to match.”

Ashswag barked out a laugh, unbothered as always. “Draw away! They’ll hang it beside my portrait as proof of my legendary charm.”

Their banter ended there for the moment, but the air between them felt changed, like kindling waiting for a spark. The academy had only just begun, and already, the old rhythm of their rivalry had found new life.

Chapter Text

The gardens of the academy were not meant for everyone.

They were locked away behind wrought-iron gates, watched by discreet servants whose very presence seemed to remind anyone passing by that this place wasn’t yours unless you were born into it.

Rows upon rows of trimmed hedges unfolded in complicated spirals, a deliberate labyrinth meant to impress visiting nobles, while fountains gurgled with crystal-clear water that caught the sun like polished glass. Every flower had been imported from the far corners of the realm. Lilies that were said to bloom only in the courts of the west, roses bred by generations of gardeners in the south, blossoms that had once been reserved for monarchs but now bent their heads toward whoever bore the crest of one of the four Houses.

Ashswag walked into this living monument as though it belonged to him alone.

He did not stroll. He strode, with chest out and chin high, arms sweeping grandly in a way that might have seemed ridiculous to anyone else but to him felt natural. His voice filled the still morning air, startling birds from the branches as he launched into a speech no one asked for.

“Yes, yes, gentlemen and ladies of the academy,” he boomed, though only the flowers stood before him. “You’ve heard of the tales, of course. You’ve whispered my name in the corridors. But now–now you see me, here, standing proud in the name of my family!” He flung an arm toward the carved crest on his jacket, the embroidered emblem catching a stray beam of sunlight.

He pivoted, as though to address an audience on his other side. “I am Ashswag, a member of the line you all admire. Wait, no, envy! You ask yourselves, ‘what will he do? what brilliance will he bring to this academy?’ Ah! You wonder, you wait, but I assure you… the wait is worth it!

He paused dramatically, scanning the garden as though the hedges themselves should erupt into applause. None did. Instead, a petal drifted lazily from a branch above, brushing against his shoulder before tumbling to the path.

Ashswag caught it with two fingers, grinning as if even the garden conspired to acknowledge him. He felt the petal aloft like a trophy. “You see? Even nature bows!”

With a flourishing step, he approached one of the marble fountains, where koi swam in slow garden arcs beneath the water. His reflection shimmered, slightly distorted by ripples, but he straightened anyway, adjusting his hair and squaring his shoulders. “And of course,” he said to his own image, “it isn’t only my words. No, it’s the pose, the presence, the sheer aura of Devotion itself! Who else but I could represent my family with such elegance? With such magnificence? Who else could–”

He stopped, narrowed his eyes at his reflection.

“--well, perhaps I could hold my chin a little bit higher. Hm.” He tilted his head, then raised it by a fraction. “Yes. Perfect. Regal. Unshakable. They’ll never forget this.”

The koi swam on. The roses leaned quietly against the wind.

None of it bothered Ashswag in the slightest. In fact, the lack of response seemed only to fuel him, as if the silence itself was a challenge daring him to speak louder, stand taller. He began pacing between the flowerbeds, rehearsing grand proclamations, testing which tone of voice carried best against the marble walls. Every so often he struck a new pose. Hand against his chest, finger pointed skyward, cloak flaring behind him as though an invisible audience might sketch him into history that very moment.

And all the while, he muttered quick asides under his breath, “Yes, that sounded excellent. Remember that phrase, Ashswag. Oh, and don’t forget to pause for effect.”

Ashswag carried on as if the stage of the world had opened beneath his feet.

From the shade of a marble gazebo draped in climbing ivy, Squiddo sat quietly with her knees drawn up, a sketchbook balanced against her lap. Her pencil whispered faintly across the paper, following the restless movement of a figure striding through the sunlit path beyond.

Ashswag. Of course.

He stood in the middle of the rose-lined walkway, arms spread as though he addressed an invisible audience. His voice rang across the garden. Booming, theatrical, utterly unbothered by who might be listening.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the academy,” he declared, punctuating the phrase with a sweeping bow toward the roses. “It is with great honor that I accept this… this inevitable recognition of my brilliance!”

He gestured dramatically toward the nearest bush, as though its blossoms were swooning maidens. “My family could not have found a finer representative. A bolder leader, a brighter–”

“–distraction to the gardeners,” Squiddo muttered under her breath, smiling faintly as she let her pencil fly faster. She sketched him as he was. Chin titled high, posture stiff with pride, his hands mid-flourish. But there was something softer in the way her lines curbed, as though her quiet attention gentled his arrogance.

For a long moment, she worked unnoticed, the gazebo’s columns shielding her from his wandering gaze. He was too caught up in his imaginary crowd, testing out speeches, striking poses that belonged on marble statues rather than a boy his age.

“Yes, yes, I hear you applause!” Ashswag cried suddenly, cupping a hand to his ears. “Louder! Louder! You’re embarrassing yourself with such pitiful clapping!

Squiddo nearly snorted. Her pencil stalled, pressing too darkly into the paper. She leaned closer, shading in his ridiculous grin, when his head jerked toward her.

“Oi!” His voice cracked through the stillness of the garden. “Were you–” He marched closer, eyes narrowing with incredulous delight. “You were sketching me?”

Squiddo snapped her sketchbook shut with a clap, clutching it to her chest. “No.”

He leaned against the gazebo’s column, smirk spreading like wildfire. “Don’t lie. I saw the way you looked. Like an artist who just found her muse.” He tapped his chest. “And what a muse I am!”

“You’re insufferable,” Squiddo sighed, rolling her eyes.

“Insufferably inspiring,” Ashswag corrected, puffing out his chest even more. “Think about it. You could sketch anyone, but you chose me. Me! That says something.”

“It says you’re loud enough to be heard from halfway across the garden,” she deadpanned.

His laughter thundered through the gazebo, bouncing off its stone. “And yet, you didn’t walk away. You stayed. You even captured me!”

Her cheeks warmed. Not from flattery, but from the sheer audacity of him. She turned back to her sketchbook, flipping through the blank pages as if to prove indifference. “The flowers were boring,” she muttered.

“Oh no, no, don’t downplay it.” He leaned down, bracing one hand against the bench she sat on, invading her quiet space with his irrepressible presence. “You must admit it. You found me… fascinating.”

“Fascinating like a peacock,” she replied dryly. “Noisy, colorful, constantly showing off.”

Ashswag grinned, unbothered. “Exactly! And yet you drew me.” He straightened and spread his arms wide again. “Clearly destiny agrees that I was born to be admired.”

Squiddo shook her head, but the corner of her mouth twitched. His bravado was too exaggerated to take seriously. Still, she couldn’t help but glance around the garden, wondering how no one else had stumbled upon his antics yet.

The garden, she realized, was their corner now. Somehow, by accident, it had become their shared refuge. His stage, and her sketchbook backdrop.

And though Squiddo would never admit it aloud, she knew she would come back here tomorrow. And tomorrow. And overmorrow.

Because as maddening as Ashswag was, the garden wasn’t quite the same without his noise filling it and her pencil capturing it in silence now.

Chapter Text

The following week, Ashswag strutted into the gardens with the same booming energy as ever, as though the flowers themselves should have been grateful for his presence. He hadn’t expected anyone to be there. After all, gardens were for admiring silently, for dignified conversation, for refined leisure. None of which interested him all that much. He was here because he liked the echo his own voice made against the fountain, the way the roses swayed as though nodding at his boasts. It was a good rehearsal stage for his “future speeches of greatness,” as he often called them.

Therefore when he rounded the path and saw Squiddo sitting in her usual spot, sketchbook balanced delicately on her knees, he stopped short.

“You again?” His tone wasn’t annoyed. It was more of surprised. “What, did the flowers invite you back too? Or were you so inspired by my performance last week that you couldn’t stay away?”

Squiddo didn’t look up immediately, her pencil scratching softly across the page. “I didn’t realize you’d claim this entire garden as your stage,” she replied, voice cool, as though she’d prepared for this exact moment.

Ashsawag, never one to let a jab slide, pressed a hand dramatically against his chest. “Stage? No, no. This is my kingdom. The roses are my loyal subjects, the lilies my choir. And you?” he leaned toward her with a grin. “You must be here to record the legend of their ruler.”

Finally, she lifted her gaze, unimpressed, though the faintest race of amusement flickered at the corners of her mouth. “Or maybe I just like the quiet. Which is hard to find when you’re around.”

“The quiet?” He laughed, loud enough to startle a nearby bird into flight. “Squiddo, the quiet will never win you applause. You can’t win a crowd by whispering into a sketchbook. You need command! Presence! Heroic posture!” he threw out his arms in a ridiculous pose, chin lifted high.

That was when he noticed, out of the corner of his eyes, the way her hand had stilled on the paper. Her sketchbook was tilted toward her chest, but the way she’d frozen told him something. His grin widened immediately.

“Wait a second.” He leaned closer, trying to peak over the edge. “Are you… drawing me?”

Her cheeks warmed, though she tried to mask it with her usual composure. “I was sketching the gazebo,” she said quickly, closing the cover halfway which ended the matter.

“Oh, don’t even try!” Ashswag crowed triumphantly, pointing at her as though he’d caught her committing a grand crime. “You’re sketching me. Admit it! Ha! I knew it! I knew I was inspiring enough to draw!”

“You’re not inspiring,” she muttered, tucking the book into her lap, “you’re distracting. There’s a difference.”

Ashswag laughed again, stirring into the center of the gazebo as if it were a stage made for him alone. “Distracting, inspiring, whatever! It’s the same thing when it comes to greatness! Go on then, sketch away, I’ll pose properly this time. You’ll thank me later.

With that, he struck a dramatic stance. One leg bent, arm outstretched toward the horizon, chin tilted at just the right angle to catch the late afternoon sun. He looked like a caricature of a knight from one of the academy’s dusty storybooks.

Squiddo rolled her eyes, though her pencil betrayed her, already moving against the page despite her protests. “You look ridiculous,” she said flatly.

“Ridiculously heroic,” he corrected without missing a beat. “This one should go in the House of Devotion archives. Maybe they’ll hang it in the hall someday. ‘Ashswag, Conqueror of Gardens.’”

“You mean, ‘Ashswag, Menace of Peace and Quiet,’” Squiddo replied dryly, though her lips twitched as if suppressing a smile.

He held the pose for a few more seconds before collapsing into a laugh, flopping onto the bench across from her. “Fine, fine, I’ll sit like a normal person. But don’t think I didn’t notice. You actually drew me. That means I’m officially your muse.”

“You’re not my muse,” she shot back, clutching the sketchbook protectively to her chest.
“Then why hide it?” he teased, leaning forward with that infuriating grin.

Her silence was answer enough, though she quickly deflected. “Some things aren’t meant to be shown yet. Not to you.”

He blinked at that, caught off guard by the seriousness in her tone. Then, unable to help himself, he smirked. “So you’re saying I’ll get to see eventually? Perfect. I’ll wait. Muses are patient.”

She shook her head at him, but for the first time, her expression softened into something gentler, almost fond.

That afternoon stretched longer than either of them intended. She sketched, pretending not to notice the way he kept sneaking glances at her, while he alternated between practicing “heroic” speeches to the flowerbeds and trying to make her laugh.

Ashswag, bored of waiting for her to show him what she was drawing, straightened up with sudden theatrical energy. “Fine, if you won't show me, then I’ll create my own masterpiece!” He strode a few paces away, humming as if he were making a great decision, and dramatically plucked one of the blossoms from a nearby hedge. It was a rich violet flower, delicate and almost too refined for his boisterous hands. He turned back toward her with a flourish, holding it aloft like he had conquered a beast.

“For you,” he declared, puffing his chest, as though the entire garden were his stage and she the audience of one. “A gift from the noble hero of Devotion House to his…” he paused, squinting at her with mock consideration. “Quiet, sketchbook-dwelling sidekick.”

Squiddo raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “So you’re vandalizing the academy’s plants now? Very heroic.” She didn’t reach for the flower at first, simply watching him dangle it in front of her, waiting for him to tire of the bit. But Ashswag only grinned wider, undeterred, wagging the blossom closer until it brushed against the edge of her sketchbook.

“C’mon, Squiddo. Don’t leave me hanging. Do you know how many admirers would beg for a flower from me? This one comes with bragging rights.”

She sighed, finally taking it with reluctant fingers, though the faintest pink touched her cheeks. “You never stop, do you?”

“Not when it comes to being unforgettable,” he shot back immediately, his grin blinding.

Rolling her eyes, she tucked the flower between the open legs of her sketchbook, carefully pressing it flat. It was a small, almost secret motion. One that belied her usual indifference. Ashswag noticed, of course. His bragging faltered for a beat, curiosity flickering across his face, but he said nothing. Instead, he leaned back against the gazebo’s railing, smirking like he had already won some unspoken contest.

For the rest of the afternoon, their words tangled like threads. Hers were quiet, sharp retorts against his loud proclamations. Neither admitted it, but something about the garden softened the sharp edges between them. By the time they parted ways, the silence they left behind felt heavier than before.

And though they both told themselves it was chance, both Ashswag and Squiddo found their thoughts drifting back to that gazebo. To the flowers. To the sketchbook.

Neither of them admitted it out loud, but both began to look forward to the garden meetings, as though it had already become theirs. An unspoken ritual stitched quietly into the rhythm of academy life.

Chapter Text

Ashswag was usually easy to spot in a hallway. Shoulders squared, chin high, voice carrying like he was always on the verge of giving a speech no one asked for. But that afternoon, when Squiddo caught sight of him  by one of the tall academy windows, the effect was off.

He wasn’t boasting or laughing. He was slouched against the sill, fingers drumming faintly against the glass, staring out at nothing in particular. His uniform jacket was half-unbuttoned, his collar crooked. Little signs of carelessness that didn’t fit his usual loud, polished energy. There was a heaviness to his shoulders, as though the invisible weight of his family’s expectations had finally managed to press down.

“You look terrible,” Squiddo said flatly as she stopped beside him.

Ashswag jumped, straightening instantly like a soldier caught out of formation. “Me? Terrible? Please. I always look devastatingly good.” He ran a hand through his hair, flashing a grin that would have fooled anyone else. “This is my broodingly handsome expression. You should sketch it, you’ll need practice with angles.”

She didn’t answer right away, just crossed her arms, watching him too closely. It made his grin twitch.

“Seriously,” she said at last, her tone softer but sharper for it, “you look tired.”

Ashswag barked a laugh, a little too loud. “Tired? Ha! Never. Heroes don’t get tired. Heroes thrive under pressure, they–”

“–crack when no one’s looking,” Squiddo cut in smoothly. Her eyes flickered over him. The shadowed lines beneath his eyes, the restless tapping of his hand, the way his shoulders never fully relaxed. “You’re good at pretending, but not that good.”

For a second, something flickered in his expression, like a mask slipping just slightly. His bravado stumbled, though he tried to patch it up with another wide grin. “And you’re good at ruining the moment. You’ve got a real talent for that, you know?”

He pushed himself upright, wagging a finger at her. “You should focus less on my alleged flaws and more on the sketchbook of yours. Honestly, if you spent half as much time practicing as you do criticizing me, maybe one day your art could capture this level of magnificence.” He spread his arms wide, striking a deliberately overdramatic pose right in the middle of the corridor. A passing student snorted, and Ashswag only leaned harder into the act, smirking like it was all part of his plan.

Squiddo rolled her eyes so hard it nearly hurt. “There it is. Bragging. Again. You know you sound unbearable most of the time, right?”

“Unbearably charming,” he corrected instantly, wagging his eyebrows. “Don’t deny it. You wouldn’t keep hanging around me otherwise.

She sighed, but there was a faint tug at the corner of her mouth that she tried to hide. For all his noise, he wasn’t entirely wrong.

There was a pause. Strange, but not uncomfortable. The afternoon light through the tall windows caught on the dust motes drifting in the air, quieting the space around them. Ashswag’s grin softened a fraction, though he quickly covered it with another smirk.

