Chapter Text
???
Riddle didn’t wake up until they were already in the infirmary.
The sterile smell hit first. Then the too-bright lights. Then the dull ache in his body, like every nerve had been wrung out and left to dry.
“…Trey?” His voice came out thin.
“I’m here,” Trey said immediately, leaning forward from the chair beside the bed. He’d stayed. Of course he had.
Riddle blinked, trying to gather his thoughts.
Everything felt… fuzzy.
His hand twitched toward his head, fingers brushing his hair.
“…What happened?” he asked quietly.
Trey hesitated. Just for a second. “…Don’t worry about it for now. It’s fine.”
That wasn’t the whole truth, and they both knew it.
Before Riddle could press further, the curtain rustled, and the school nurse stepped in, clipboard in hand.
“Good, you’re awake,” she said, brisk but not unkind. “I’ll need to ask you a few questions, if you're fine to answer right now.”
Riddle stiffened slightly, instinctively straightening despite the exhaustion.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She gave a small nod, glancing down at her clipboard. “Do you feel any dizziness? Nausea? Blurred vision?”
Riddle shook his head. “No, ma’am.”
“Any pain aside from general fatigue?”
“…No.”
Trey didn’t miss the slight pause.
The nurse hummed softly, making a note. “Good. Now, do you take any regular medication?”
Riddle stilled.
“…Yes.”
Trey’s attention sharpened immediately, his posture straightening just a little.
The nurse looked up. “What kind?”
Riddle opened his mouth and faltered.
“I… take pills,” he said after a moment. “Every morning. And every night.”
“What are they for?”
Another pause.
Longer this time.
Riddle frowned faintly, like the answer should have been obvious. “My mother says they’re necessary.”
“That doesn’t answer the question,” the nurse said gently.
Riddle’s fingers tightened slightly against the blanket.
“I don’t know.”
Silence settled over the room.
Trey blinked. “…You don’t know?”
Riddle’s gaze dropped, frustration flickering across his face, small but real. “I’ve never asked.”
The nurse’s pen stopped moving.
“…I see,” she said carefully.
But the look she exchanged with Trey said enough.
The nurse’s pen remained still for a moment longer before she set it down against the clipboard.
Riddle straightened slightly under her gaze, unease prickling at the edges of his composure.
She exhaled softly, then spoke with careful clarity. “For now, you’ll need to avoid taking any additional medication unless it’s prescribed here.”
Riddle blinked. “…Additional medication?”
“Yes,” she said. “Anything outside of what you’ve already been taking. Painkillers, supplements, even common remedies. Until we know exactly what you’re currently on, combining substances could be… unsafe.”
The pause before that last word wasn’t subtle.
Trey’s expression tightened.
Riddle’s fingers curled slightly into the blanket again. “I’ve been taking them for years,” he said, a trace of defensiveness slipping through. “There’s never been an issue.”
“That may be true,” the nurse replied evenly. “But your body has just gone through significant strain. That can change how it reacts.”
She tapped the edge of her clipboard lightly. “Without knowing the type, dosage, or purpose of those pills, I can’t safely administer anything else. Not even something as mild as a standard recovery tonic.”
Riddle hesitated.
“…Then what should I do?” he asked.
“For now, nothing,” she said. “Rest. Hydrate. Let your system stabilize.”
Her gaze softened just slightly. “And when possible, I would strongly recommend finding out exactly what you’ve been taking.”
The words were gentle.
The meaning wasn’t.
Riddle lowered his gaze, the weight of it settling in a way he couldn’t quite name.
“…Yes, ma’am.”
The nurse studied him for a moment longer, then picked her pen back up, though she didn’t write yet.
“There’s one more thing,” she said.
Riddle looked up again, attentive despite the fatigue.
“Since we don’t know what those medications are,” she continued, “you’ll need to be more aware of any unusual symptoms over the next few days.”
