I should have been worried about a stranger entering my dorm and leaving me a gift, but I wore them right away. The nights have been cooler even with the academy’s temperature control, and without it my legs were turning to ice in this dumb skirt. It’s exactly what I needed.
Still, every time I put them on, I wonder—who gave them to me? Why? It unsettles me, having this little mystery I can’t solve, tucked against my skin.
I sigh and try to refocus on the lesson, though my pen has been hovering and useless over the page for minutes.
Professor Gabriel paces at the front of the classroom, his voice steady as he traces the tangled web of alliances and betrayals that shaped Wrath Territory two centuries ago. His words are sharp, precise, yet I barely hear them.
My gaze catches on the way the light falls across his dark suit, the faint crease at the corner of his mouth, the way he doesn’t once glance in my direction.
A pang twists in my chest. He still doesn’t acknowledge the pull between us. Not the faint hum of the bond, not the fact that every time I step into this classroom, it feels like the air itself sharpens. If he feels it, he buries it so deep I might as well be invisible.
Except I’m not. Not entirely. There are the books. At least I have that.
The bell chimes, and the shuffle of chairs and bags fills the room. Students chatter as they file out, laughing, gossiping. I stay put, sliding my notebook into my satchel and waiting until the last stragglers leave. It’s always the same routine.
My heart pounds, but I force myself forward, past the rows of desks until I’m standing at his table.
“Professor Gabriel.” My voice comes out more even than I feel.
He looks up, eyes flicking to me. “Yes, Miss Davies?” His tone is polite, detached.
I swear I can see a flicker of something when he looks at me at first, but it’s gone so quick that I wonder if I’m seeing things.
“Finished the latest one.” I hold out the book from last week…I didn’t even read a single word.
“Do you have another?”
His mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “You do go through them rather quickly, don’t you?”
I shrug, trying for casual, though inside my chest is a storm. “I like knowing where we come from. How we got here.”
There’s a flicker in his gaze—something softer, almost knowing—before it’s gone. He reaches under his desk and pulls out another volume, older than the last, its spine cracked but carefully preserved.
“This one covers the founding of the early Councils. Dense, but I suspect you’ll manage.”
I take it from him, brushing his hand for only a second too long. Electricity snaps through me, but he withdraws before I can register if he felt it too.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
“Knowledge is its own reward,” he replies in a strained tone. There’s a weight to the words, as though he’s reminding himself more than me.
I nod, clutching the book to my chest, and turn to leave before my expression betrays too much. If he truly doesn’t feel it, then I must look like the universe’s biggest history nerd. But I can’t shake the suspicion that he knows. He knows exactly what I’m doing—and he’s choosing to look away.
I step out of the classroom, and immediately something drags at me, tugging at my chest with a slick, gross weight. At first, I think it’s just the bond reaching for me again—but this isn’t like before. It twists, oily and invasive, crawling under my skin and coiling in my stomach. My heart pounds like a drum I can’t quiet. Against every instinct, I follow it.
The hallway stretches before me, long and empty, except for the faint echoes of other students. The tug pulls me toward an unfamiliar part of campus. The classrooms seem old and empty.
I walk down the silent halls, dust collecting in the corners of the hallways. Cracks in the stones of the wall. The ominous feeling of walking through the silence, paired with the oily sick feeling inside of me, causes a chill down my spine.
I come across a room where the tug feels the strongest. The door ajar just enough to let me peek inside, and the world tilts on its axis.
Atticus is pressed against the wall, head back, eyes closed in bliss. A brunette is on her knees in front of him. Although she blocks my view, I can tell his pants are down, and the sound he is making makes it easy enough to guess what is going on. My stomach twists violently, bile rising. The bond burns like acid through my chest, itsraw heat cutting through every rational thought. I stumble backward, my vision swimming, and for a second I can’t breathe.
Our eyes meet, and his grow to panicked saucers as he scrambles for his pants, knocking the girl over.
I flee to the casting grounds, my boots crunching on the dirt. My body is trembling—not just from rage, but from the bond’s insistent scream. I make it to the sparring grounds and throw myself at the practice dummies, fists slamming. Each strike is fueled by everything I’ve felt in the past few weeks—the longing, the jealousy, the helpless fury. Nothing I do is enough to calm the fire inside.
“Arwen!”