“Tell you what,” he said, suddenly leaning in with conspiratorial flair. “How about we strike a deal?”

Squiddo gave him a wary look. “A deal?”

“Yeah.” He jabbed a thumb at himself. “I’ll keep bragging. Loudly. Unstoppably. It’s a gift, really. And you…” He pointed at her sketchbook tucked under her arm. “...you keep drawing. Secretly. Quietly. Like you always do. Maybe one day, we’ll both get better at it.

She blinked, caught off guard. “That’s the dumbest deal I’ve ever heard.”

Ashswag grinned wider, undeterred. “Which means it’s perfect. Imagine it. You’ll refine your art, I’ll refine my legend,” he paused dramatically. “That way, together, we’ll be unstoppable!”

Despite herself, a small laugh escaped her, light and unguarded. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re smiling,” he shot back triumphantly. “Deal sealed.” He thrust out his hand as though they were signing a treaty between Houses.

She hesitated, long enough for him to wiggle his fingers impatiently, before finally taking it. His palm was warm, his grip firm in that overconfident way of his. He shook once, then twice, then far too many times, until she pulled her hand back with a scowl.

But as she walked away down the corridor, she found herself turning the words over in her mind. “You keep drawing, I’ll keep bragging.” It was silly, almost meaningless. And yet, for some reason, it stayed with her longer than she expected.

And for Ashswag, left standing in the light of the tall window, the grin he wore lingered a little less forced this time.

Ashswag was still thinking about the comment he made when movement outside the tall academy windows caught his eyes. The glass stretched up two stories high, the kind of grand, polished panes meant to remind students of the academy’s wealth (which was really just the wealth of all of the Houses), but all Ashswag saw through them was a familiar silhouette slipping past the hedges. Sketchbook in hand, head bent slightly forward, Squiddo moved with that same deliberate pace of hers. Neither rushing nor dragging, like she lived in her own steady rhythm. And she was heading straight for the gardens.

Ashswag’s mouth curved into a grin. “Oh, so that’s where you’re running off to,” he muttered to himself, springing up.

He had half a mind to leave her to it. But then again, what kind of member of the House of Devotion would he be if he didn’t make an appearance? Not just an appearance, a grand entrance. He was Ashswag. And if Squiddo thought she could quietly disappear into her sketchbook without his commentary, she had another thing coming.

Still, he hesitated at the door, tapping his chin. Banter was fun. Teasing her was fun. But  maybe, just this once, he should show up with something extra. Something that proved he wasn’t only all talk. His eyes darted to the small parcel on the table beside him. The kitchen had been generous that morning, and he snagged a few neatly wrapped pastries meant for tea. He hadn’t been particularly hungry, so they were still untouched.

“Perfect,” he said with a triumphant snap of his fingers, scooping them up. “What’s a garden stroll without snacks?”

The walk there didn’t take long, though Ashswag stretched it out with exaggerated strides, already rehearsing the quips he might make when he found her. By the time he reached the entrance, the sunlight had softened into that mellow late-afternoon glow that made the hedges shine greener and the roses throw shadows across the stone path. And there she was, just as he knew she would be, perched in her usual gazebo, sketchbook open, pencil scratching gently against the page.

Ashswag leaned against one of the pillars dramatically. “You know,” he called, holding up the small parcel like a trophy, “some people announce when they’re going to the gardens. Would have saved me the trouble of having to hunt you down through two-story windows.

Squiddo’s head lifted slowly, her expression calm but not surprised. She adjusted her grip on her pencil, narrowing her eyes at him in that quiet, measuring way she had. “I don’t recall inviting you,” she said.

“You don’t have to invite greatness,” Ashswag shot back, striding forward and plopping down onto the bench across from her. He carefully unwrapped the bundle and revealed the pastries with a flourish. “Greatness arrives on its own schedule. And sometimes,” he tilted the plate toward her, “it brings food.”

For the first time that day, Squiddo’s composure cracked into something closer to a laugh. Not a full laugh, not the kind of sound he could boast about later, but her mouth tugged upward in that tiny way that always felt like a secret reward. She set her pencil down and leaned closer, inspecting the pastries with obvious curiosity. “Did you actually bring something useful for once?” she asked.

“Useful?” Ashswag pressed a hand to his chest, feigning injury. “These aren’t just useful, Squiddo. There are House-blessed, academy-approved, fresh-from-the-kitchen treasures. Only the finest delicacies are fit for my company.”

“Then why are you giving them to me?” she said dryly.
He barked a laugh, nudging the plate closer. “Because I know you’ll appreciate them more than those flowers you keep sketching. At least pastries don’t wilt.”

She rolled her eyes, but she reached out anyway, delicately choosing one and breaking it in half before taking a bite. 

Ashswag wasted no time in grabbing one for himself, sinking his teeth into the flaky crust and sighing loudly, almost theatrically. “See? Told you. Perfection.”

“Mm,” she murmured around her bite, gaze already lowering back to her sketchbook. But this time, instead of retreating into silence, she tore off a small piece and set it gently on the corner of his napkin. “Try that one. I made it.”

Ashswag froze mid-bite. He stared at her, then at the small piece she offered. “Wait you… you cooked?” His voice shot up in disbelief.

“Baked,” she corrected, like it wasn’t worth much fuss.

His eyes widened dramatically. “Squiddo, you’ve been hiding this talent from me? Me, of all people? The future legend of House Devotion?”

She tilted her head, unimpressed. “Maybe I just didn’t want you bragging about it. Plus, you’re not the future legend. MinuteTech is.”

That earned another booming laugh from him, one that bounced against the gazebo’s rafters and startled a few birds in the nearby hedges. He leaned forward, elbows on the table,flashing her the most self-satisfied grin he could muster. “Too late. I’m already bragging. Ashswag, honored recipient of Squiddo’s secret recipe. That’s got a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

She gave him a long, flat look, but the faintest flush rose in her cheeks. Instead of answering, she opened her sketchbook again and began to draw, letting the soft scratching of graphite fill the silence between them. Ashswag, for once, didn’t interrupt. He just chewed thoughtfully on the pastry she had made, realizing it wasn’t just good. It was warm in a way even the academy kitchens couldn’t quite manage.

Chapter Text

The academy prided itself on molding students not just as individuals but as leaders who could command groups. So it was no surprise that the first year students were herded into the central courtyard one late morning, where the marble fountain glistened in the sunlight and the flags of each House fluttered high above.

The task was simple on paper. A team exercise. Each group of six or seven students had to work together to construct a freestanding tower using only a set of flimsy wooden rods and lengths of ribbon. The instructors called it “a lesson in cooperation.” Ashswag, of course, called it “a stage.”

He positioned himself right at the heart of his group. Chest puffed out, arms spread wide, as through the entire courtyard had been assembled for the express purpose of showcasing him.

“Listen up,” he declared, projecting his voice so loudly that students in the neighboring group turned their heads. “I have the perfect plan. We’ll build it all. Towering. Sturdy enough to withstand even the fiercest storm. House of Devotion will be remembered for this moment!”

One boy frowned at the pile of sticks. “They’re barely a foot long.”

Ashswag waved dismissively. “Details, details. What matters is vision! Height! Grandeur! When future students read the chronicles of this day, my strategy will be hailed as genius!” He reached down, grabbed two rods, and held them up in a dramatic X-shape. “Behold, the foundation of glory!”

The group looked unconvinced. Some exchanged puzzled glances, others shrugged, deciding it was easier to humor him than argue. They began fumbling with ribbons, trying to tie joints together.

That was when Squiddo, sitting cross-legged at the edge of the group with her sketchbook placed on her lap, spoke up without even lifting her eyes from the page. “Or,” she said calmly, pencil scratching, “we could actually follow the instructions.”

Ashswag spun toward her, scandalized. “Instructions? You doubt my architectural brilliance?”

She looked up, deadpan. “Brilliance is one word for it. Delusion is another.”

A ripple of laughter ran through the group. Even a few from other circles turned their heads, grinning.

Ashswag blinked, momentarily thrown off, then straightened with a grin of his own. “Ah, I see what you’re doing. Testing me. Trying to make me prove my worth in front of the crowd. Clever, Squiddo, very clever. But you forget that I thrive under scrutiny!”

Squiddo’s pencil didn’t stop moving. “I think your tower’s already leaning.”

Everyone’s eyes snapped back to the structure in progress. The crisscrossed rods were wobbling precariously, ribbons slipping loose. A second later, the entire thing collapsed into a sad pile of sticks.

There was a beat of silence, and then laughter erupted. Not cruel laughter, not in a way that humiliated him, but the kind of shared amusement that eased the tension in the air. Even the instructors standing at the edge of the courtyard smothered smiles.

Ashswag looked at the wreckage, then at Squiddo. She raised one brow, tilting her sketchbook toward him just enough for him to glimpse the rough outline of a lopsided tower with a stick figure (unmistakably him), standing on top, arms flailing.

For a moment, he just stared. And then he burst into a booming laugh, throwing his head back. “Ah, you got me! A worthy job, Squiddo. Truly, my greatness shines brightest when it has a rival to challenge it!”

“Rival?” she said, hiding her smile behind her sketchbook. “I’m just saving the tower from your ego.”

The group dissolved into chuckles again, their earlier nerves about the assignment forgotten. Someone nudged Ashswag with an elbow. “Looks like she’s not impressed, future leader.”

Ashswag grinned wider, playing along. “Not impressed yet. Just wait until you see what else I’ve got planned.”

But his chest felt lighter in a way he hadn’t expected. Usually when people laughed at him, it was because he wanted them to. Because he had said something outrageous or crafted the joke himself. This time, they were laughing with Squiddo’s words. And instead of stinging, it felt oddly fun.

They rebuilt the tower. Shorter, sturdier, guided more by Squiddo’s quiet suggestions than Ashswag’s grand speeches. Still, he found ways to keep the group’s energy high, narrating their progress like it was a saga destined for history books. Every time the structure wobbled, he’d gasp dramatically, clutching his chest as though it were a tragedy of Shakespearean proportions. And every time, Squiddo would puncture his performance with a dry remark that sent everyone giggling again.

By the time the bell rang and the instructors declared the exercise over, their group’s tower was one of the more stable ones in the courtyard. Not the tallest, not the flashiest, but solid and dependable.

Ashswag slapped his hands together in satisfaction. “See? Victory! Just as I predicted.”

“Predicted?” Squiddo asked, standing and dusting off her skirt. “Pretty sure it stayed upright because you stopped interfering.”

The laughter that followed was louder this time, and Ashswag felt every pair of eyes on them. He puffed up his chest anyway, letting the attention soak in, but he noticed the way people’s gazes flicked between him and Squiddo specifically. Not just at him, them.

When the groups began to disperse, he caught one of the upperclassmen whispering to another, “Those two are going to be trouble.”

Ashswag smirked at that. Trouble wasn’t such a bad reputation. Especially not if it was trouble with Squiddo by his side.

The courtyard slowly emptied after the exercise, the chatter of students echoing against the marble walls as they trailed off in groups, dissecting their “victories” or lamenting their collapsed towers. Ashswag was still riding high from the laughter and the attention, tossing exaggerated farewells over his shoulder like a performer leaving the stage.

“Remember this day!” he called, bowing with a flourish at a group of second-years who rolled their eyes fondly. “The tower may crumble, but my legend will not!”

A few snickers followed him, but most of the crowd dispersed. Squiddo lingered at the edge, closing her sketchbook and slipping it under her arm. She didn’t wait for him, but when Ashswag noticed her turning down the corridor that led toward the gardens, something in his stride shifted.

He could have gone anywhere else. Back to the dorms, to the dining hall, even to the library to boast his “strategic genius.” But his feet carried him after her almost without thought.

“Running away with my glory notes already?” he said as he caught up, peering sideways at her sketchbook. “Don’t think I didn’t see that masterpiece you were working on. The likeness was uncanny. Very flattering.”

She didn’t break stride. “I drew you with crossed eyes and arms flailing.”

“Yes! Exactly! Uncanny,” he said, grinning.

Her lips twitched, but she kept walking, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. The path to the gardens was quieter, lined with tall windows that filtered in the gold of late afternoon. Their footsteps echoed against the stone floor, oddly in sync.

They didn’t speak again until the heavy door to the gardens opened, letting in the scent of roses and trimmed hedges. The chatter of students had faded entirely. Here, it was just birdsong, the gentle rustle of leaves, and the faint splash of the ornamental fountain.

Squiddo wandered toward the gazebo, as though drawn there out of habit. Ashswag followed without hesitation, tossing himself dramatically onto the seat opposite her.

“Well,” he announced, stretching his arms over the backrest like a king surveying his domain, “clearly the world is not ready for my full genius. I shall have to retreat to my secret lair to plan my next grand display.”

“Funny,” Squiddo said, opening her sketchbook again. “I thought you followed me here.”

Ashswag gasped in mock offense. “Followed? Nonsense. I was drawn here, like a hero to destiny. The gardens are my natural stage.”

“And yet,” she said, pencil moving, “you seem perfectly fine with sharing it.”

The jab was casual, almost tossed away, but it hung between them. Ashswag really glanced at her at the way her pencil scratched against the page, at the faint smile she hid by keeping her head bent low. He leaned back, letting the quiet stretch, the boastful words still on his tongue but somehow harder to say.

He broke it anyway, with his usual flourish. “Fine. I admit it. You make the place less boring. Don’t let it go to your head.”

She rolled her eyes, but this time she didn’t hide the small smile that followed.

And just like that, without planning it, the garden was theirs again.

Chapter Text

The gardens were quiet in a way that only came with rain. The hedges bowed beneath beads of water, flowers trembling slightly as droplets clung to their petals. The usual chatter of students and attendants was gone. No one bothered wandering into the drizzle. Only the steady percussion of rainfall on the stone paths and the metallic tapping against the gazebo’s roof broke the silence.

Squiddo sat at one of the benches within that gazebo, her sketchbook propped open on her knees. Her pencil darted quickly, tracing the softened shapes of the landscape blurred by rain. The world as of the moment looked like it was painted in watercolor, strokes of gray and green running together. She had always liked this weather, when everything muted itself and left her with nothing but shapes, light, and the sound of her own thoughts.

But the peace didn’t last long.

A thundering set of footsteps splashes down the gravel path, cutting through the hushed atmosphere like a parade drum. Squiddo blinked up, already recognizing the careless rhythm. And sure enough, Ashswag appeared, sprinting across the drenched lawn, his uniform plastered against him, hair dripping in clumps across his forehead. He barreled into the gazebo with a dramatic skid, nearly colliding with the bench.

“Made it!” He declared triumphantly, raising both arms like a conquering hero. Water flew from his sleeves, spattering across the gazebo floor.

Squiddo dropped her pencil with a sigh. “You’re insane.”

“You say that,” Ashswag said, shaking his hair like a dog, “but would an insane man brave the storm simply to attend our hallowed garden meeting?”

She arched an eyebrow. “There isn’t a meeting. I didn’t even know you were coming.”

“Exactly!” He jabbed a finger at her as if he had caught her in a trap. “The best meetings are the unexpected ones. Fate brought me here, not the weather.”

Her gaze flicked down to the puddle forming around his shoes. “Fate also soaked you head to toe.”

He sniffled loudly, leaning against the gazebo’s post with the weariness of a man at death’s door. “A small price to pay. Heroes endure worse.” He coughed dramatically, one hand pressed to his chest. “Alas, if I should perish here, tell the House I fell in service of keeping our traditions alive.”

Squiddo rolled her eyes and pushed her handkerchief toward him without looking up from her sketchbook. “Stop performing and dry off before you drown the floor.”

Ashswag grinned, snatching it up, though he dabbed at his face with exaggerated care, as though each blot of the cloth was part of a stage act. “Such tenderness! Don’t worry, I’ll dedicate my first monument to you. ‘Here lies Squiddo, patron saint of soggy fools.’”

“You’ll be the fool, not me.”