Riddle’s brow furrowed faintly. “Unusual…?”
“Yes. Anything out of the ordinary.” She spoke calmly, but there was a firmness underneath it now. “Dizziness that wasn’t there before. Sudden fatigue. Nausea. Changes in your heartbeat. Even things like tingling sensations, disorientation, or difficulty focusing.”
Trey looks at Riddle with worry.
The nurse went on, “If you notice anything like that, you are to report it immediately. Don’t ignore it, and don’t try to ‘push through’ it.”
Riddle stiffened slightly at that.
“…I understand.”
“I’m serious,” she added, her tone softening but not losing its weight. “When the contents of a medication are unknown, even small reactions can be important indicators.”
She paused, then added more quietly, “Especially after an event that’s already put strain on your body.”
Riddle’s hand shifted against the blanket again, fingers tightening unconsciously.
“…Yes, ma’am,” he repeated.
The nurse gave a small nod, finally jotting something down. “I’ll also note this for follow-up. If possible, we’ll try to identify what you’ve been taking.”
A few days after the unbirthday
The pain woke him up.
It wasn’t sharp enough to startle, not at first. Just a dull, persistent ache, tucked somewhere deep in his jaw. Easy to ignore. Easy to dismiss.
Riddle shifted slightly in bed, eyes still closed, expecting it to fade.
It didn’t.
If anything, it worsened.
His brow creased.
“…What now,” he muttered under his breath.
Reluctantly, he pushed himself upright.
The room was quiet, washed in the pale gray of early morning. Everything was as it should be.
Except for the ache.
Riddle pressed his fingers lightly against his jaw, wincing.
A toothache?
That was… inconvenient. Nothing more.
He exhaled, already reaching for composure, for routine. This was manageable. Minor. There were procedures for things like this.
Still, something about it felt… off.
The pain wasn’t where a toothache should be.
It lingered at his canines.
Riddle frowned.
He hadn’t eaten anything unusual. Nothing that could have caused this.
With a small frown, he slid out of bed and made his way to the mirror.
The reflection that greeted him was normal.
Pale. Tired. Composed, if a bit drawn.
Nothing out of place.
“…Honestly,” he murmured, more to steady himself than anything else.
He leaned in slightly, parting his lips just enough to inspect the source of the discomfort.
At first, he didn’t see it.
His eyes narrowed as he leaned closer, fingers lifting instinctively to pull his upper lip back.
His breath caught.
“…What?”
The word slipped out, quiet and disbelieving.
He shifted, angling his head, baring his teeth more fully this time.
One of his canines.
No.
Both.
They extended past where they should have been.
It was very obvious now that Riddle was more awake.
His fingers trembled as he reached up, carefully touching the tip of one.
Not an illusion. Not a trick of the light like he had hoped.
He pressed a little harder, just to be certain.
A sharp sting shot through his jaw.
Riddle jerked his hand back immediately, breath hitching.
“…That hurt.”
For a long moment, he just stood there, staring at his reflection as if it might correct itself.
It didn’t.
The infirmary felt colder than before.
Or maybe that was just him.
Riddle sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, posture straight despite the tension coiled tight in his shoulders. One hand hovered near his face, as if resisting the urge to check again.
The nurse was frowning.
“May I?” she asked.
Riddle nodded once.
She stepped closer, gently tilting his chin upward to get a better look. Her expression remained professional, but there was a flicker of something else beneath it.
Uncertainty.
“…I see what you mean,” she said after a moment.
Riddle’s fingers curled slightly against the mattress. “Then you know what it is.”
It wasn’t a question.
“…No,” she said.
Riddle stilled.
Trey frowned. “You don’t?”
“I can confirm the change,” she said carefully. “But I can’t determine the cause. Not yet.”
Riddle’s gaze sharpened. “It happened overnight.”
“Yes. And given the timing…” She trailed off briefly, choosing her next words with more care than before. “There are two likely factors.”
