Chapter 3 Splitting Up the Assignment

Echo flipped her textbook open, the heavy vellum pages groaning. She landed on the section covering the Silver-Winged Hippocampus—a creature driven to extinction because it was too proud to hide from hunters, its iridescent scales shimmering like a beacon even in the darkest depths. Fitting, she thought, a sharp glance cutting toward Dean. He was a creature of the same fatal flaw: he’d rather be seen and hated than be overlooked.

“A semester of this,” she muttered, her gaze drifting to the chair where Willow usually sat that now held Dean. The separation felt like a strategic move by the universe to dismantle her sanity. “Why can't you be off somewhere making googly eyes at Willow? So, you can keep your ‘sweet’ persona? Though, admittedly, she’s the only one in this entire hemisphere who still buys the act.”

Dean’s grin flickered for a split second—a tiny crack in the porcelain mask—before it smoothed back into a smug, effortless smirk. He leaned back, lacing his hands behind his head, the dampness of his blazer crinkling against the seat.

“Willow is... occupied,” he said, his tone suggesting a secret he wasn't ready to share. He lowered his voice, his eyes dropping to the damp, translucent hem of his shirt that he hadn't had time to change. “Besides, I figured I should keep my friends close and my ‘geysers’ closer. You’ve got a real talent for elemental outbursts, Echo. It’s almost a shame you’re stuck wasting it on potions.”

Echo leaned across the mahogany table, her eyes wide and shimmering with a mock-innocence that was deadlier than a drop of hemlock. She batted her long lashes, her expression a caricature of a "delicate" schoolgirl.

“Whatever do you mean, Dean?” she asked, her voice a sugary-sweet purr that failed to mask the predatory gleam in her eyes. “Are you implying I had something to do with the plumbing? I’m just a humble Potion Captain. My business is with cauldrons, not... pipes.”

The memory of him sputtering like a gasping fish, his dignity draining away with the fountain water, played on a loop in her mind. For the first time all day, her smile was genuine—and absolutely terrifying.

But then, she let the mask slip. She leaned in closer, the scent of her morning’s work—a sharp, metallic tang of Veritaserum—clinging to the fibers of her navy blazer. Her voice dropped to a low, cold hum that barely carried past the edge of their shared desk.

“Willow is too good for you,” she snapped, the playfulness vanishing like a snuffed candle. “She’s kind, she’s loyal, and she actually believes that ‘sweet’ act you’re putting on.”

“Yeah, well, once upon a time, not so long ago, I thought you were sweet,” Dean retorted, his voice losing its easy lilt. “Guess I was wrong.”

“That was before I knew what an absolute ass you were,” Echo fired back.

Dean’s chair creaked as he leaned back further, his eyes narrowing until they were just slivers of stormy gray. The smirk didn't leave his face, but it felt tighter, more guarded, like a shield held up against a blow.

“Macaroni, are you sure you’re worried about Willow? Or are you just annoyed that I’m taking up her time... and not yours?”

Echo felt a heat that had nothing to do with a potion fire rise in her neck. She smoothed the front of her blazer, her fingers brushing the silver ‘C’ pinned to her lapel to ground herself. She looked perfectly composed, a sharp contrast to Dean, whose damp shirt was still clinging to his chest under his open jacket, making him look slightly more human than he probably intended.

“Now, are we going to talk about dead birds, or are you going to keep talking about my social life?”

She pointed a manicured finger at a diagram in the text. “The Lunar Gryphon was a creature of pride. It vanished because it refused to adapt to a world that didn't worship it anymore.” She looked up, her gaze cutting. “Remind you of anyone?”

Dean let out a sharp, dry laugh that lacked any real humor. He stretched his legs out, his gray slacks bunching at his knees as he crossed his boots at the ankles, claiming the space under the table as his own.

“Hilarious. You've been practicing that one in the mirror, haven't you?” He leaned forward, his elbows hitting the table with a dull thud. “Look, I'll make you a deal, Macaroni. We split the research. I'll handle the ‘History of the Decline’—I've always been good at spotting exactly where things go wrong—and you handle the ‘Potion-based Residual Traces,’ since you love your bubbling cauldrons so much.”

He tapped the book, his finger landing right on the Gryphon’s heart. “Unless, of course, the Captain is afraid of a little heavy lifting?”