“Ah, but history will remember us both,” he said, voice half-muffled in the cloth. Then, with a sudden, violent sneeze, he collapsed against the bench beside her, clutching his ribs like he’d been mortally wounded.

Squiddo startled, then frowned, setting her sketchbook aside. “You’re unbelievable. Did you really run the whole way here?”

He turned his head toward her, eyes gleaming even through the damp hair falling into them. “What? And risk missing this?” He gestured vaguely at the gray-washed garden, at her sketchbook, at the two of them sitting in the shelter of the gazebo. “Nah. Some things are worth a little rain.”

For once, he didn’t make it sound like a boast.

Squiddo blinked, then reached for her pencil again, mostly to give her hands something to do. She sketched quickly, quietly, the corner of her mouth betraying the smallest twitch upward.

Ashswag slumped back, still dripping, humming proudly to himself despite his soaked state. The rain drummed overhead, steady and endless, but inside the gazebo it was almost warm. Two silhouettes sharing space, their usual banter softened by the storm.

The silence held for another few beats, filled only by the rain and the faint scratch of Squiddo’s pencil. Ashswag tilted his head back, eyes half-closed as though he was perfectly content to sit there, dripping like a half-drowned hero. The sound of her pencil moving faster than usual, the slight hitch in her breath when she caught herself glancing at him. It was all so quiet, so unlike their usual noise.

And then he sneezed. Loud. Catastrophic. The kind that startled the sparrows from the hedge and nearly made Squiddo drop her sketchbook.

She whipped her head toward him, glaring. “Seriously?”

Ashswag rubbed his nose, looking entirely unrepentant. “What? It’s the rain’s fault! My body is simply too noble to endure such injustice without protest.”

“You’re going to make yourself sick,” she muttered, snapping her sketchbook shut. “You ran through the storm like an idiot and now look at you–”

“Drenched but triumphant?” he supplied, grinning despite the redness blooming at the tip of his nose.

“Pathetic,” she corrected.

But her tone lacked its usual sharpness. WIth a sigh, she rummaged in her satchel, fingers brushing past pencils and folded paper until they found the soft bundle she had tucked away earlier. It wasn’t fancy. Just a simple scarf, knitted in muted tones, practical enough for the chilly morning around the academy grounds.

She hesitated, the fabric caught between her fingers. This was stupid. They weren’t friends, not really. Just housemates who kept running into each other. But the image of him running through the rain just to get here, followed by that ridiculous sneeze, was too much.

“Here,” she said abruptly, thrusting the scarf toward him.

Ashwag blinked. “Is this… a token?” His grin widened, eyes glinting with mischief. “From the Ennay family itself? Squiddo, I’m honored!”

“It’s literally just a scarf,” she deadpanned.

“A scarf!” He seized it dramatically, holding it aloft as though she had just bestowed upon him a king’s mantle. “Given freely, in my hour of peril! This is historic!”

“Just… use it,” she muttered, cheeks warming despite herself.

He draped it around his shoulders with exaggerated care, then wrapped it around his neck, still dripping but looking absurdly pleased. “Oh, it’s perfect. I can already feel my health restored. Truly, your compassion knows no bounds.”

“You’re unbearable.”

“And yet you keep rescuing me.”

Squiddo crossed her arms, determined not to look at how smug he was. But the truth was, he wasn’t being smug. Not really. For once, beneath all the theatrics, there was a strange kind of sincerity in the way his hands lingered on the scarf, fingers curling around the ends as if he was anchoring himself to it.

The banter tried to fill the space as usual, but it couldn’t quite smother the weight of the gesture. This was different. Not just jokes, not just bickering.

This was the first real act of care between them.

And though neither said it out loud, they both knew.

Ashswag leaned back again, scarf clutched like a prize, and gave a quiet sneeze this time. Deliberately softer, almost sheepish. “See? I’m already improving.”

Squiddo only shook her head, sketchbook pressed tightly against her chest. But the corner of her mouth twitched upward again, just a fraction.

The rain drummed on, steady and endless, but something had shifted in the warmth of the gazebo.

Chapter Text

The weeks that followed blurred into the steady rhythm of academy life. Lectures, training, House obligations, dinners filled with polite posturing and carefully measured words. For most students, it was exhausting but predictable. For Ashswag, it was normally his stage. He had built a reputation within weeks of arrival. The boy who bragged so loudly you couldn’t forget him even if you tried. Every success, no matter how minor, was paraded like a crown jewel. Every compliment, no matter how vague, was repeated with twice its weight.

And yet, lately, something odd had begun to happen.

The words didn’t come out as easily. He would start to boast at the dinner table, voice booming to catch the attention of the upperclassmen, but halfway through, the edges of the story would falter. Instead of launching into the usual exaggerations, he found himself cutting the tale short, shrugging it off with a laugh. More than once, others looked at him in surprise, waiting for the grand finale that never came.

“You’re starting to get quiet these days,” one of his classmates remarked, brows raised as though the very idea was absurd.

“Quieter? Me?” Ashswag scoffed, feigning outrage. “Impossible. You must not be listening hard enough.” He grinned, flashing his usual bravado, but when the laughter moved on, he didn’t return to the spotlight. Instead, he fiddled with the cuff of his sleeve, gaze drifting toward the tall academy windows where the trees stretched beyond the glass.

Because, though he’d never admit it aloud, he’d notice the pattern.

It was only the garden where his voice seemed too loud, his boasts too heavy. Inside the garden, with Squiddo sketching in her quiet way, her sharp quips cutting him down whenever he puffed up too much, he didn’t feel the same need to perform. He could still brag, of course, but it was different. Playful. Almost harmless. And sometimes, when she rolled her eyes or muttered “pathetic,” the urge to boast at all simply vanished.

He told himself it was just because the garden was their “arena,” the place where his words found a proper rival. That had to be it. Nothing more.

Meanwhile, in another corner of the academy, Squiddo flipped through the pages of her sketchbook, brows furrowing as she traced her own pencil lines.

She hadn’t meant for it to happen. She sketched absentmindedly in lectures, during long waits, while lounging in the dormitory common room. Usually plants, architecture, the odd study of classmates’ faces. But lately, her pages had shifted.

There he was. Over and over.

Ashswag leaning on the railing of the gazebo, scarf knotted haphazardly around his neck. Ashswag sprawled dramatically on the grass, one hand raised as if accepting applause only he could hear. Ashswag mid-sneeze, eyes scrunched, comically pitiful. Even when she tried to sketch other things–the sweep of the academy towers, the bloom of the roses in the garden for the House members–somehow his outline would creep in at the edge of the frame.

She snapped the sketchbook shut, cheeks warming.

It was ridiculous. He was loud, overbearing, insufferable. Why should her pencil keep circling back to him?

The answer was simple, she decided firmly that he was just easy to draw. Exaggerated expressions, big gestures, dramatic poses. That was all. Nothing more.

She repeated it like a mantra, even as her hands betrayed her and turned the page to a half-finished sketch of him pretending to duel with a flower stem.

Neither of them spoke of these small shifts. Ashswag doubled down on his bravado in public, eager to drown out the uncomfortable quiet he felt when he realized his voice didn’t ring the same without her nearby. Squiddo buried her sketches under stacks of plant studies, convincing herself they were just practice, nothing meaningful.

But they knew something they wouldn’t admit.

Something was changing. Something soft and subtle, tucked between the bravado and the silence, between the boasts and the sketches.

And the both of them, too stubborn, too oblivious, too young, refused to give it a name.

Now, the garden felt less like a privilege of their House and more like a habit. Something they simply did without question. The last day of their freshman year carried with it the usual chatter of students planning their return home, trunks packed, assistants bustling in and out of dormitories. But the gazebo, tucked between hedges heavy with summer blooms, was quiet as ever.

Ashswag leaned against a post, arms crossed, recounting the year in a way only he could. Loudly, dramatically, turning even mundane memories into tales of legend. Squiddo sat with her sketchbook on her lap, pencil scratching steadily across the page, through every so often she’d pause just to roll her eyes at his embellishments.

When the sun dipped low and the bells announced the final supper before departure, they rose together almost without thinking. Ashswag slung his bag over his shoulder with a flourish while Squiddo closed her sketchbook, rucking a pressed flower deeper between its pages. They didn’t speak as they left the gazebo, only walked down the path that curved toward the academy gates.

It was then, in the fading light, that it happened.

Their steps aligned.

Not perfectly at first, just a rhythm that seemed to fall in place. The crunch of gravel underfoot sounded even, steady, as though some invisible thread had tugged them into sync. Neither noticed, not really. Ashswag was busy recounting how he’d “definitely outshone every other first-year,” and Squiddo was shaking her head at him. But still, they walked in time, stride for stride, as the garden’s shadows stretched long behind them.

By the time they reached the gates on the way to their separate carriages, the rhythm had become so natural that neither questioned it. They simply kept walking together, side by side, unaware of what it meant, or perhaps unwilling to know.

Chapter Text

The first day back at the Academy was always a strange kind of quiet. The old halls never seemed to wait for them, but rather carried on breathing in their own hushed rhythm, ready to swallow them up again the moment they stepped past the gates. The air smelled faintly of varnish and stone dust, as if the walls had been polished for their return.

Ashswag and Squiddo came in together that morning, their voices already filling the stillness. They had only just arrived, and yet they spoke with the heavy, rippling tone of people carrying summer in their lungs.

“It almost doesn’t feel real anymore,” Squiddo murmured, brushing her hand over the carved railing as if expecting it to be warmer.

Ashswag gave one of his light, half-concealing laughs. “It didn’t feel real when we were there, either.”

They spoke not of the Academy, but of the retreat. Their very first retreat, the one the Elders had called a tradition, a privilege, and a heritage. The words had been rehearsed. Everything had been rehearsed. Even now, standing beneath the muted morning light, the two of them could still hear it in their ears. The way every Elder’s mouth bent into that too-wide smile, the way each toast was followed by another toast, and each ceremony by another ceremony until they blurred together like painted glass pressed too close to the eye.

“The smiles,” Squiddo said after a pause. “They were… wrong. You noticed too, didn’t you?”

Ashswag didn’t answer at first. He leaned against the pillar and looked up at the arching ceiling, pretending to examine it, but his silence betrayed recognition. Finally, he said, “They weren’t smiles. They were performances. We were the audience.”

“Or the actors,” Squiddo corrected softly.

Their conversations lingered there for a while, looping back on itself, full of that strange nostalgia only certain kinds of unsettling memories carry. The retreat had been like a dream. So vivid in texture, so rich in color, and yet so disturbingly hollow when examined in daylight. The halls of the House villa had been filled with velvet and gold, their days segmented by ceremonies of “unity,” speeches of legacy, and subtle reminders of obedience wrapped in grandeur. They remembered the rehearsed chants of loyalty, the way every Elder moved as if to the same invisible rhythm.

And yet, here was the contradiction neither of them could hide.

“It was fun,” Ashswag admitted suddenly, as if the words had burned a hole in his chest. “I hated it. I hated how much I enjoyed it.”

Squiddo pressed her lips together, guilty recognition in her eyes. “The carriages, the banquets, the way everyone’s eyes were on us…” She struggled, then sighed. “I felt important. And I liked that. Too much.”

Ashswag laughed again, though this time there was a sharp edge to it. “The wealth, the attention. They know exactly what they’re doing. They make us complicit with pleasure. We go in suspicious, and we leave smiling. And then we feel guilty for it.”

They both fell into silence after that, caught between the unease and fondness. Because however unsettling the ceremonies had been, however artificial the unity speeches sounded, the memory of silk robes, of candlelit halls, of endless platters of delicacies, and of being adored by an entire House lingered like a sweet aftertaste.

“It was a positive experience,” Squiddo whispered at last, almost defensively.

Ashswag tilted his head. “Positive, yes. In every way but the one that matters.”

For a moment Squiddo didn’t reply. Her expression shifted from guilt into something sly, almost playful, as though she’d found a crack in his otherwise composed delivery. “You’re one to talk,” she said, tilting her head, “coming from the man who fell asleep during the unity speech.”

Ashswag whipped his head toward her, scandalized. “That was a meditative pause. A dignified rest.”

Squiddo’s laugh rang across the marble corridor. “You were snoring into your wineglass. I thought the Elder in front of us was going to faint.”

“Exaggeration,” he muttered, though his ears flushed. “The acoustics of the hall make any sound… magnify.”

“Oh, it magnified, all right,” Squiddo pressed on mercilessly. “The entire row turned to glare. And what did you do? You smiled as if you’d orchestrated the whole thing. Like it was part of the show.”

Ashswag’s grin broke through, unwilling to let her have the last word. “If memory serves, you weren’t so noble yourself. I recall a certain someone gazing at the ritual of inheritance like it was the most breathtaking thing she’d ever seen.”

The color drained from her face before rushing back in embarrassment. “I was observing! Not impressed.”

“Oh, you were impressed,” Ashswag drawled, stretching out the syllables like silk. “Eyes wide, lips parted. If you had a notebook you would’ve written a sonnet. Honestly, I thought you might bow right there and then.”

“I did not!” Squiddo shoved his shoulder, laughter bubbling up in spite of herself.

Their voices rose and fell in the empty hall until the Academy’s silence no longer felt so heavy. The banter carried a rhythm smoother than in their first year, less barbed, less uncertain. They teased with ease now, laughter spilling out not like defence, but like comfort. For all the strange guilt the retreat had left in their stomachs, at least they could admit to one another, and laugh about it, too.

At last Squiddo shook her head, still smiling. “Let’s just agree not to think too hard about it. About any of it.”

Ashswag’s grin softened. “Agreed. Overthinking ruins the fun, after all.”

They shared a glance, an unspoken pact sealed in humor. And then, as naturally as the tide pulling back, Ashswag drifted toward the other returning students who had begun to gather in clusters along the hall. His voice rose above the low chatter, filled with that bright, easy bravado that made him so quick to draw attention.

Squiddo lingered a step behind, watching him.

He spoke animatedly, recounting half-true stories of the retreat. The grand banquet where he claimed to have been the loudest toastmaster, the fireworks he insisted had been arranged solely to honor his House’s presence, the Elder who had supposedly clasped his hand and whispered, “You’ll surpass us all someday.” His friends laughed and leaned in, drinking up his boastful rhythm.

Squiddo didn’t correct him. She didn’t roll her eyes, as she might have done a year ago. Instead, she folded her hands before her and let him bask in the circle of attention.

Because in that moment–watching Ashswag carry himself with such reckless confidence, knowing how easily he covered his uncertainties with laughter–Squiddo made her quiet decision.

She would support him. Not loudly, not in the spotlight he loved so much, but in the shadows where no one thought to look. She would steady him when the boasting faltered, when the guilt of luxury pressed too hard, when the rehearsed smiles threatened to drown him.

Her smile faded into something softer, private.

He needn’t ever know the weight of it.

Chapter Text

The classroom had a way of swallowing the air out of one’s lungs. The ceiling arched high above, painted with saints and monarchs who gazed down in frozen reverence. Long tables stretched across the polished floor, each stacked with weight tomes whose cracked leather smelled faintly of incense. A hundred candles flickered in the sconces, their thin smoke curling upward like unanswered prayers.

Ashswag sat hunched at his desk, staring at the assignment laid out before him.

It was simple in appearance. A treatise on duty, loyalty, and sacrifice, written in the language of old rites, with references to at least three historical precedents and one allegory from the Devotion canon. Simple, until one realized the text required memorization of obscure passages, cross-referencing family lineages, and parsing words so sanctimonious they seemed to fold in on themselves.

Ashswag had never liked the House of Devotion’s teachings. They were too solemn, too rigid, suffocating in their insistence that every act of obedience was a virtue. But what truly pressed on him now wasn’t the philosophy, it was the demand for perfection. One mistake in citation, one missed phrase, and the Elders would call him inattentive, unworthy, or worse, careless.

The weight of expectation pressed into his temples like a tightening band.