Riddle didn’t like the sound of that.
“The overblot,” Trey said quietly.
The nurse nodded. “Magical backlash can have lingering effects. Physical ones, in rare cases.”
“And the other?” Riddle asked.
Her gaze flicked to him.
“…Your medication.”
Silence.
Riddle’s posture went rigid.
“We don’t know what you’ve been taking,” she continued. “We don’t know how it interacts with your magic, or how long-term use might affect your body under stress.”
Trey’s expression darkened slightly.
“So you’re saying it could be either,” he said.
“I’m saying,” the nurse replied, calm but firm, “that I cannot rule out either.”
Riddle looked away.
That wasn’t an answer.
It was worse.
“…Can it be reversed?” he asked.
Another pause.
“…I don’t know.”
The words were quiet.
Honest.
And completely useless.
Riddle’s hand hovered near his mouth for a moment longer before he forced it down to his side.
“…Understood,” he said quietly.
The nurse studied him, as if considering saying something more, but ultimately just nodded. “You’re free to go for now. But if anything changes, anything at all, you come back immediately.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Riddle slid off the bed with careful precision, smoothing out his uniform as if that alone could restore order.
Trey didn’t move at first.
Then, with a small exhale, he pushed off the wall and followed.
The corridor outside felt too open.
Too normal.
Students passed by, chatting, laughing, carrying on as if nothing had happened. As if nothing was happening.
Riddle walked ahead, posture straight, pace measured.
Trey matched it easily.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
Then…
“…Hey,” Trey said, not too loud, but enough.
Riddle didn’t slow.
“That nurse didn’t exactly give us anything to work with,” Trey continued. “So maybe we should take this a bit seriously. Just until we figure it out.”
Riddle’s jaw tightened, almost imperceptibly.
“I am taking it seriously.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then clarify.”
Trey let out a small breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “You don’t have to act like it’s nothing.”
Riddle stopped abruptly.
Then he turned slightly, just enough for Trey to see the sharpness in his gaze.
“It is nothing,” he said.
The words came too quickly.
Trey didn’t look convinced.
“Riddle—”
“We have more pressing matters,” Riddle cut in, his tone firm. “The inter-dorm Spell Drive tournament is approaching. Preparations are already behind schedule due to… recent events.”
Trey stared at him.
“…You’re serious.”
“Of course I am.”
Riddle turned fully now, expression composed, voice steady in a way that left no room for argument.
“I expect Heartslabyul to perform to standard. Distractions are not acceptable.”
Trey’s gaze lingered on him for a moment longer.
On the tension in his shoulders.
On the way his hand had almost lifted again, before stopping.
“…Right,” Trey said quietly.
Riddle nodded once, decisive.
“And Trey—”
Trey looked up.
“Drop this line of conversation,” Riddle said.
“What happened today is irrelevant unless it proves otherwise. Until then, there is no need to speculate.”
Trey held his gaze.
For a second, it looked like he might argue.
Then he sighed.
“…Fine.”
The next morning felt… worse.
Not enough to justify concern.
Just enough to be irritating.
Riddle stood in front of the mirror again, already dressed, already composed, already pretending everything was functioning exactly as it should.
The ache in his jaw hadn’t gone away.
If anything, it had settled in, dull and persistent.
He adjusted his collar with precise movements, gaze fixed forward.
Perfect.
Nothing out of place.
Nothing—
A faint throb pulsed again near his canines.
Riddle’s expression tightened for half a second.
“…Inconvenient,” he muttered.
Then he turned and left.
The courtyard
Ace stood in front of Riddle with a broom in hand, very clearly not sweeping anything.
“…What?” Ace said, squinting. “I am doing my duties.”
Riddle’s eye twitched.
“You were assigned to clean this area thirty minutes ago,” he said sharply, recovering instantly. “Yet I see no evidence of progress.”
Ace glanced down at the ground.
Then back up.
