The Festival of Stars was chaos in its purest, most dazzling form—fireworks streaking like comets across the sky, glowing enchanted lanterns bobbing on invisible currents, and students scattering in every direction like startled birds. Perfect. Just perfect. The noise, the color, the confusion—it was the ideal cover. For once, he didn’t have to explain himself; his plans thrived in this kind of madness.

Frost and Darius had wasted no time diving headfirst into the bedlam. Frost was already doubled over laughing, trying to balance a spark-shooting wand while Darius egged him on, tossing more powder into the mix. Together, they sent a fountain of glittering sparks shooting high above the main stage, scattering gasps and shrieks across the crowd.

He, of course, was trying to keep things under some degree of control. Or at least as much control as one could manage when two other Trix were actively sabotaging everything with their usual blend of idiocy and brilliance. He pushed through the haze of smoke, sparks, and half-spilled magic, eyes sharp for the artifact they were after.

And then he saw them.

Amid the chaos—lanterns flickering dangerously overhead, alarms just starting to wail, students shoving past in a frenzy—someone stood still. Absolutely still. Calm. Watching. Not panicking, not scrambling, not joining the frantic rush. Just standing. And somehow, it was impossible not to notice them.

Whoever they were, they looked like they belonged in an entirely different world than this one. Composed. Controlled. It was infuriating. And fascinating.

“Move it, Frost!” he hissed under his breath as Frost nearly tipped an entire lantern tower onto a cluster of terrified first-years. Frost yelped, fumbling, while Darius doubled over laughing so hard he might have choked. Typical. Absolutely useless when it mattered.

But they moved differently. Not with fear, not with the clumsy urgency of the others—but with precision. A tilt of the wrist, barely even noticeable, redirected a falling lantern so it landed safely against a wall. No dramatic spell, no wasted energy. Just... effortless grace. And damn it, he couldn’t look away.

The artifact’s location was finally within reach, its protective runes glowing faintly beneath the shimmer of festival lights. Alarms flared louder, urgent and shrill, and students screamed as security spells snapped to life. Frost panicked—of course he did—and attempted some elaborate spell that fizzled out mid-air and coated Darius from head to toe in glowing pink glitter. Darius cursed, sneezed, then laughed harder, sparkling like a human chandelier. He rolled his eyes so hard they nearly stayed stuck.

But his gaze snapped back to them like it was magnetized. They weren’t running. They weren’t screaming. They were watching him. Eyes sharp, body still, like they’d been waiting for him to notice them.

He shouldn’t have cared. He really, really shouldn’t have. But he did.

The chaos built to a breaking point—the air heavy with smoke, magic, and fear—and then, suddenly, danger. A heavy wooden stand cracked under the pressure of spells and panicked shoves. Time slowed. It tilted, creaked, and began its inevitable collapse... straight toward them.

Without thinking—without planning, without weighing whether he should—he ran. His boots hit the stone hard, cutting through the noise. He shoved through the panicked crowd, heart pounding louder than the alarms. And then he was there, in front of them, his hands braced against the collapsing stand, magic sparking through his veins as he shoved it back with every ounce of strength.

The world snapped into clarity. His chest burned with adrenaline, but when he glanced up—when he caught their eyes—it wasn’t fear he saw reflected back. It was something steadier, something that held him in place more firmly than any spell ever could. Just a brief look, a fleeting moment stretched into forever. A thousand unspoken words passed between them in silence.

And then it was gone.

The ground beneath them cracked open with a sudden surge of unstable magic—one of Frost’s spells gone wrong, no doubt. The explosion of light and sound ripped through the plaza, hurling students in every direction. When the smoke cleared, Frost and Darius were nowhere in sight.

He and they stood alone.

The noise of the crowd had faded into the distance—muffled by the shimmering barrier of stray wards that now sealed them inside a collapsed courtyard. The artifact lay between them, pulsing faintly. Both of them reached for it at the same time.

Their eyes met again.

This time, there was no stillness. No calm. Just raw tension humming between them like the air before a lightning strike.

“You shouldn’t be here,” they said quietly, magic flickering at their fingertips.

He smirked, raising his hand, power crackling along his palm. “You say that like I ever do what I’m supposed to.”

Their spells collided—light and shadow clashing midair, twisting together in a storm of color and force. The blast threw sparks across the broken stone, painting their faces in firelight. They circled each other—cautious, deliberate, both unwilling to be the first to fall.

Every movement felt like a question. Every spell, an answer neither wanted to give.

And beneath it all, he couldn’t shake the thought: If fate hadn’t split them apart from the others—if the barrier hadn’t sealed them in—would he have still chosen to fight?

Or would he have stayed there, frozen, just looking at them, wondering what could’ve been?