His quill hovered over the parchment, ink threatening to blot. He scrawled a sentence, frowned, scratched it out. Wrote another, cursed, tore the page halfway down the middle. His neat stack of drafts was beginning to look like a battlefield.

Ashswag, the boy who prided himself on boasting, on drawing every eye in a room, now sat alone with words he couldn’t twist into charm. He bit his lip, resisting the urge to slam the book shut and storm out.

“Better than this,” he muttered to himself. “I should be better than this.”

But the words rang hollow.

By the time the lesson ended and the other students had filed out, Ashswag remained at the desk, surrounded by scraps of failed sentences. His shoulders sagged in a way they never did in public. The bravado he wore so easily seemed to slough off under the candlelight.

It was then that he noticed it.

A small slip of folded paper, tucked neatly between the pages of his reference book. He frowned, glancing around the empty room as if someone might leap out and claim responsibility. No one did.

He unfolded it with cautious fingers.

The handwriting was clean, deliberate. Only one sentence adorned the page.

“You’re better than you think you are. – A friend”

Ashswag blinked. Read it once. Then again.

It was absurd. Childish, even. A note one might pass in the Academy’s earliest years, not something meant for people of weighty Houses. And yet something about it rooted him to the chair. His chest tightened in a way no lecture ever could.

“Better than I think I am…” he whispered, the words strangely foreign on his tongue.

He leaned back, staring at the note as if it might burn through him. Who had written it? Why? And why, of all things, did it stir something he hadn’t expected? Confusion, yes, but also a flicker of warmth, of being seen in a moment he thought was invisible?

His first instinct was suspicion. Perhaps it was a joke, a mockery. Something planted to expose his frustration. Yet the words were too plain, too sincere for cruelty. They carried no sting, no clever barb. Only quiet encouragement.

Ashswag ran a thumb across the ink, as though testing if it might smudge. It didn’t.

For once, he had no boast to offer, no ready quip to armor himself. He simply sat there, the faintest of frowns tugging at his mouth, while the note lay like a secret between his fingers.

And though he would never admit it aloud, a strange thought began to echo in him as the candles guttered low.

Perhaps, just perhaps, someone believed in him more than he believed in himself.

Ashswag did not throw the note away.

He told himself he should have. Crumple it, toss it in the brazier, laugh it off as some meaningless scribble. That would have been the proper thing, the proud thing. But instead he slipped it carefully into the inner pocket of his coat, close enough that he could feel the faintest brush of the parchment against his chest when he moved.

By the next morning, however, Ashswag had reimagined the note’s meaning into something he could show the world.

At breakfast, he laid the folded paper on the table with a dramatic flourish. “Gentlemen,” he announced to his companions, “it seems I have an admirer.”

The others leaned in, half-interested, half-amused. He unfolded the note with ceremony, tapping a finger against the words as though they were a declaration of victory.

Some chuckled, some scoffed. One remarked it could have been meant for anyone.

But Ashswag only leaned back with a grin that suggested complete certainty. “Oh no, no. This was written for me. Who else could inspire such devotion, hm?”

He tucked it away again, patting his pocket as though it were a medal pinned to his chest.

The performance carried into lunch, where he produced the note once more between bites of bread and roasted meat. “It’s proof,” he said loudly enough for neighbouring tables to hear. “Proof of my popularity. I inspired confidence even in secret admirers. You should be taking notes.”

His friends rolled their eyes, groaned, tossed bread crusts at him, but they laughed, too, and laughter was all Ashswag ever needed to claim victory.

Across the table, Squiddo rested her chin in her hand, watching him with an expression caught between exasperation and amusement. Her smirk cut sharper than the others’ jeers.

“Careful,” she said lightly. “At this rate, your head won’t fit through the door.”
Ashswag flashed her a grin. “Envy doesn’t suit you.”

“Envy?” She raised a brow. “If I were to write you a note, it wouldn’t be half so flattering. More along the lines of ‘Don’t embarrass yourself next time.’”

The table burst into laughter. Ashswag feigned a wounded gasp, but the glimmer in his eyes gave him away.

Still, Squiddo never pressed beyond teasing. She never hinted at confession, never claimed the note as hers. She let him have his game, smirking at his self-importance while hiding the truth in silence.

And Ashswag–oh, Ashswag insisted with every breath that it was proof of his irresistible charm. Proof of his popularity, his inevitable rise. He said it so often he almost convinced himself. Almost.

But when the corridors fell silent at night and the dormitory lamps burned low, he drew the note from his pocket once more. He read the line again, tracing the letters with his finger until the words etched themselves into his memory.

The bravado fell away in those quiet hours. Alone in the dark, the paper seemed to carry weight enough to anchor him against his doubts. He folded it carefully and tucked it beneath his pillow, a secret he would never share.

No one had to know.

Not his friends, not the Elders, not even Squiddo. Especially not Squiddo.

But the truth was simple. For all his boasts, for all his noise, Ashswag treasured the feeling the note gave him more than he dared admit.

Chapter Text

The library became their stage, though only one of them knew it.

It began with the first note, and then another, and another. Squiddo’s handwriting grew bolder each time, though she never strayed from simplicity. Folded slips tucked between pages of books Ashswag was certain to open, quiet encouragement slipped under his desk before lessons, even the occasional parchment left just visible enough on a windowsill where she knew his wandering eyes would catch it.

Each bore a line or two.

“You’re not as behind as you think.”

“You make people laugh because they want to follow you.”

“Even when you fall short, you rise louder than anyone else.”

Anonymous, unsigned save for the ever-repeated “– A friend.”

Ashswag pretended not to care. At least, that was the version he sold to the others. “Another one,” he’d announce with mock-casual flair, waving the note as though it were some trinket tossed at him by an adoring crowd. His companions groaned, told him he was imagining things, that he was probably leaving the notes for himself just to feel important. But Ashswag thrived on disbelief. If anything, it made his storytelling louder.

By the third note he was embellishing details. “Clearly the hand of someone refined. I can tell. The penstrokes are elegant. Must belong to a lady of good breeding. A duchess’s daughter, perhaps.”

By the fourth. “The perfume lingers faintly on the page. Expensive perfume. You can always tell. No common admirer of mine, oh no. Whoever it is has exquisite taste.”

And by the fifth, at lunch, he had spun it into a full romance. “I’d wager she’s beautiful. Of course, that much is obvious. Intelligent too. She sees what others miss. Who else would have the insight to notice my hidden strengths?”

He leaned back in his chair, satisfied with his own deduction, as though the note itself had confession its author’s face and lineage.

The others rolled their eyes. One muttered that his “secret admirer” was probably a bored house pet. Another guessed it was a prank, some cousin laughing at his expense.

Ashswag dismissed them all with a wave of his hand, insisting, “Envy makes you blind. You’ll see when she reveals herself. A refined lady, mark my words.”

Across the table, Squiddo hid her smile behind her hand. She never corrected him. She never gave herself away. She only smirked at his swelling self-importance, the way his chest puffed with every supposed clue he invented.

But in truth, she didn’t mind the boasting. If anything, it made her notes feel more effective. Like water seeping into stone, her words were lifting him even as he warped them into a performance.

In the quiet of the library, she would slip the folded parchment between the pages of a book he had borrowed. Or during the shuffle of class, she’d slide it under his desk while he turned his head to speak to a friend. Each gesture was invisible, unseen, but the effect was obvious. Ashswag became more animated, more eager to parade his “admirer” with each discovery.

And though he never suspected her, Squiddo found a peculiar satisfaction in watching him thrive on the encouragement she alone provided. She had no intention of confessing. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. But if he could carry himself taller, laugh louder, and find confidence in the words she fed him from the shadows, then wasn’t that enough?

For Ashswag, the mystery had already become its own reward. He treasured each note in private (even if he would never admit it), but in public, he spun them into proof of his own allure. He carried the slips like trophies, rereading them at night and rewriting their meaning in the daylight.

The truth, that they were whispers from the girl who laughed at his boasting and teased his pride, remained folded in the secrecy of the parchment itself.

And so the game continued. One slipping notes into silence, the other turning them into spectacle. Neither willing to break the illusion. Not yet.

The game might have gone on unnoticed forever–Squiddo quietly feeding encouragement, Ashswag loudly dressing it in grandeur–if not for one particular observer.

MinuteTech had the sort of eyes that caught details others missed. He was not the loudest voice in a crowd, nor the quickest to challenge Ashswag’s bravado. But he was attentive, almost mischievously so, storing every flicker of expression in the corners of his mind. Where others dismissed Ashswag’s boasting with groans and laughter, MinuteTech tilted his head and watched the smaller currents beneath the surface.

It was during one of Ashswag’s midday performances that MinuteTech first noticed.

“Another note,” Ashswag declared, flicking the folded slip onto the lunch table as though it were a winning hand of cards. His grin stretched ear to ear, daring anyone to question him. “This one says–listen closely, now–’Your words carry farther than you realize.’ Clearly the work of someone elegant. Someone poetic.”

The others laughed, waved him off, reached for second helpings of bread. But MinuteTech’s gaze shifted, just for a heartbeat, to Squiddo.

She was smiling. Barely, subtly, the corner of her mouth tugging upward as she busied herself with her plate. Not the kind of smile one gives at a joke or boast, but the kind that slips when you know something you shouldn’t.

MinuteTech leaned back, a thoughtful spark dancing in his eyes. He said nothing then, only filed it away.

It became a pattern, once he knew to look for it. Each time Ashswag pulled another note from his pocket, embellishing its origin with wild invention, Squiddo would be there. Her expression was composed, but the tiniest glimmer of amusement was betraying her. The glint in her eyes when Ashswag exaggerated, the faintest press of her lips to hide a laugh when he proclaimed his admirer “surely of noble beauty.”

MinuteTech found it delicious.

And so, one afternoon, he decided to stir the pot.

They were gathered in the library’s back tables, the notes once again the subject of Ashswag’s boastful retelling. He held up the latest slip, waving it like a banner. “See here! ‘You lift others without knowing.’ Clear evidence my admirer not only had exquisite taste but deep insight. A rare combination, don’t you think?”

MinuteTech rested his chin in his hand, eyes narrowing in playful thought. “Strange, isn’t it?”

Ashswag paused mid-boast. “What’s strange?”

“How Squiddo’s always around when you talk about your admirer.

The words dropped casually, but the effect was immediate. A few heads turned toward her, though only with mild curiosity. Ashswag let out a sharp laugh, brushing it off with the ease of a man used to fending off hecklers.

“Don’t be absurd. Squiddo’s here because she’s always here. What, am I to believe she’s trailing me about like a shadow?”

MinuteTech smirked. “I didn’t say she was. Only that the timing is… amusing.”

Squiddo raised her brows, feigning offense. “If I were to write notes, they wouldn’t be nearly so flattering.”

The group laughed, tension diffused. Ashswag smirked, waving the note once more. “See? Even she denies it. My admirer remains a mystery, beyond your reach, MinuteTech.”

But though his words carried the same bravado, a faint crack lingered in his certainty.

That evening, as he slipped the note into his pocket and caught himself rereading the delicate curve of the handwriting, MinuteTech’s comment replayed in the back of his mind.

He shook it off. Impossible. Ridiculous.

And yet, the seed had been planted.

He told himself it was nothing, that he’d forget it by morning. But even as sleep crept over him that night, the thought nagged at the edges of his dreams. Squiddo’s smile, small and knowing, when he bragged too loudly.

Chapter Text

The second year began with a cruelty that left even Ashswag–so loud, so unflinching in his boasts–stripped of words.

The House of Devotion prided itself not only on loyalty but on obedience so absolute that individuality blurred into a collective. Its lessons, meant to etch discipline into the bones of its heirs, occasionally bled outward onto those associated with the house. Companions, relatives, retainers, anyone unfortunate enough to linger nearby. Ashswag, though not an heir himself, had earned his place at their side, and thus, he was not spared when the tutors decided the young men required a “demonstration.”

The lesson unfolded in the marble chamber beneath the council halls, where walls bore murals of kneeling figures offering their throats to unseen hands. The air smelled faintly of incense and iron. One of the instructors, robed in heavy blue fabric, ordered Ashswag to kneel alongside the others. He laughed at first, assuming it was a theatrical exercise, some new pageantry the House delighted in. But laughter faded when the cold rod of discipline struck his shoulder. Not in jest, but with a force meant to bruise.

“Obedience is not play,” the instructor intoned, voice echoing. “It is survival.”

Ashswag straightened, swallowing the wince that wanted to surface. Another blow followed. Then another. He tried to grin, tried to throw out a remark, but the tutor silenced him with a glare that promised worse if he dared to cheapen the ritual.

By the end, his shoulders and ribs throbbed, his palms were raw from being forced to hold them out, open, in endless supplication. He rose only when dismissed, teeth clenched against the ache in his bones, and walked out with his usual swagger, but it rang hollow.

That night, the House of Devotion’s quarters stretched long and cold. He slipped into his assigned chamber, sank into the desk chair, and pressed a trembling hand to his bruised side. He whispered a curse to no one in particular. For once, he didn’t feel like talking about it.

And then, there it was.

Folded nearly beneath his inkstand, tucked in such a way it could only have been placed while he was away, lay another note. Not a scrap, not a hasty slip, but a full page of delicate script on cream-colored paper.

He unfolded it with hesitant fingers.

“Do not let them convince you that your worth is measured by silence or submission. You are not only what the House demands of you. You are more Ashswag. You are more than obedience…”

The words blurred for a moment, not because they were difficult to read, but because something pressed hot against his throat. He ran a thumb along the edges of the page, tracing the careful folds as if they might reveal something hidden, something personal, something closer to a heartbeat than a sentence.

For the first time, he did not storm into the halls bragging about the admirer who surely wrote it. He didn’t declare it to MinuteTech or make a grand show of waving it in the air. Instead, he folded it again with painstaking care, slipped it into his breast pocket, and pressed it there as though keeping it against his skin might allow the words to seep directly into him.

Lying awake later, the paper rested under his pillow, so close he could almost hear its voice. He read it again in the dark, lips moving silently around the words until they became something closer to prayer.

The brash grin never left him during the day, but that night in the quiet, Ashswag discovered something he couldn’t joke about, something he couldn’t share. The note belonged to him alone. And he would not give it away with a boast.

For once, the echoing halls of the dormitories seemed less suffocating. Somewhere beyond the locked doors and punishing lessons, someone saw him. Someone reminded him he was not merely a shadow of a House he belonged to.

And that secret, pressed against his chest, burned brighter than any applause his brags could ever summon.

The days that followed wove back into their usual rhythm. Lectures, lessons, endless rehearsals of etiquette drilled into the heirs and their companions. To anyone watching, Ashswag appeared unchanged. He still leaned back in chairs as if he owned every room, still filled silences with swaggering claims of his talent and charm, still treated rules as flimsy threads meant to be snapped at the wrist.

But beneath the surface, something in him hummed differently. The note remained folded inside the lining of his pocket, a secret warmth he returned to whenever the bruises ached or the instructors’ words gnawed too deep. He told no one, not even MinuteTech, who normally received every boast first. It was his, and his alone.

It happened one evening in the library, during a so-called “study-session.” The children associated with the Houses sprawled around the long oak table, parchment and books scattered in what resembled preparation for work but was mostly an excuse to sit near the fire instead of the cold stone classrooms. MinuteTech clicked his pen idly against the wood, pretending to draft calculations while really watching everyone else. ClownPierce had already slumped sideways, muttering nonsense as if equations might appear in his dreams. Squiddo sat upright, elegant even in plain study clothes, her handwriting neat and deliberate as she copied passages.

Ashswag, naturally, spoke louder than all of them. “They think obedience is everything,” he scoffed, tossing a quill aside. “But what’s the point of obedience if you forget who you are? Might as well be a ghost wandering their hallways.”

The words dropped heavier than he meant them to. Silence followed. Brief, sharp, the kind that prickles at the back of your neck.