“I mean, I was gonna get to it.”
“That is not an acceptable—”
“Also,” Ace cut in, tilting his head slightly, “what’s up with your ears?”
Silence.
Riddle stared at him.
“…My what?”
“Your ears.”
Riddle inhaled slowly.
“Ace,” he said, voice dangerously calm, “if this is your attempt at avoiding your duties—”
“I’m serious,” Ace said, stepping closer, squinting like he was inspecting something genuinely interesting. “They look… pointy.”
Riddle’s gaze sharpened.
“A cheap illusion will not distract me.”
“It’s not fake.”
“It is irrelevant.”
Ace leaned in further.
“Dude, I can literally see—”
“That will be enough.”
The words snapped clean through the air.
Ace stopped for a second.
“…You didn’t know?” he said.
That made Riddle pause.
Just slightly.
“I am not entertaining this nonsense,” Riddle said, though there was a faint hesitation now, something almost imperceptible slipping into the edges of his voice.
Ace frowned. “Then check.”
“I have no reason to—”
“Then prove me wrong.”
Riddle went still.
This was absurd.
Completely absurd.
And yet—
Slowly, as if the motion itself was beneath him, Riddle lifted his hand.
His fingers brushed his hair first, pushing it back.
Then higher.
He froze.
Rather than feeling the normal curve of his ear, he felt it slightly more pointier.
Riddle quickly regained his composure and snapped at Ace.
“My condition does not excuse negligence,” he said, tone sharpening again, retreating straight back into something rigid, something familiar. “Your duties remain incomplete.”
Ace blinked.
“…You’re unbelievable.”
“Finish your assigned task,” Riddle continued, as if nothing had happened, as if his pulse hadn’t spiked, as if his hand hadn’t just confirmed something he absolutely did not want to acknowledge. “Or I will see to it personally that you regret the delay.”
Ace stared at him for another second.
Then groaned. “You’re seriously ignoring this.”
Riddle turned away.
“Ten minutes,” he said. “Or I escalate the consequence.”
Ace muttered something under his breath but finally started sweeping.
Riddle walked off without another word.
He did not slow until he was out of sight.
Then he walked faster.
The corridors blurred past in clean, familiar lines, students stepping aside instinctively as he passed. No one stopped him. No one questioned him.
Good.
By the time he reached his room, his jaw ached more sharply than before.
Or maybe he was just noticing it now.
Irrelevant.
He shut the door behind him with controlled precision.
Click.
Silence.
The stillness pressed in almost immediately.
Riddle stood there for a moment, unmoving, as if expecting the feeling from earlier to vanish now that he was alone.
It didn’t.
Slowly, he exhaled.
“…There is no need for alarm,” he said aloud, voice steady, like he was issuing a ruling.
It sounded convincing.
Almost.
His hand lifted again before he could stop it.
Fingers threading through his hair and there it was.
That same unfamiliar shape.
That slight, undeniable point.
Riddle’s breath hitched.
Just for a second.
Then he forced his hand down.
He turned abruptly toward his desk instead, as if redirecting himself could undo it.
The nurse.
He could go back.
He should go back.
That had been the instruction.
Report anything unusual.
Do not ignore it.
Riddle’s jaw tightened.
“…There is nothing she can do,” he said, quieter now.
That was the problem.
She hadn’t known what caused the teeth.
She hadn’t known how to fix it.
She wouldn’t know what this was either.
Going back would accomplish nothing except…confirming it.
Riddle’s fingers curled against the edge of the desk.
“…Unproductive,” he decided.
Yes.
That was the correct assessment.
There were responsibilities to attend to. Schedules to maintain. Standards to uphold.
This—
Whatever this was—
Did not take priority.
It would resolve itself.
It had to.
His reflection caught his eye again, faintly visible in the polished surface of a nearby cabinet.
Riddle stilled.
For a long moment, he didn’t move.
Then, slowly—
He stepped closer.