He blinked. He hadn’t planned to say that. It sounded far too much like the note hidden in his pocket, far too much like a thought he had no right airing aloud. His grin faltered for half a heartbeat.

Across from him, Squiddo’s hand froze on the page. Her quill hovered mid-stroke, ink blotting against the paper. She caught herself quickly, eyes darting down, but not before the faintest flicker crossed her expression. An almost imperceptible softening, a quiet recognition. Her lips parted as though to speak, then closed again. She returned to her notes with a composed calm, but the stillness of her shoulders betrayed a ripple she hadn’t smoothed in time.

MinuteTech noticed. Of course he noticed. He always noticed. His eyes gleamed with amusement as he leaned forward, pen tapping twice against the table. “Interesting thought, Ashswag,” he drawled. “Almost poetic. Funny, though–doesn’t it sound like something Squiddo would write?”

The comment was playful, tossed like a pebble into water, but the ripples it made inside Ashswag’s chest were anything but small. His gaze darted. First to Squiddo, who kept her face downturned, too carefully composed, then back to MinuteTech, whose grin said he was fishing.

For one dizzying moment, suspicion flared. Could it really be her? Could the neat folds, the deliberate script, the quiet words slipping under his desk belong to Squiddo, sitting prim and unshaken at the edge of the table?

The thought caught him off guard, and he shoved it away as quickly as it came.

“No chance,” he said too loudly, forcing a laugh. “Squiddo doesn’t have the time for nonsense like that. Like her, my admirer’s refined, sure, but it’s probably someone mysterious, someone who’d never sit around copying essays in neat little lines.”

Squiddo’s quill scratched faintly against the parchment again, steady now, as if the moment had passed. But her cheeks carried the faintest flush, caught only by the glow of the fire.

Ashswag leaned back, brushing the thought away with denial. The seed that had been planted was still there, but he didn’t water it. Not yet. It still sat there all the same, buried in the soil of his chest, waiting.

Chapter Text

The final week of the year carried with it that peculiar weight all students recognized. The halls felt both endless and fleeting, as though every step echoed with the memory of months already spent. The air grew heavy with anticipation. Mostly of farewells, of returns home, of the strange silences that came when laughter began to pack itself away for summer.

Ashswag, of course, was still Ashswag. His voice carried down the corridors, his hand gestures exaggerated, his swagger undiminished. He spoke of his “mysterious admirer” with the same flourish as he always had, bragging to anyone patient enough (or too polite) to listen. Yet there was something gentler threaded through his boasts now, a tone less sharp, less desperate to prove. The smirk lingered, but sometimes it curved into something dangerous close to genuine amusement rather than performance.

He leaned on Squiddo more than he realized. Where once he might have strutted independently, tossing back his head as though needing no anchor, now his steps often fell beside hers.

In the library, he slouched into the chair across from her, sighing dramatically, tossing books open as though they were the weight of the world itself. “Another essay about obedience. As if I haven’t already written the same words ten different ways. If they ask me to praise the House one more time, I’ll stand up and tell them my true devotion is to sleep.”

Squiddo didn’t laugh outright, she rarely did, but her smirk betrayed her amusement. “You’d fail immediately,” she replied, setting her quill down. “They’d dock points before you even finished the sentence.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” He jabbed a finger at her with mock severity. “I’d fail gloriously. They’d remember my speech for years. Generations, even. Students would whisper of the boy who told the truth.”

She shook her head, eyes dropping to her notes again. Yet when his groan followed–loud and drawn-out, dramatic enough to turn head from nearby tables–she wordlessly slid her extra parchment toward him. He glanced at it, then at her, and with a grin that felt less like boasting and more like thanks, began scribbling.

Over the course of that last week, these small patterns repeated themselves. He complained, half in jest, about long assignments or unfair lessons, and Squiddo listened. Sometimes with dry retorts, sometimes with quiet smirks, always the kind of steady presence he never admitted he relied on. He dropped his head onto folded arms during study, muttering about how exhausting it was to be brilliant. She didn’t scold him anymore, not the way she had in Year 1. Instead, she nudged a book toward him and waited until he picked it up again.

Even his boasts shifted in tone. Where once he claimed the admiration of “half the Academy,” now he spoke of it as though laughing with her rather than at the world.

“Of course they’re all jealous,” he said one afternoon in the garden, stretching out lazily under the gazebo. “It’s hard to be surrounded by perfection.” Then, with a glance at her, “But at least you’ve gotten used to it by now.”

Her brow arched. “You mean insufferability?”

“Same thing,” he shot back, grinning.

The exchange drew laughter, but not the sharp, performative kind. It was easier now, softer around the edges, something that lingered even after their voices had quieted.

And though he still clutched at dramatics, the truth slipped out more often. One evening, when the library lamps flickered low, Ashswag muttered something that made Squiddo look up from her book. “Sometimes I think they don’t see me at all,” he said, staring at the ink stains on his fingers. “Like I could shout every word I have and it would still vanish into the air. At least when I’m loud, I know I’m not invisible.”

He said it quickly, too quickly, covering the weight of it with a scoff. “Anyway, don’t get used to hearing my secrets. I’ll start charging you.”

But Squiddo didn’t need to answer. Her silence carried the same reassurance her notes once had. The kind that didn’t try to fix him, only reminded him he was being heard.

That night, after the library lamps dimmed and the corridors quieted into the restless hush of the Academy’s last evenings, Squiddo lingered longer than usual at her desk. The others had already retreated to their quarters, laughter fading behind heavy oak doors, but she sat alone with a quill and an undecided thought. 

The habit had grown almost without her noticing. Folding her words into scraps of paper, tucking them away where he might stumble across them. It had started in Year 2 with jest and pity, a whim she never expected to repeat. Yet here she was again, months later, setting down one more line that felt heavier than all the others.

She didn’t write much. Just enough to carry what she couldn’t say aloud.

“The year ends, but you are not lesser for it. You’ve been more yourself than you think. Remember that. – A friend”

At the end, she hesitated, then added the faintest flourish at the curve of the final letter, subtle enough to be overlooked by anyone else. It was nothing obvious, nothing daring, but it was hers.

By morning, the note had found its way beneath the stack of Ashswag’s books. He discovered it half-asleep, rubbing his eyes, his usual groans about assignments dying mid-breath when the folded slip slipped into his hand.

For once, he didn’t immediately shout about it. No sweeping gestures, no dramatic declarations to whoever was nearby. He tucked it away in silence, almost furtively, like someone guarding a treasure.

That night, when the dormitories settled into uneven snores and shifting blankets, Ashswag lay awake. The folded scrap sat in his palm, the words faint in the moonlight. He read them once, then twice, then again, lips tugging into a smile that was nothing like the grin he gave in daylight.

He didn’t know why it mattered so much, why the careful ink strokes lingered in his chest longer than applause, longer than the laughter of friends. He hadn’t admitted it yet. Not to himself, not to anyone. But as his eyes drifted shut with the note still clutched against him, the groundwork had been laid.

Whatever the next year brought, he would carry this with him. The sense that someone, somewhere, saw him not just as a boast, not just as a voice too loud for silence, but as something worth steady words in the dark.

Chapter Text

The carriages rattled back through the Academy gates beneath a sky that had not changed since the year before, though Ashswag swore it looked narrower than ever. Maybe it was the weight of return, maybe it was the way the towers seemed to lean over them as if listening, but he tilted his chin higher, refusing to let the building swallow him whole.

Squiddo sat opposite, hands folded neatly in her lap. The silence between them was comfortable now, no longer the stiff distance of first years but the kind that had space for memory. Ashswag broke it first, of course.

“Well,” he declared, spreading his arms wide as if to command the surroundings itself, “if last year’s retreat was unbearable, this year’s was art. Pure theater. They’ve finally perfected the performance of smothering us with honor.”

That earned him a faint smirk. Squiddo’s eyes glinted with dry amusement. “Endless speeches,” she agreed softly, as though reciting from a litany she couldn’t quite forget. “‘Family legacy,’ ‘blood-bound loyalty,’ ‘the shining future of devotion.’ If I close my eyes, I can still hear them. I doubt they’ll ever stop echoing.”

He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, grinning. “Ah, but don’t forget the activities. Did you see me during the loyalty procession? They lined us up like dolls, made us bow in unison, wave our banners. Somehow, I still stood out.” His grin widened. “Don’t deny it, Squiddo. No one bent their knee like I did.”

She arched a brow, unimpressed but entertained. “Yes, you knelt so dramatically I thought you might propose to the stage itself.”

He barked a laugh, delighted. “Exactly! If you’re going to force me into devotion, I’ll give them devotion worthy of applause. Every Elder in that hall was watching me.”

Her smile faded, just slightly, as her gaze shifted out the window at the looming stone walls from afar. “And wasn’t that the point? That they all watch, and we all perform until nothing is left but the performance itself?” Her tone was quiet, almost thoughtful. “It was suffocating. Like breathing the same speech over and over again.”

Ashswag’s grin lingered, but there was something brittle beneath it. He tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling of the carriage as though the words couldn’t touch him if he didn’t look at her. “Maybe. But suffocating or not, I outshined every single one of them.” His voice rose with practiced bravado, masking the faint hesitation that slipped through between words. “Not the Heirs, of course. I wouldn’t dare steal their thunder.”

She caught it. The slight falter, the shadow beneath his brag. He was talking louder than usual, faster, as though filling silence before it could fill him.

After a moment, she spoke, her voice steady but softer than before. “Maybe this year,” she said, almost musing to herself, “we’ll find something that belongs just to us. Not the House, not the Elders, not their endless speeches. Something real.”

Her words lingered in the space between them, heavier than his laughter, sharper than her usual retorts. For once, Ashswag didn’t fire back immediately. His grin thinned, his gaze flicked towards her, then away again.

The carriage wheels struck stone, jolting them both as the Academy gates closed behind.

Whatever this year would bring, the performance had already begun.

The first assembly of the year filled the grand hall with the same orchestrated splendor as always. Banners unfurled from the high rafters, each House crest glinting gold in the lamplight; rows of students lined the benches in meticulous order; the school Elders presided from the dais, their smiles stretched too perfectly to be real.

Ashswag leaned against the back of his seat, arms folded, whispering under his breath to Squiddo as the speeches droned on. “Place your bets. How many times do you think they’ll say ‘honor’ today?”

She didn’t look at him, eyes fixed ahead with her usual poise. “Seven.”

He grinned. “Please. Try fourteen. I’ll count.”

And sure enough, as the speeches continued, the word fell like a hammer, again and again. By the time the Head Elder paused for a breath, Ashswag was already tallying on his fingers. “Nine… Ten… Eleven–ha! You owe me!”

“I owe you nothing,” Squiddo murmured, lips twitching. “You cheated. You counted ‘honorable’ too.”

“A variant still counts. Don’t argue with a man of statistics.”

Before Squiddo could retort, the assembly shifted. The Head Elder raised his hand, commanding silence. “This year,” he intoned, “the Academy is pleased to announce not one, but two grand events to mark the season.”

A ripple moved through the hall. Even the Heirs stirred, glancing at one another.

“The first,” the Head Elder continued, “shall be our Annual Debate Competition. Rivalry and Devotion will lead, as always, testing wit, loyalty, and conviction before the gathered Houses.”

Predictably, Rivalry students erupted into murmurs of excitement, already straightening their posture as though preparing for combat. Devotion students nodded solemnly, as though victory were already theirs by right.

Ashswag rolled his eyes so hard it drew a soft snort from Squiddo. “As if we need more shouting contests. Rivalry doesn’t debate, they just bark until someone agrees.”

But the Head Elder was not finished. “The second event will be the Arts and Music Showcase. Peace and Intelligence will take prominence, presenting creativity, refinement, and harmony before their peers and House Elders alike.”

This time, it was the quieter Houses who stirred. Peace students exchanged eager whispers, already humming tunes beneath their breath. Intelligence scribbled notes, perhaps composing ideas before the assembly even adjourned.

Ashswag slouched. “Great. Singing and paintings. Exactly what I need in my life.”

“Careful,” Squiddo murmured. “You sound jealous already.”

“Jealous?” He turned toward her, affronted. “Me? Never. I’ve got charisma enough to outshine an entire orchestra.”

She tilted her head, eyes bright with something sly. “Then it’s a shame I’ll be stealing the spotlight instead.”

He blinked. “You?”

“I’m entering the showcase,” she said simply, her tone light but deliberate. “Someone has to give them standards to aspire to.”

Ashswag’s jaw dropped. “You? Squiddo the Studious, Squiddo the Silent, Squiddo who never so much as hums while she writes?”

Her smirk widened. “Perhaps I’ve been hiding my talents other than sketching. Wouldn’t that be something? Imagine the crowd applauding me while you sit in the back, sulking.”

“Oh, no. Absolutely not.” He straightened dramatically, hand pressed to his chest. “I refuse to be overshadowed. If you’re in the showcase, then I’ll be in the competition.”

“Really?” she asked, arching a brow. “What will you do? Boast until they clap?”

“Please,” he shot back, grinning. “The audience loves me. I only need to walk on stage and they’ll erupt.”

“Then it’s settled,” she said smoothly, turning back toward the stage as the school Elders droned on about schedules and expectations. “Whoever gets more applause wins.”

His grin grew feral. “Oh, you’re on. Don’t come crying to me when your polite little act is drowned out by thunderous cheers for my brilliance.”

“Thunderous?” she echoed dryly. “More like desperate.”

“Desperate? I’ll have roses thrown at my feet. They’ll build statues. They’ll–”

“Trip you off the stage,” she cut in, smirking again.

Their whispered argument stretched long into the assembly, drowned out by the school Elders’ endless speeches. Students seated nearby rolled their eyes, but neither Squiddo nor Ashswag seemed to care. For the first time in weeks, their rivalry carried a playful spark rather than suffocating weight.

And as the final applause for the school Elders faded, both knew the challenge had been set.

Chapter Text

The Academy’s garden had transformed into their unofficial stage once again. What had once been a quiet space for strolling became, under Ashswag’s decree, a place of trials and rehearsals. The hedges were his “curtains,” the benches his “lecterns,” and Squiddo–perched cross-legged on the grass–his ever-patient audience.

“Ladies, gentlemen, and admirers of my unrivaled genius,” Ashswag boomed from atop the stone bench, his arms spread wide, “prepare to be dazzled, moved, and utterly conquered by my words!” His voice bounced off the marble columns, startling a cluster of birds into flight.

Squiddo shielded her eyes from the sun, unimpressed. “That’s your opening? Really?”

“Of course it is! You must seize their attention immediately, Squiddo. Establish dominance. Plant the flag of brilliance before anyone else even finds their notes.”

“Or,” she said flatly, scribbling in her notebook, “you could make a point that actually matters.”

Ashswag placed a hand over his heart as if she’d stabbed him. “Matters? Everything I say matters!” He leapt down from the bench, striding toward her with all the drama of a stage actor. “What greater matter is there than the undeniable fact of my superiority?”

“You’ve said that three times already.” She smirked. “Four, if you count when you yelled it at the roses.”

“They needed convincing!”

“No, Ash. You’re repetitive. You repeat the same line until people tune you out.” She glanced at her notes. “You’re too aggressive, too subjective, and there’s no hook. Your whole strategy is basically ‘shout until they give up.’ Not too far from what you said about Rivalry.”

Ashswag froze mid-gesture. “That’s… a hook,” he insisted, though even his grin wavered.

Squiddo tilted her head, teasing. “Then I hope you opponents bring earplugs.”

For a heartbeat he tried to glare, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him, twitching into a laugh. “Saboteur! Here I thought you were my loyal critic, but instead you seek to undermine me. Treachery in my very training grounds.”

She shut her notebook with a snap. “Maybe I just don’t want to be embarrassed when you crash and burn in front of the whole school.”

He gasped, then leaned closer, grinning. “Oh? So you do care. How touching. My defeat would wound you too deeply, is that it?”
She rolled her eyes, though a faint blush touched her ears. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

But he had already flopped back onto the bench, throwing one leg over the other. “Fine, fine. If you’re such an expert on rhetoric, then perhaps you should deliver the debate yourself. I’ll just sit in the audience and cheer like a devoted fan.”

“You’d never survive as an audience member,” she muttered.

He pointed dramatically. “You’re right. My brilliance demands a stage.”

Before she could answer, his gaze flicked to the canvas propped against the hedge. He sat up straighter, smirk sharpening. “Speaking of stages… how’s your little art performance coming along?”

Her shoulders stiffened. “It’s not little.”

“Oh, forgive me. Your grand, world-changing, awe-inspiring masterpiece.” He leaned back, hands behind his head. “How many brushstrokes have graced that canvas so far? Two? Three?”

Squiddo crossed her arms. “I’m still working on the sketches.”

“Ah.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “So what you’re saying is… nothing’s finished. At all.”

“Not yet,” she admitted, voice tight.

Ashswag’s grin widened. “Aha! The mighty artist hesitates before her canvas! Quick, someone write this down. The great Squiddo, conqueror of pigments, painter of worlds, frozen by the sight of a blank page!”

Her cheeks heated. “It’s not hesitation, it’s…” She trailed off, then muttered, “I just want it to mean something.”

That silenced him, if only for a breath. His grin softened, though he quickly masked it with mock bravado. “Then paint your meaning. Stop brooding. You’ll have me in the front row applauding so loudly they’ll hear it from Rivalry’s dorms. Mind you, that is all the way on the other side of the Academy.”

She glanced at him, startled by the earnest beneath his tone. “...You really think I can pull it off?”

“I don’t think.” He winked. “I know. And if you fail, don’t worry. I’ll mock you endlessly until you’re forced to try again. That’s what friends are for.”

She snorted, shaking her head, but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at her lips.

The next afternoon, they reversed roles. Squiddo sat at her easel, brush in hand, while Ashswag paced behind her like a self-declared supervisor.

“Hmm,” he hummed critically. “Not enough red. Red is the color of our House, of victory, of power, of–”

“–of blood?” she supplied dryly.

“Yes! Precisely! Blood!” He struck a pose as if unveiling the idea to the heavens. “The audience will see red and feel their hearts ignite with passion.”

She dipped her brush in blue paint.

“Blue?” he said, aghast. “Blue is calm. Blue is weak. Blue whispers instead of shouts!”

“Not everything needs to shout, Ash.”

“But shouting is the best part!”

She tried to ignore him, but when she caught his reflection in the glass of the easel, she saw him smiling. Not the sharp, mocking grin he wore in public, but something warmer. His eyes followed the movement of her hand, as if genuinely fascinated by how the colors blended.

“You’re actually good at this,” he murmured, almost to himself.

She nearly dropped the brush. “What?”

“I said you’re good. Don’t get used to compliments, though.” He smirked again. “One per season.”

Her heart skipped in a way she didn’t want to admit. She turned back to the canvas quickly, cheeks burning.

Ashswag, oblivious, plopped down onto the grass, leaning back on his elbows. “When you unveil this at the showcase, I’ll cheer louder than anyone. And when I win the debate, you’ll return the favor. Simple.”

She laughed softly. “And what does the winner of this, more applause thing we agreed on, get?”

He grinned. “Bragging rights, obviously. Eternal glory. Songs sung in their name.”

“And the loser?”

Ashswag thought for a moment. Then, with a devilish smile, he said, “The loser admits the other is secretly cooler.”

Squiddo laughed again, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it,” he said, smug.

Her brush hesitated mid-stroke, and she felt her cheeks flare again. She quickly bent lower over the canvas, muttering, “Friendship pride. That’s all.”

But in the quiet of the garden, with his laughter spilling through the hedges and her paintbrush trembling in her fingers, she wasn’t sure she believed it anymore.

And neither of them noticed how quickly their rivalry had begun to blur into something warmer. Something that neither speeches nor brushstrokes could easily define.

MinuteTech was the first to notice.

He leaned lazily against the garden wall one afternoon, watching Ashswag thunder through another mock debate while Squiddo dabbed at her canvas nearby. His smirk said more than words before he finally cut in. 

“You know,” MinuteTech drawled, “most critics don’t sound quite so… affectionate. And most spectators don’t stare at brushstrokes like they’re fireworks.”

Ashswag whipped around, scandalized, then burnt into booming laughter. “Affectioante? Ha! Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I’m her biggest fan. She’s part of our House, isn’t she? If she wins, we win!” He thumped his chest as if the matter were settled.

Squiddo tucked her head, pretending to fuss over a stubborn streak of blue. Her pulse fluttered too quickly, but she managed a scoff. “As if it matters what he thinks.”

But MinuteTech’s grin sharpened when he caught the faint pink in her cheeks. He didn’t press. He didn’t need to. The seed was now planted into Squiddo too.

By the end of the week, their friends had joined the game, prodding both sides whenever they could. “Can’t wait to see which one of you actually wins,” they’d say, half-mocking, half-genuine.

And though Ashswag blustered and Squiddo brushed it off, the rivalry between them had taken root. It was fed by every knowing glance, every teasing remark, every unspoken truth neither of them was ready to name.

Chapter Text

The auditorium lights felt too bright, too sharp against Squiddo’s skin. They turned every flicker of her hesitation into a spotlight, every beat of her heart into thunder. Her painting rested on the easel at center stage, draped in white cloth, waiting to be revealed. She had thought herself prepared. Days of steady brushwork, hours of Ashswag’s irreverent “supervision.” But as the showcase program ticked closer to her name, her palms grew damp, her throat right.

She wasn’t from the House of Peace or Intelligence, where art and music bloomed naturally, where creativity was expected, almost required. She was from Devotion. Her House was known for order, for loyalty, for obedience so precise it left no room for brushstrokes or melodies. And now she was here, in front of everyone, carrying something that didn’t belong.

Her name was called.

She rose, legs shaky, and crossed the stage. The crowd blurred, nobles in polished uniforms and stiff collars, their polite anticipation no less suffocating than scorn would have been. She swallowed. Breathed.

And then, above the murmurs, piercing clear, Ashswag’s voice rang out. “Let’s go Squiddo! Show them brilliance!”

The shout drew chuckles, a few shushes, but Squiddo’s chest loosened more than tightened. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath until that moment. Ashswag sat in the crowd with his arms cupped around his mouth, grinning like a fool, entirely unashamed. For her.

She gripped the edge of the cloth, steadied her hands, and pulled it away.

The painting bloomed under the lights. Swathes of color–blue bleeding into gold, shadow into flame–arced together in a way that felt alive. Not orderly, not obedient, but bold. Every brushstroke whispered rebellion against the uniformity she’d been raised to honor.

Silence first, sharp as a blade. Then, suddenly, the hall erupted. Applause rolled through the air like thunder. Murmurs of surprise, admiration, even awe rippled from row to row. Students leaned forward, craning to see. Even the School Elders exchanged astonished glances.

Squiddo bowed her head, dizzy. Warmth surged through her at the sound, but even as the applause swelled, she searched for only one response. Her eyes darted to the crowd.

Ashswag was already on his feet, clapping harder, louder, longer than anyone else. He whooped, shouted her name again, grinning so wide it was impossible not to catch fire from it. In that instant, all the rest blurred. The prestige, the risk, the hundreds of eyes. The only approval she needed was there, loud and impossible to miss.

She left the stage trembling, her face hot, her heart hammering.

Ashswag intercepted her before the others could, puffing his chest with smug pride. “What did I tell you?” he crowed to their Housemates nearby. “I trained her confidence, of course! A true masterpiece forged under my guidance!”

She gasped, scandalized, and smacked his shoulder lightly. “You did nothing of the sort!”

“Correction,” he said, grinning. “I did everything of the sort. Inspiration, encouragement, unmatched cheering. Without me, she’d still be fussing over sketches.”

Their friends laughed, some rolling their eyes at his theatric, others nodding in mock agreement.

Squiddo tried to scowl, but the edges of her lips betrayed her, curling upward. She shook her head and muttered, “Idiot,” though the word lacked any bite. Inside, she held his presence close, warmer than even the storm of applause she’d just received.

For all the clamor of the showcase, she knew what had steadied her hands.

And as the program shifted, the stage cleared, and the debate podium were wheeled into place, Ashswag’s moment drew near.

The air in the chamber had shifted by the time the last generation was called forward. A kind of quiet anticipation hung over the audience, heavier than the earlier rounds. Everyone knew this segment was different. This was not about the uncertain efforts of heirs leaning their footing. It was about those who had already lived through the grind of expectation and tradition, who bore the full weight of family names carved in stone long before they were born.

When the moderator announced the motion–

“The Four Houses should collaborate with each other instead of working as independent hierarchies.”

–there was a faint stir, as though everyone in the audience knew this was not simply an academic debate. It was, in its own way, a mirror of the question looming over the Academy itself.

With a simple coin flip, it was decided that Devotion would defend and Rivalry would oppose.

From the House of Devotion, Ashswag stepped onto the stage. He had the kind of presence that demanded attention whether or not he had earned it. His stride was brisk, his coat catching slightly against the polished wood of the platform. His jaw was already set too tight, his fists flexing open and closed at the side as though he was preparing for a duel rather than a debate.

His first words came out hard, like steel striking stone. He dismissed the idea of collaboration as weakness, his tone sharpened with disdain. He painted unity as a slow rot that would hollow each House’s identity, argued that independence was the only true measure of strength. His cadence was quick, unrelenting, nearly sneering. It didn’t match with his side.

But the sharpness worked against him. Instead of persuasion, it sounded like anger. Instead of conviction, it read as hostility. Rivalry’s side leaned back, smirking at how easily his intensity slid toward excess. Even among Devotion, some faces dimmed in concern.

Then, his eyes shifted. Almost by accident, toward the crowd.

Squiddo sat toward the back, her posture straight, her hair caught in a gleam of lamplight. Her smile was small but certain, the kind that didn’t ask for attention but offered it. There was no mockery, no pity. Just calm, unwavering recognition.

Something in Ashswag’s chest jolted. He inhaled once, deeply, and when he exhaled, the edge in his voice reshaped itself.

His next points unfurled differently. Measured, deliberate. He no longer shouted strength. He demonstrated it by restraint. He began weaving analogies with the precision of someone who had thought carefully before.

He argued that true devotion meant endurance, and endurance was not forged in solitude but in the carrying of weight. He described the Four Houses and four pillars holding a single roof. Each might boast of its height or its carvings, but if one cracked, the whole roof fell. Rivalry, he said, prided itself on withstanding storms along, but even stone erodes without reinforcement. Collaboration, then, was not weakness. It was the only way Rivalry could continue to stand tall, unbroken, and true to itself.

The judges leaned forward. Pens paused, then scribbled again.

Ashswag pressed further, tracing the history of collapses. Houses that once thrived but fell because they refused to share burdens, their pride outlasting their relevance. His words were no longer jagged. They were honed, deliberate, sliding into a rhythm that commanded attention. The aggression had not vanished. It had been refined into conviction.

Unbeknownst to most, this was the very argument Squiddo had nudged into shape with him during late-night walks. Where he would have chosen the language of fire and conquest, she had murmured about structures and cracks, endurance and collapse. He had scoffed at the time, but now, with her steady smile, anchoring him, it became the weapon he wielded best.

When the judges called the round, the announcement came like the crack of a whip. Devotion had won.

The chamber erupted. Devotion’s cheers thundered, relatives calling Ashswag’s name with a pride that seemed to rattle the air. Even the neutral students clapped with reluctant admiration. Rivalry’s smirks faded into more measured expression, a begrudging respect.

Ashswag stood amid the applause, but the sound did not land the way it was supposed to. He heard the cheers, but they seemed distant, muffled beneath something sharper, more personal.

He turned his head toward the back.

Squiddo was still there, still smiling, her depression unchanged from when he had first faltered. She had not leapt to her feet, had not clapped louder than the others. She didn’t need to. That quiet, constant look was more than the thunder of Devotion behind him.

A breath caught in his chest. For a moment, he let himself smile back. It wasn’t his usual triumphant grin, the kind he wore when basking in victory. It was smaller, almost private, as if it belonged to no one else in the room.

When he stepped down from the stage, the first to meet him was one of his younger cousins, slapping his back. “You see that? Flawless, Ash! Rivalry didn’t stand a chance!”

Another voice joined in, saying, “Brilliant closing point. That roof analogy? Genius. You had them pinned.”

Ashswag nodded, offering brief smiles, but his eyes flicked once more to the far side of the room where Squiddo had risen, gathering her things with unhurried grace.

She did not approach, nor did she call out. She simply caught his gaze across the crowd and tilted her head slightly, as if to say “I told you so.”

Ashswag exhaled, long and steady, as though only now realizing he had been holding his breath for the entire debate.

The House of Devotion claimed his victory as theirs, but in his mind, it was not the echo of their voices he carried. It was the still, unshakable approval of one.

Chapter Text

The night settled soft and endless over the Academy grounds, velvet-dark and shimmering with the scatter of stars. The clamor of the day still lingered faintly in the halls. Echoes of applause, of argument carried too far, of laughter from those too exhilarated to sleep. But the garden had grown hushed, emptied of its earlier chatter, save for the gentle rustle of leaves and the rhythmic trickle of the fountain.

The gazebo waited at the center, catching silver in the moonlight. Tonight, it seemed to hold its breath, as if it too, knew the significance of the day.

Ashswag arrived first. His coat was thrown lazily over one shoulder, debate notes still sticking half-out of the pocket. He was restless, pacing the short stretch of grass leading up to the gazebo, muttering fragments of his earlier speech under his breath. Half was replaying, the other half perfecting it in his mind. Even after victory, he always believed he could have been sharper, louder, better.

Then, footsteps.

Squiddo emerged from the path with a lantern in hand, its glow brushing her features in shifting gold. She looked both tired and radiant, her nerves from earlier had left her drained, yet the triumph of having shown her art still clung to her like an aura. She caught sight of him pacing and shook her head with a smile.

“You know,” she said lightly, “for someone who won, you look like you’re still fighting.”

Ashswag snapped upright, flashing a grin to cover the fact that he was still replaying every syllable. “Practicing for next year’s debates. Got to stay sharp, don’t I?”

Squiddo stepped into the gazebo, setting her lantern down on the railing. The light pooled warm against it, mingling with the moon’s silver. “Or maybe you just can’t stand silence.”

He followed her inside, collapsing dramatically onto the bench as though the day had wrung him dry. “Silence is boring. Besides, this was the day of our grand contest. How am I supposed to sit quietly when I’ve clearly already won?”

She arched a brow, perching opposite him. “Already won?”

Ashswag smirked. “My speech is all anyone’s talking about. Rivalry tried to hold their ground, but I crushed them with elegance. Even the judges admitted it. Therefore unless you painted a miracle, I’d say our little wager belongs to me.”

Her lips curved, but she kept her gaze on the lantern’s glow. “Funny, because when I passed through the hall, all I heard was how my painting ‘captured the fragility of legacy’ and ‘spoke for every student in the room.’” She tilted her head back, mock-thoughtful. “I suppose applause does sound different when it isn’t only from your cousins.”

Ashswag clutched his chest theatrically. “Cruel. I gave you courage for that showcase, and this is how you repay me? By pretending the crowd wasn’t louder for me?”

“You gave me courage?” she echoed, half a laugh spilling into her words. “That’s rich. If anything, I gave you restraint. Without me in the crowd, you’d have yelled your way into a loss.”

He leaned forward, pointing at her with mock accusation. “Admit it. You were impressed. You’ve never seen me that composed, have you?”

She allowed the silence to stretch a beat, then smiled slyly. “I’ll admit it when you admit you stared at my painting longer than anyone else.”

That jab landed. Ashswag coughed, scrambling for another smirk. “Of course I stared! You’re my Housemate. Devotion pride. I had to make sure no one booed.”