Until he was standing directly in front of it.
His gaze lifted.
The difference was not subtle.
There was no denying it.
The edges of his ears curved upward, sharper than they had any right to be.
They looked—
Wrong.
Riddle’s expression tightened at the sight.
He then returned to his desk to distract himself from this nonsense.
Club sessions
The stables were quieter than usual.
Riddle preferred it that way.
The rhythmic sound of hooves against packed earth was steady.
That was what he needed.
Not speculation. Not uncertainty. Not… whatever that was.
He guided his horse through another clean turn, posture straight, movements precise despite the lingering ache in his jaw. The wind brushed lightly past him, cool against his skin, tugging faintly at his hair.
For a moment—
It almost worked.
The noise in his head dulled.
The sharp edge of awareness faded into something manageable.
That was enough.
Or it would have been.
If not for the voice that cut across the field.
“Rosehearts.”
Riddle’s grip tightened slightly on the reins before he slowed the horse to a controlled stop.
He turned his head just enough to see Silver and Sebek approaching.
Silver’s expression was calm as ever, though his eyes lingered just a fraction longer than usual.
Sebek, on the other hand, looked like he was trying very hard not to look like he was staring.
Which meant he absolutely was.
Riddle dismounted with practiced ease, landing lightly.
“What is it?” he asked, tone clipped, already bracing for interruption.
Silver stepped forward first. “We heard you were unwell.”
“I am not.”
Sebek’s brows drew together. “You were taken to the infirmary.”
“A temporary matter,” Riddle replied. “It has been resolved.”
That wasn’t true.
Not entirely.
Not at all actually.
But it was sufficient.
Silver studied him quietly.
“…If you are certain,” he said.
“I am.”
Sebek crossed his arms, still frowning. “You do not look entirely—”
“I am perfectly capable of fulfilling my duties,” Riddle cut in, sharper now.
Silence followed.
It was brief and slightly tense.
Sebek looked like he wanted to argue.
Silver, however, seemed to notice something else.
His gaze shifted.
Just slightly.
His shoulders stiffened, almost imperceptibly.
“It would be wise,” Silver said carefully, “to rest, if there are lingering effects.”
“There are not.”
Riddle answered immediately.
Sebek finally spoke again, though his tone had shifted, less confrontational, more uncertain. “Your… condition. If it is related to magical backlash, ignoring it could—”
“I am not ignoring anything.”
The lie landed perfectly as Riddle turned slightly, enough to break their line of sight, one hand lifting to adjust his glove.
A deliberate movement.
A distraction.
“There is no cause for concern,” he continued, voice smoothing back into something controlled, composed. “Speculation without evidence is inefficient.”
Silver didn’t respond immediately.
His gaze lingered again.
Then he inclined his head.
“…As you say.”
Sebek hesitated.
Then, reluctantly, he followed suit. “…Very well.”
Riddle turned back toward his horse.
“Was that all?” he asked.
Silver nodded. “Yes.”
“Then return to your duties.”
“As you wish,” Silver said quietly.
Sebek gave a short, stiff nod before the two of them stepped back.
Riddle didn’t wait.
He mounted again in one smooth motion, gathering the reins with steady hands.
Hallway, After lessons
The next day was… tolerable.
Which, for Riddle, was as good as resolved.
Lessons concluded without incident. No interruptions. No unexpected comments. No one staring quite long enough to be called out.
The ache in his teeth had dulled to something faint.
His ears…
He refused to check again.
Everything was functioning within acceptable parameters.
Therefore, there was no issue.
Riddle stepped out into the corridor, already reviewing the remainder of his schedule in his head.
There were still matters to oversee, reports to finalize, duties to ensure were being properly executed.
“Well now,” a voice slipped in, light and amused, “you look like you’ve decided nothing’s wrong at all.”
Riddle stopped and turned.
“...Lilia-san.”
Lilia Vanrouge stood a short distance away, smiling like he knew something he absolutely shouldn’t.
Which meant he probably did.
Riddle straightened slightly. “Do you require something?”
Lilia tilted his head, studying him in a way that felt far too deliberate.
“Mm, not particularly,” he said. “Though I was thinking of heading back to Diasomnia.”
A pause.
“Care to join me?”
Riddle blinked once.
“…Excuse me?”
Lilia’s smile widened, just a fraction. “A walk. A visit. Call it what you like.”
“There is no reason for me to—”
“You seem free,” Lilia cut in lightly.
Riddle frowned.
He… was.
“And I thought,” Lilia continued, almost idly, “a change of environment might be… refreshing.”
There was something in the way he said it.
It was a little too casual.
Riddle’s gaze sharpened slightly.
“…If you have a point, I suggest you state it clearly.”
Lilia laughed softly. “Straight to the heart of it, hm? Very well.”
He took a small step closer.
“I’m curious,” he said. “And curiosity is such a dreadful thing when left unattended.”
Riddle’s posture stiffened.
“That is hardly a valid reason.”
“Isn’t it?”
Silence stretched between them.
Riddle could refuse.
He should refuse.
There was no obligation. No necessity. No logical benefit.
And yet—
There was nothing immediately pressing.
Nothing urgent.
Nothing that required his attention in this exact moment.
And if Lilia had noticed something…
Riddle’s jaw tightened slightly.
Better to control the situation than let it linger.
“…Very well,” he said at last. “I have time.”
Lilia’s expression didn’t change.
But there was a flicker of something satisfied beneath it.
“Excellent.”
Riddle adjusted his sleeve, expression settling back into composed neutrality.
“This will not be a lengthy detour,” he stated.
“Of course not,” Lilia replied easily.
-
The lounge was quiet.
Only a handful of students lingered at the far end, their voices low enough to dissolve into background noise. It left the space around them open, undisturbed.
Convenient.
Lilia settled into the armchair like he owned the place.
Riddle Rosehearts sat opposite him, posture straight, hands neatly placed atop his knees.
“I’ll be direct,” he said.
Riddle’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I would prefer that.”
A beat passed.
Then—
“You’re half fae.”
Silence.
Then Riddle’s breath hitched, sharp, involuntary.
“What—”
The word barely made it out before his hand snapped up, covering his own mouth.
He was so close to shouting it out for everyone in the lounge to hear.
His eyes darted, instinctively scanning the room.
No one had turned.
His shoulders went rigid as he lowered his hand slowly, fingers curling slightly against his palm.
“…That is not amusing,” he said, voice low and tight.
Lilia tilted his head, still smiling. “I’m not joking.”
Riddle’s gaze sharpened, something brittle forming beneath it.
“That is biologically impossible.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
Riddle leaned forward slightly, every inch of him drawn taut with controlled irritation.
“Both of my parents are humans, no—”
“Are you sure?” Lilia interrupted gently.
Riddle’s jaw tightened.
“I am stating facts.”
Lilia hummed, tapping a finger lightly against the armrest.
“I have checked in with someone,” he said, almost idly, “you never met your father.”
Riddle froze.
“…There is nothing to deny,” he replied, slower now.
Like if he chose the right words, this entire conversation would correct itself.
Lilia Vanrouge looked at Riddle with softened eyes.
“I’m not trying to be rude, you know.”
That alone was suspicious.
Riddle’s eyes flicked up, sharp. “You have a peculiar way of showing it.”
Lilia’s smile didn’t falter, but it thinned at the edges.
“I’m aware this isn’t… pleasant to hear,” he continued. “But I gain nothing from lying to you.”
Riddle let out a quiet breath through his nose.
“You gain amusement,” he said flatly.
“Mm. True,” Lilia admitted easily. “But not from this.”
Riddle’s fingers tightened slightly against his sleeve.