Squiddo laughed. Bright, quick, and cut short by her own embarrassment. She turned her head away as though watching the stars instead. “Mm. House pride. That’s all.”

The gazebo filled with quiet again, but it was a softer quiet this time, weighted not with absence but with presence. The lantern flickered between them, their shadows dancing across the gazebo. Outside, fireflies drifted lazily near the hedges, echoing the constellations above.

The fireflies winked in the hedges like shy little stars, and for a while neither of them spoke, letting the garden’s stillness wrap around them. The weight of applause, speeches, and judgments seemed far away now, softened by the night.

Ashswag finally broke the silence, leaning forward with a huff that was more amused than exasperated. “You know what? I give up. Fine. We’ll call it a tie.”

Squiddo let out a soft laugh, a sound that loosened the tightness in her chest. “A tie, huh? That’s unusually humble of you.”

“Don’t push it,” he muttered, though even his grin had softened. His bravado seemed muted now, worn down by the long day.

“Still,” she said, her voice quieter, the words slipping past her before she could stop them, “thank you. For being there.”

Normally, he would have puffed his chest, delivered some outrageous claim about being her savior, about how he practically carried her to victory. But instead, Ashswag leaned back against the railing, his gaze fixed not on her but on the dark sky. His voice, when it came, was uncharacteristically steady.

“I couldn’t have done it without you.”

The words hung in the air, unpolished and true. Squiddo froze, her breath catching in her throat. She wanted to laugh it off, to tease him, to say of course you couldn’t, but she couldn’t make her lips form the words. Her heart pounded far too loudly in her chest, betraying her. She only smiled faintly at the lantern’s glow, keeping her secret where it had always been safest. Inside.

The moment stretched until Ashswag, restless as ever, suddenly shoved himself off the bench. “Come on,” he said, gesturing toward the lawn just beyond the gazebo. “The night’s too clear to waste.”

Before she could question him, he flopped onto the grass with all the grace of a boy who had never cared much for appearances. His coat spread beneath him like a makeshift blanket, his hands folded behind his head. “See? Perfect view.”

Squiddo shook her head, but followed, laying down beside him on the cool field. The lantern, left hanging from the gazebo post, cast a faint circle of gold across them, blending with the pale spill of starlight. It was as if the heavens themselves had lowered, pressing close.

Squiddo raised her hand and began tracing shapes in the sky. “That’s Orion’s Belt,” she murmured. “And over there, the Swan. You can just see its wings if you squint.”

Ashswag turned his head toward her instead of the constellations. She was so absorbed in the stars, her features softened, the lines of concentration making her look younger, almost vulnerable. Her finger moved through the air, sketching unseen diagrams, and he found himself watching the way her hair fell against her cheek, the way her eyes lit when she recognized another star.

He told himself he was only humoring her. That’s what friends did. Indulge each other’s odd hobbies. But his gaze lingered longer than he meant it to.

At some point, the weight of the day must have finally caught up to him. His eyes closed, his breaths slowed, and his head tipped slightly toward her.

“Hey,” she whispered, realizing suddenly that he’d gone quiet. She turned her head and found his face only inches from hers, relaxed in sleep. The sharpness that always defined him–those proud brows, that self-sure grin–was gone, leaving behind something softer. 

Squiddo’s heart raced. She should have nudged him awake. She meant to. But instead she lingered, caught by the closeness, by the strange vulnerability of him laying so unguarded under the stars. Her hand hesitated in the air, halfway between pushing him and simply… hovering there.

She leaned closer without meaning to, close enough to count the curve of his lashes, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath in the cool night air. It was only when she realized how long she’d been staring that she startled herself back into motion.

“Wake up, you’ll catch a cold,” she muttered, shaking his shoulder a little more roughly than necessary.

Ashswag stirred, blinking in confusion. “Huh? I wasn’t sleeping.”

“Sure you weren’t.” Squiddo rolled onto her back again, eyes fixed firmly on the stars this time. Her cheeks burned, but she kept her tone calm.

Ashswag let out a drowsy laugh, too tired to argue further. He shifted to get comfortable, the grass rustling beneath him. For once, he didn’t press, didn’t demand the last word.

The two of them lay there in companionable silence, the lantern above casting a dim halo over their little corner of the world, as if the universe itself had drawn a boundary around them and said, “this belongs to you.”

Chapter Text

The gates of the Academy loomed against a pale morning sky, their familiar weight both welcoming and oppressive. Another year, another step deeper into the endless cycle of expectations. Ashswag and Squiddo walked side by side through the courtyard, their boots crunching over gravel still wet from last night’s rain.

“You’d think after three retreats I’d be used to it,” Ashswag muttered, his coat slung carelessly over one arm. “But this one felt… different.”

“Different?” Squiddo tilted her head, smirking faintly. “You mean jarring.”

“Not jarring,” he protested, though his grin gave him away. “Just… less exciting. Like they’re running out of new ways to impress us.” He waves his hand in mock dramatics. “Endless speeches, identical feasts, rehearsed talk about honor. I swear I could recite the Elders’ lines by heart.”

Squiddo laughed softly, brushing her hair back from her face. “And you probably did. Out loud. During the ceremony.”

Ashswag shot her a mischievous look. “Guilty. Someone had to liven it up”

But the joke faded quickly, replaced by a flicker of unease. “Next year’s will feel strange, though. With MinuteTech stepping up. Don’t get me wrong, I respect him more than half the council put together, but… I don’t know if I’m ready to see him as the head.”

Squiddo nodded, her smile dimming into something quieter. “I feel the same. The retreats used to feel like milestones. Proof we were growing into something. Now it’s just… obligation. Tradition for tradition’s sake.” She exhaled slowly, her eyes following the arch of the library roofline in the distance. “Like we’re supposed to clap at the right times and pretend it still matters.”

There was a maturity in her voice, unspoken but undeniable. Ashswag caught it, felt it resonate somewhere deep in his chest. “Bittersweet,” he said simply. “That’s what it is.”

For a while, their footsteps filled the silence. The Academy’s courtyard buzzed with familiar noise. Students greeting one another, trunks rolling over stone, the hum of a place too practiced to feel new anymore.

Then, as always, Ashswag broke the heaviness first. “At least we’ll have our own games to look forward to. And by games, I mean me destroying you at chess again.”

Squiddo’s eyes flicked toward him, one brow raised. “Destroying? You barely scraped a win last time. If anything, I let you.”

He gasped, clutching at his chest as though struck. “Let me? You dare tarnish my flawless record with such lies?”

“Flawless?” She grinned now, sharp and teasing. “You’ve lost to me in every card game we’ve ever played.”

“That’s because card games are beneath me,” Ashswag countered, nose in the air. “I’m a strategist, not a gambler.”

“Oh, is that what you call throwing your entire deck at the table when you’re losing?”

Their banter carried across the courtyard, drawing glances from nearby students. A pair of girls passing by exchanged looks, one whispering just loud enough for them to hear, “There they are again. Inseparable.”

Another group, boys this time, smirked knowingly. “Bet they don’t even notice how they orbit each other.”

Ashswag caught the words and puffed up his chest, striding proudly as though the comment were a compliment he fully deserved. Squiddo, meanwhile, felt heat rise to her cheeks but rolled her eyes with practiced ease.

“Inseparable,” she echoed under her breath once the crowd had moved on, her tone carefully neutral.

“Of course,” Ashswag declared, missing (or maybe, ignoring) the nuance in her voice. “No one else can keep up with me.”

She nudged his shoulder, a small laugh slipping past. “Maybe no one else has the patience.”

They fell into step again, teasing and bickering, but the cadence of their words had shifted. Beneath the mock-arguments and exaggerated boasts, something warmer threaded between them. A comfort that had grown so natural it felt magnetic, impossible to break.

Beneath all of the bantering, Squiddo’s heart thudded faster than she cared to admit. Every time Ashswag puffed his chest or smirked like the world spun because of him, she felt that same tug. A ridiculous combination of irritation and warmth. She thought about how far they’d come–how their friendship had shifted from sharp-tongued challenges to something steadier, something that made people whisper when they passed.

That night, as the Academy grew quiet, Squiddo sat alone at her desk, pretending to review her notes but staring instead at the flickering lanternlight on her wall. She thought about graduation. About how close it was, and how quickly the time had flown since their first retreat. If she didn’t say anything now, when would she? Would there even be another chance?

The idea of confessing pressed on her chest like a weight. It wasn’t fear of rejection. Ashswag cared for her, she knew that. But what if naming it broke everything? What if the sharp banter, the comfort, the inseparability, collapsed the moment she gave it a label? So she whispered it only to herself, silent and fragile.

“Before graduation. Maybe before then. Maybe.”

Meanwhile, in his own corner of the academy, Ashswag sat on the edge of his bed, tossing a ball up and catching it lazily. He smirked as he thought about Squiddo’s last retort, how she had managed to knock him down a peg in front of a whole group of freshmen. And somehow, instead of being annoyed, he felt proud. She was the only one who could do that. Deflate his ego while making him feel ten times taller. He couldn’t name it love, not yet, but it was something that gnawed at him when the corridors fell silent. Something he couldn’t joke away.

A few days later, they found themselves in the garden, the same place where it had all started years ago. The hedges stood taller now, and the stone paths had worn with age, but the lanternlight and faint smell of flowers lingered the same. It was quieter here, tucked away from the bustle of students who no longer seemed as enchanted by the grounds as they once were.

For a rare moment, neither of them spoke. The stillness was heavier than their usual banter, filled instead with the thrum of cicadas and the distant hum of voices from the dormitories. Squiddo glanced at Ashswag, the words rising to her throat. This was it. She could say it, right here where everything had begun.

Her breath caught. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, her courage dissolving like sugar in warm water. Instead, she forced a grin, her voice too quick, too playful, and said, “You know, if we were plants, you’d definitely be the weed ruining my garden.”

Ashswag barked a laugh, tossing his head back, the sound echoing against the hedges. He didn’t notice the way her smile faltered for just a second, or how tightly she gripped her skirt to stop her hands from shaking.

The night pressed on, carrying with it that unfinished sentence, the confession swallowed before it could bloom.

Chapter Text

By mid-autumn, it wasn’t just their closest friends who noticed anymore. From study sessions to mealtimes, Ashswag and Squiddo had become a kind of fixture in the Academy. If one was spotted, the other wasn’t far behind. Sitting at the same library table, walking the path to class in sync, or even arguing lightly over whose handwriting was worse during shared note-taking.

It started as small murmurs, little nudges from their classmates. “Of course they’ll end up together,” someone whispered one afternoon in the dining hall when Squiddo leaned across the table to steal the spoon Ashswag wasn’t using. The words weren’t meant for their ears, but Squiddo heard anyway. She tried to laugh it off, cheeks warming, while Ashswag only raised an eyebrow, clearly pleased that anyone thought they were important enough to comment on.

What made it worse–or better, depending on how one saw it–was that neither of them ever corrected the assumption. They didn’t admit it out loud, but they didn’t deny it either. Their silence became its own answer, one that hung between them and the curious eyes of the academy.

Ashswag, of course, continued his habit of bragging. Every small win was an announcement. Finishing an essay earlier than the deadline, winning an argument in class, or even balancing a book on his head while walking down the hallway. He’d make a show of it, chin titled high, daring Squiddo to roll her eyes.

And she did, every time. But the truth was quieter, hidden behind her exaggerated sighs and mock annoyance. When she sat across him in study sessions, she caught herself smiling whenever he boasted about his latest triumph. When she overheard him retelling the same story to others for the fifth time, she felt an odd warmth at how alive he looked when basking in attention. She never said it, but she was always secretly cheering him on.

Meanwhile, Squiddo’s artistic pursuits began to take on a sharper shape. What had once been casual sketches in the margins of her notes evolved into larger works, layered with detail and meaning. She stayed after class to practice techniques, fingers smudged with charcoal, eyes glowing with the kind of focus that left her oblivious to the world.

Ashswag found himself lingering during those moments more often than he’d admit. He’d lean against the wall, pretending to critique her shading with smug remarks, but in reality, he was struck silent by how dedicated she was. He respected it, more than his pride would ever allow him to say aloud. For someone who thrived on loud declarations, he held this particular admiration like a secret, folded tight inside himself.

Still, beneath the routine, both felt the pull of something heavier. Squiddo’s heart skipped during quiet moments when his shoulder brushed hers, and Ashswag sometimes caught himself searching the crowd for her before realizing he had. Neither spoke of it, and perhaps that silence spoke loudest of all.

The Academy moved around them, days filled with assignments, lectures, and the steady rhythm of shared life. But the truth was that everyone always saw it. The pair everyone knew, orbiting each other so naturally it was impossible to imagine them apart.

For all the whispers about how inseparable they’d become, it was the moments of imperfection that truly deepened their bond.

The first came on a gray afternoon when Ashswag, so sure of himself and so endlessly confident, tripped headlong into humiliation. It wasn’t the kind of dramatic failure that made headlines across the Academy, but it stung him worse than any debate loss or poor score ever could. He’d been showing off during a sparring demonstration, loudly promising that he’d land the perfect maneuver in front of half their peers. Instead, he stumbled, botched the move, and ended up flat on his back while laughter rippled through the watching crowd.

Ashswag wore his grin like armor, laughing alone with them, but Squiddo could see the tension in his jaw, the way his fists clenched when he thought no one was watching. Later, when the noise had died down and most students had drifted away, she found him sitting by the stone steps near the garden, shoulders hunched lower than she’d ever seen.

She sat down beside him without asking, letting the silence stretch before nudging his arm. “For someone who brags about balance, you fall an awful lot.”

His groan was muffled, half-buried in his palm. “Don’t remind me.”

But her teasing wasn’t cruel, and when she leaned just close enough for her shoulder to brush his, the edge of his pride softened. Her kindness that was quiet, unshowy, but unwavering, cut through the wall he usually kept up. After a long pause, he let out a laugh, softer this time, tinged with embarrassment.

“You know,” he said, voice dropping into something closer to honesty. “You’re the only one I’d let see me like this. Anyone else, I’d never hear the end of it.”

Squiddo only smiled, feigning lightness though her chest tightened at his words. “Then I’ll treasure the honor,” she teased, though the warmth in her voice gave her away.

It was a strange moment. Ashswag admitting weakness, Squiddo steadying him not with lectures but with quiet presence. The academy might have expected him to bounce back with louder declarations, but in truth, something shifted. He realized she didn’t just tolerate his pride, she could dissolve it with a single touch of kindness.

And perhaps that was why, not long after, he found himself doing something completely uncharacteristic.

When he won a small challenge in class, a victory that ordinarily would have had him storming the halls and retelling the story with wild exaggerations, he didn’t announce it to everyone. He didn’t even pause to savor the crowd’s reaction. Instead, his first instinct was to find her.

He burst into the art room, still flushed with triumph, words tumbling too quickly for sense. “I did it–I actually pulled it off! You should’ve seen their faces, Squiddo!”

She blinked at him, charcoal stick hovering over her paper. It took her a moment to realize what was strange. He wasn’t standing tall in the doorway waiting for applause. He was standing there looking at her, only her, eyes alight in a way that made it clear her reaction was the one that mattered.

Squiddo laughed softly, setting her tools aside. “So I’m your first audience now?”

His grin widened, but there was no boast in it this time. “Guess so.”

She pretended to brush it off, teasing him about finally having taste in audiences. But inside, her heart swelled. She noticed, of course she noticed, that he hadn’t gone to anyone else first. That her approval, quietly given with a smile and nod, had replaced the roaring applause he usually craved.

And that was how it stayed. Ashswag glowing under her approval, and Squiddo, smiling as if it was nothing at all.

Yet when she was alone, she found herself practicing the words she could never quite deliver. In the reflection of her mirror, she rehearsed confessions. Quiet admissions about how much he mattered, how he’d slipped into her heart. But each time she stood before him in reality, her courage dissolved into laughter, brushed away as a joke.