“This is irrelevant regardless,” he said. “My mother would not—”
He stopped.
Just for a second.
Then continued, firmer.
“She would not engage in something so… irresponsible.”
Lilia tilted his head.
“You speak very highly of her.”
“As I should.”
Immediate.
Defensive.
“She is disciplined, principled, and fully aware of the consequences of her actions.”
“And people like that,” Lilia said lightly, “never keep secrets?”
Riddle’s expression hardened.
“That is not what I said.”
“No,” Lilia agreed. “But it is what you’re relying on.”
Riddle straightened slightly, regaining structure.
“Even if,” he said, “your claims had any basis, there would be signs. Observable differences. Measurable irregularities.”
“Mm.”
Lilia’s gaze flickered over him, slow, deliberate.
“Have you eaten anything unusual lately?”
The question came out of nowhere.
Riddle frowned. “No.”
A pause.
“…Define unusual.”
Lilia’s eyes sharpened, just slightly.
“Anything prescribed,” he clarified. “Supplements. Tonics. Medication.”
Riddle hesitated.
“…I take supplements,” he said at last.
He reached into his pocket, movements precise, and produced a small container.
Pills.
He held them out.
Lilia took them.
And for the first time, his expression changed.
“…I see,” Lilia murmured.
Riddle’s stomach tightened.
“That is a standard formulation,” he said quickly. “For maintaining—”
“It contains ground sunstone,” Lilia cut in quietly.
Riddle blinked.
“…What?”
Lilia turned one of the pills slightly between his fingers, gaze distant now, calculating.
“Refined,” he continued. “Diluted, but still present. Along with ironroot extract and a binding agent meant to stabilize magical output.”
Riddle’s pulse spiked.
Something in his tone made his chest tighten.
“…What does it do,” he demanded.
Lilia stared directly at Riddle, there was no amusement left.
“It stops any non-human DNA from developing properly.”
Riddle’s fingers went cold.
“That is—”
“—intentional,” Lilia finished.
Silence.
The suffocating kind.
Riddle’s mind raced, grasping for structure, for logic, for anything that made sense.
“That is not possible,” he said, sharper now. “Such substances would be harmful if misused. Long-term exposure would cause—”
“It would,” Lilia agreed.
Which made it worse.
Riddle’s voice faltered, just slightly.
“…Then I would have shown symptoms.”
“The only reason you haven’t,” Lilia said slowly, “is because you’ve been taking it consistently.”
Riddle’s breath caught.
“The body adapts,” Lilia continued. “Gradually. Carefully. Especially if the dosage is controlled from a young age.”
Riddle shook his head.
“No. That would require—”
“Planning?” Lilia supplied.
Riddle’s voice dropped.
“…Yes.”
Riddle’s gaze flicked to the pills in Lilia’s hand.
Then away.
“…That is a preventative supplement,” he said, but the certainty was thinning now. “For maintaining balance. That is all.”
“Mm.”
Lilia didn’t argue.
He rolled the pill once between his fingers, then stilled it, gaze settling back on Riddle.
“There’s something else,” he said.
Riddle didn’t look up.
“…You’ve said enough.”
“Not quite.”
“You’re undergoing a fae maturation phase.”
Riddle’s brows drew together. “That is not—”
“The first time usually happens within the first ten years of a fae’s life, give or take,” Lilia continued, tone almost academic.
“…I am not a fae.”
The statement came out thinner than before.
Lilia tilted his head slightly.
“No,” he said. “Not fully.”
Riddle’s pulse thudded, uneven now.
“For the first time it happens,” Lilia went on, “is when certain traits begin to surface. Sensory shifts. Changes in magical output. Physical discomfort as the body… adjusts.”
Riddle’s stomach twisted.
“…Coincidence,” he said.
It sounded weak.
Even to him.
Lilia didn’t challenge it.
“In your case,” he said quietly, “it was delayed.”
Riddle went still.