Ashswag, ever radiant, never suspected. He carried on, cheerfully oblivious, never realizing how close the truth hovered on her lips.

Chapter Text

Graduation season crept over the Academy like a tide no one could hold back. The corridors buzzed with the heaviness of last times. Last formal dinners, last exams, last rehearsals, last hurried conversations in the gardens before curfew. Even the air seemed thick with farewells. Banners of the Houses hung brighter than usual, though everyone knew it wasn’t for celebration alone. It was a ceremony, the ritual of endings.

At the formal dinners, the clinking of silverware and the long speeches from School Elders felt heavier than before. Each toast to “honor” and “legacy” seemed to remind them that this chapter of their lives was drawing to a close. For the Heirs, the future stretched into something ruthless and inevitable. For others (like Ashswag and Squiddo), it was still daunting, though tinged with something more personal. A fear of losing the daily rhythm they’d built together.

Among their classmates, whispers no longer bothered with subtlety. They were always seen side by side during study sessions, across the dining hall, trading barbs in the garden. And so the whispers became declarations. “The married couple of the House,” someone called them during lunch, and laughter rolled across the table.

Ashswag, never one to retreat, puffed his chest and threw his grin across the room. “Of course! Who else could keep up with me?” he boasted, his voice carrying easily. “It’s only natural.”

The table roared. Squiddo smacked his arm, eyes rolling, though the warmth on her face betrayed her. She had heard the joke before, but now, with graduation looming, the words dug deeper. She felt them settle in her chest, unwanted and yet… not entirely pleasant.

Ashswag laughed with everyone else, but later, in quieter corners, the words clung to him. Married couple. The thought lingered longer than he expected. He would shake it off, pretend it meant nothing, and yet, when he looked at Squiddo–her hair bent over notes, her brow furrowed in thought–he caught himself wondering why the idea didn’t sound ridiculous at all.

Final exams bore down on them, but it wasn’t just the academics that tightened their nerves. Late-night study sessions became their refuge, where silence hung between bursts of frantic review, interrupted only by the scratching of quills or Squiddo muttering under her breath. One such night, when the lantern on their shared desk burned low and the whole Academy seemed asleep, Squiddo felt the weight in her chest swell to something nearly unbearable.

She watched him scribble down another answer, his hair messy, his grin faint even in exhaustion. The words rose to her lips, fragile but insistent. “Ashswag… I–”

But before she could release them, he looked up, eyes glinting with playful mischief despite the hour. “You know,” he said, stretching back in his chair,” “if exams were scored on sheer charm, I’d already have top marks. Don’t you think?”

Her lips froze, the words collapsing back into silence. She barked a laugh instead, shaking her head. “Unbelievable,” she muttered, hiding her face behind her notes.

He only grinned wider, pleased at her reaction, utterly unaware of what he had interrupted.

The week passed on, heavy with ceremonies that tried to disguise themselves as celebrations. During one House gathering, speeches droned and rituals unfolded with rehearsed grandeur. Ashswag, restless as always, couldn’t resist making himself heard.

With a grin and a voice louder than necessary, he declared, “Squiddo’s the only person who makes this House tolerable!”

Laughter burst from the crowd, dismissing it as just another one of his theatrical boasts. But Squiddo froze, her face warming as every eye seemed to flick toward her. She ducked her head quickly, pretending to smoother her sleeve, but her silence said everything. For once, she was the one caught off guard.

The laughter from the House ceremony still echoed faintly in Squiddo’s mind long after the assembly had broken apart. Ashswag’s voice that was always too bold, careless, and loud, had carried over the crowd like a banner.

Everyone else had brushed it off, of course, reducing it to another in his endless string of dramatic pronouncements. But Squiddo had gone quiet, the words lodging in her chest where no amount of laughter could shake them loose. She told herself it was nothing, just his usual bluster, but when she caught him grinning across the room, some flicker of warmth in his eyes different from the rest, she wasn’t sure she believed herself.

The laughter from the House ceremony had faded, swallowed by the endless cycle of farewells and formality that graduation season demanded. And then, finally, the evening of the ceremony itself arrived. The last walk across the Academy grounds before the curtain of routine would fall for good.

Squiddo found herself beside Ashswag without planning it. The rest of their House dispersed into clusters. Some were still buzzing with nervous excitement, others already retreating to pack their belongings. But she and Ashswag, as always, fell into step together, their path meandering through the familiar courtyards and cloisters that now carried a strange glow beneath the lanterns.

The stone pathways seemed softer in the dawn, the vines on the old walls catching the new light. Every corner whispered memories. The garden where he had practiced fiery speeches, the steps where she had left one of her first notes, the library windows where MinuteTech had teased them both. Each carried a weight, a reminder of how much time had passed, how much they had shifted without ever fully realizing it.

Squiddo’s chest tightened with every step. She wanted to speak. She needed to. The air itself pressed down on her with urgency, as if the Academy were reminding her that her time was running out. If she didn’t tell him by tonight, would she ever? Her fingers brushed against the hem of her sleeve, restless, her mind spinning with half-rehearseed confessions she had ruined in the mirror a dozen times.

But then she glanced at him, and the words died before they could form. Ashswag walked with his usual swagger, yes, but slower than usual, less animated. His hands weren’t thrown up dramatically, his voice wasn’t booming with exaggerated stories. Instead, he was quieter, his eyes drifting over the grounds with something like reverence.

And from his side, something unfamiliar stirred.

He noticed how easy it felt, walking here with her, stripped of the audience he usually demanded. Around Squiddo, he didn’t need to puff up his chest or rattle off another ridiculous boast. She was the person who could roll her eyes at his dramatics and somehow make him proud instead of defensive. When she teased him, it never stung. It anchored him.

He couldn’t name the feeling, not yet. He wouldn’t dare. But it pressed in his chest, heavier than anything he’d carried before. He imagined for a fleeting moment what these grounds would look like without her beside him. The painting, the speeches, the laughter, all dull and hollow. The thought unsettled him so deeply that he almost said something reckless, something honest.

But he caught himself, retreating into silence instead.

Squiddo, for her part, stole glances at him, desperate to decode his quieter mood. Did he realize how close they had become? Did he feel the same shifting weight that she did? Or was he still blissfully unaware, a boy lost in his bravado, untouchable even at the edge of graduation?

Their steps slowed near the garden, the place where so many of their moments had begun. Squiddo’s heart hammered against her ribs. She could feel the words gathering at her lips again, a trembling tide of confession. But still, she held back. Ashswag glanced at her then, and for once, his smile wasn’t dramatic or loud. It was small, unguarded.

And though neither of them spoke the words hovering so close, the silence between them rang with everything unspoken–everything pressing forward, demanding to be answered.

Chapter Text

The afternoon light draped itself lazily over the Academy’s marble pillars, warm and honey-thick. The morning had already given itself away to memory. The speeches, the applause, the swell of organ music that echoed through the vaulted hall. Tassels had been shifted to the left, names were already etched into programs and photographs. And now, as the hours slipped by, the celebration began to soften.

By late afternoon, the campus felt both too full and strangely hollow. Families clustered near the gates, their carriages lined up like polished chess pieces. The younger students lingered in doorways, craning their necks for glimpses of those who would soon be gone. Even the fountains in the gardens seemed quieter, their steady streams catching the gold of the lowering sun.

It was in this fragile in-between (the ceremony complete, yet the farewell not yet begun) that Squiddo found herself walking beside Ashswag once again.
She told herself it was habit. That years of orbiting each other’s voices and shadows, her feet simply knew how to keep pace with his. But today it felt different. There was an ache beneath her ribs, a pressure that kept swelling the longer the silence stretched between them. The Academy, once so enormous and sprawling, now felt small enough to trap the air in her lungs.

Her thoughts turned restless. The hours were thinning, and with them, the excuses. She could no longer tell herself that there will be more time or he’ll notice eventually. Time was shrinking, curling into itself like paper held too close to a flame.

Did he even realize? Did Ashswag, with all his thunderous laughter and reckless words, have the faintest idea how close they had grown? How many of his careless boasts had been softened by her presence, how often noise had been tempered simply because she was there?

When she risked a glance at him, she found no answer. Ashswag was staring off at the fading light, his expression less loud than usual, though still unreadable. His steps fell heavy against the gravel path, but there was no swagger, no deliberate flourish. For once, it looked as though he had forgotten to perform.

From Ashswag’s side, the shift was even stranger.
He wasn’t used to quiet. Silence always itched at him, always pressed in until he could drown it with another booming proclamation or mocking jab. But this silence was different. Not suffocating, not empty. Calmer.

He kept waiting for her to say something, to tease or rebuke or sigh the way she usually did. And yet, as the silence stretched, he realized he didn’t want to break it. He was listening. To the crunch of their shoes against stone, to the sigh of branches stirred by a zephyr, to the faint hum of a violin spilling from a distant balcony. Listening, and knowing she was there beside him, was enough.

It unsettled him.
Because it wasn’t just that he felt calmer, it was that he felt heavier. Every time he imagined the end of this year, his chest tightened in ways he couldn’t laugh off. He couldn’t imagine Squiddo walking away to her family, he couldn’t imagine her laughter scattering elsewhere, he couldn’t imagine the possibility of her absence.

He didn’t have the words for it. Love had never been part of his vocabulary; it was a word he mocked when others dared to utter it. But something about her presence had changed the way he occupied his own skin. Bragging seemed less urgent. Shouting felt unnecessary. For once, the need to be heard was replaced by the startling desire to listen.

The golden light grew richer as the sun tipped lower, spilling over the Academy’s western arches. Shadows lengthened across the gardens, stretching like the final hourglass before nightfall. Students gathered in clusters, their voices hushed with nostalgia, their gowns catching fire where the light touched them. The farewell ceremony was near. Soon, the bell would sound, summoning them to one last gathering.

But for now, Squiddo stopped walking.
She drew in a steadying breath, her fingers tightening around the edges of the package she had carried since morning. She had almost given it to him before the graduation march, then again at the luncheon, then once more in the quiet of the courtyard. Each time, the moment slipped away. But now, with the sky burning itself into dusk, she could no longer wait.

She turned to him, and without a word, extended the gift.
Ashswag blinked, then blinked again. For once, the braggart had no quip prepared. Carefully, almost clumsily, he peeled away the cloth wrapping. What he found made his words stumble in his throat.

It was a painting. Her hand, her touch. The House gardens stretched across the canvas, captured not as they were, but as they had been. Their beginning. The place where he had first learned what it felt like to speak and not feel alone. The place where he had first noticed her, and perhaps, without realizing, the place where everything had begun to change.

Ashswag’s lips parted, but no sound came. He stared, the usual fire in his eyes replaced with something rawer, something unguarded.
And then he burst.
“You–” his voice cracked, before rising into its familiar, booming register. “You’re the only person who ever made me want to brag less and listen more!”
It was loud. It was dramatic. It was Ashswag.
But for once, it was also the truth.

Ashswag’s voice rang out into the open air. He didn’t care. He was holding the painting too tightly, his hands almost trembling, as if letting go might cause the moment to vanish.

“You…” he started again, but the words tangled. His chest rose and fell with uneven force. “You… I don’t even know how to–” He groaned, dragging a hand through his hair, frustrated at his own tongue. He had bragged about battles, about triumphs, about things he hadn’t even done, yet now, when it mattered most, the sentences refused to come.

Squiddo stared at him, half in shock, half in disbelief. She had seen him loud, seen him smug, seen him shamelessly dramatic, but never this. His voice cracked, his gestures faltered. It was as though the sunlight itself had peeled away the armor he carried in every word.

Ashswag finally blurted, almost angrily. “I can’t brag around you. Do you get that? I can’t… because you… you’re the only person who makes me want to be… less. Less loud. Less stupid. More–more me.”
His throat tightened. He laughed once, humourless and sharp, trying to hide how much it hurt to say loud. “And it’s killing me, Squiddo. Because if you leave, if you go and I never say this, then I’ll never forgive myself.”
The words landed between them, messy and jagged, but true.

Squiddo pressed her hand to her mouth, not to silence herself, but to keep the tears from spilling too quickly. She shook her head, a laugh bubbling through despite the heat in her eyes. “You… Ashswag, do you even realize what you’re saying?” Her voice trembled. “You’ve been holding that in all this time?”

“Of course I have!” He spread his arms in exasperation, as if the whole world had conspired to make him wait this long. “What was I supposed to do? Shout it across the dining hall? Declare it in the middle of House meetings?” He broke off after that, lowering his voice suddenly, startling even himself with how soft it became. “You mean too much for that. You’ve always meant too much.”

The tears slipped free then, unchecked. Squiddo’s laughter wavered into sobs, a sound that hurt and healed in equal measure. She dropped her hand, letting the wetness streak her cheeks. “You idiot,” she whispered, choking on the words. “You absolute, impossible idiot. Do you think I stayed by your side all these years because I couldn’t stand you?”
Ashswag blinked, dumbstruck. His jaw opened, but no words followed.

“I stayed,” she continued, her voice breaking yet firm, “because I loved you. Every boast, every loud entrance, every time you acted like the world revolved around you… I loved you through all of it. Not just because of the noise, but because I saw the you underneath it. And I… I couldn’t imagine not being here.”

For a moment, the world was unbearably still. The painting trembled between his hands. The last of the sun brushed against their faces, gilding her tears, igniting the copper in his hair. The air smelled of lavender from the garden beds, of old stone warmed by the day.

Ashswag let out a sound, half laugh, half sob, and pressed his forehead to hers. His voice shook, uneven but steady enough to carry. “Then say it again. Please. Say it again.”

“I love you,” Squiddo whispered, her smile trembling through the tears. “I’ve loved you for so long.”

His chest heaved with a breath that seemed to break and rebuild him at once. “I love you more,” he said, voice rough, almost hoarse. “More than bragging. More than anything I’ve ever pretended to care about. I don’t care how messy it sounds. I don’t care if the whole campus hears me. I love you.”

Her laugh came like rain after drought, light and unstoppable. She clutched the front of his robe, pulling him down as if afraid he might vanish with the dying light. He steadied her with one arm, still holding the painting in the other, the canvas now pressed awkwardly between them. The ridiculousness of it made her laugh harder through her tears.

And then, for the first time in years, Ashswag laughed too. Not the performative thunder that echoed through halls, but a quiet, shaking laugh that belonged only to them.

The sun slipped lower, bathering them in deep orange, then soft rose, then the fragile violet of approaching night. Their words had spilled out, unpolished and imperfect, yet it was enough. More than enough. A love that had lived unspoken in every shared glance, every clash, every moment of stubborn loyalty, was finally laid bare.

By the time the first bell tolled in the distance, calling the graduations to their farewell, their hands were still clasped, their foreheads still touching. The painting lay safely in his grasp, but the true confession had already been painted across the sunset.

For a long time, neither of them moved. The air between them was thick with everything they had just confessed, everything that had finally spilled free after years of circling it. The bell’s echo faded, leaving only the hush of the garden and the faint hum of crickets beginning their song.

Ashswag finally pulled back, just enough to see her face. Her eyes were still glistening, her smile uneven but radiant in the fading light. He swallowed hard, every instinct to make a joke or boast tugging at him, yet none of them came. Not here. Not now.

“Squiddo,” he murmured, voice low, almost reverent.
Her breath caught. She gave a shaky laugh, tilting her head. “What?”

Instead of answering, he leaned in. Carefully. Hesitantly. As though the smallest misstep might break the fragile magic of the moment. Their lips met, brief and trembling, then deepening into something surer as the years of unspoken feeling poured into a single touch.

It wasn’t loud or dramatic. It wasn’t meant for anyone else. It was theirs.
When they finally parted, the last sliver of sunlight had slipped behind the horizon, leaving them in the soft flow of lantern light. Squiddo rested her forehead against his once more, her smile small but certain.

“About time,” she whispered.
Ashswag let out a quiet, breathless laugh. For once, he didn’t need to add anything else.

And together, hand in hand, they stood as the evening embraced them. No longer almost, but at last.