“Suppressed,” Lilia corrected after a beat, glancing briefly at the pills. “For quite a while.”
“Which means,” he added, “your body is attempting to compensate now.”
Riddle’s fingers trembled just slightly.
He clenched them tighter to hide it.
“That is not how development works,” he said, forcing the words into structure again. “Delayed processes do not simply… resume without consequence.”
“Mm,” Lilia hummed.
“They don’t.”
Riddle’s throat tightened.
“…Then what you’re suggesting is that I am experiencing—what, exactly?”
Lilia met his gaze.
“A compressed onset,” he said.
“A process that should have happened over time… happening all at once.”
Silence.
Riddle’s breathing had gone shallow.
“That is—” he started.
“Inconvenient?” Lilia offered lightly.
Riddle didn’t answer.
Because that wasn’t the word.
Not even close.
Lilia watched him for a moment longer, then spoke again.
“Very soon,” he said, “your wings will begin to emerge.”
Riddle’s head snapped up.
“My—what?”
“Wings,” Lilia repeated, as if that clarified anything. “Fae don’t simply develop internally. Certain traits manifest physically.”
Riddle stared at him.
“That is absurd.”
“Mm.”
Lilia agreed.
“They’ll start at your back,” he continued. “At first, you’ll feel pressure. Then pain.”
Riddle’s fingers tightened again.
“…Pain.”
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
“No amount of composure will make it pleasant,” Lilia added, almost thoughtfully.
Riddle’s jaw set.
“That is not—”
“Normally,” Lilia went on, cutting cleanly through the denial, “this process is gradual.”
His tone shifted, just slightly.
“An infant fae’s wings form slowly. Bone, magic, structure… all developing over time. The body adapts alongside it.”
“So the discomfort is minimal,” Lilia finished.
A pause.
“In your case…”
He didn’t need to finish immediately.
Riddle already knew.
“…it will not be minimal,” Riddle said quietly.
Lilia’s gaze flickered, something almost like approval passing through it.
“You’re catching on.”
Riddle’s stomach turned.
“…Because of the suppression,” he said.
“Because your body has been denied that process for years,” Lilia corrected. “And now it has no intention of waiting any longer.”
Riddle looked away first.
“…And you are certain of this.”
“Yes.”
No hesitation in Lilia’s answer.
Riddle exhaled slowly.
Like he could still contain this if he tried hard enough.
“…If this were to occur,” he said, forcing precision back into his tone, “it would interfere with my responsibilities.”
Lilia smiled faintly.
“There it is.”
Riddle’s eyes narrowed. “That is a valid concern.”
“It is,” Lilia agreed. “Which is why you won’t be handling it alone.”
Riddle stiffened slightly at that.
“I do not require—”
“For the next few days,” Lilia continued smoothly, ignoring him, “you’ll come find me after lessons.”
Riddle’s expression hardened.
“That is unnecessary.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
Lilia didn’t respond immediately.
“You don’t know what to expect.”
Riddle’s throat tightened.
That was the problem.
“…I can manage,” he said.
“You can endure,” Lilia corrected.
“But this isn’t something you should ignore.”
Silence again.
Riddle didn’t argue this time.
Lilia leaned back slightly.
“As for your club activities,” he added, tone returning to something lighter, “if you begin to feel discomfort along your back, you may consult Silver or Sebek.”
Riddle’s brows furrowed. “That will not be necessary.”
“Mm.”
“That will not be necessary,” Riddle repeated, sharper now.
Lilia’s smile returned, faint but unmistakable.
“Of course.”
Which meant he didn’t believe that at all.
Riddle exhaled once more, slower this time.
Then, without another word, he reached out.
Lilia placed the container back into his hand.
Riddle closed his fingers around it tightly.
Like letting go of it would mean accepting something he wasn’t ready to face.
“…I will consider your… claims,” he said at last.
Lilia inclined his head slightly.
“That’s all I ask.”