"I don't know if it's ayouthing or a general thing. But I saw his face, Everly. When he looked at you." She pauses. "That wasn't disgust. That wasn't strategy. The other three—Callum's calculating, Atlas is angry, Felix was running his little experiment. But Ren looked at you like you were a wound he couldn't close."
"That's poetic for someone who claims she doesn't care."
"Fuck off. I'm making an observation." But her voice is softer than usual. "What I'm saying is, the other three are doing thingstoyou. Ren is doing something tohimself. And I don't know which one is scarier."
I look out across the quad. From here I can see the dining hall where a cluster of Mors students in silver are gathered on the steps, all sharp cheekbones and expensive haircuts. A group of Tempest girls jog past in matching athletic gear, ponytails swinging. Two Tumult students sit under a tree playing some kind of card game that keeps making the grass around them change color.
Normal. All of it looks normal. Like a regular college campus on a regular Friday afternoon, except for the occasional flash of shadow or spark of electricity or the fact that one of the trees is definitely screaming softly.
"Brittany?"
"What."
"You healed me without being asked. On day three. You barely knew me."
"Don't read into it."
"I'm just saying. You're Sanguis too. And you didn't fight your instincts. You just... helped."
Something flickers across her face—too fast to catch, gone before I can name it. "Yeah, well. I'm not Ren Ashford." She stands, brushes off her jeans. "Come on. I have emergency ramen in the room and you need to eat something before you pass out and make me drag your unconscious body up two flights of stairs."
"You'd drag me?"
"I'd consider it. Then I'd probably just put a blanket over you and go to bed."
I laugh. It hurts my arm, which makes me wince, which makes Brittany roll her eyes, which makes me laugh again.
I've got twelve stitches, a combat class I'm definitely going to fail, and four fraternity presidents who've each found their ownspecial way to make my life hell. Callum with his threats. Atlas with his lightning. Felix with his loaded dice. And now Ren, with a deliberate cruelty that somehow hurt worse than everything that’s come before.
Four down. Nobody left to disappoint me.
But I keep thinking about what Brittany said. That healing is instinct for Sanguis. That refusing to heal someone who's bleeding right in front of you is an act of war against your own magic. That Ren felt my blood hit the sand, felt the pull to fix it, and chose not to.
Not because he didn't care.
Because he cared too much about something else.
I just don't know what yet.
Chapter 6: Everly
The library at Nyxhaven is four floors of old wood and older magic, with stacks that go back so far they disappear into shadow and a card catalog that rearranges itself when you're not looking. I've been here every night for a week, and I still haven't found anything useful.
The cracked sphere sits on the table beside me, pulsing faintly with four colors that twine together and refuse to separate at all. Shadow and lightning and blood-red and chaos-purple, all swirling together behind fractured glass like they're fighting for space. Warrick said it was my responsibility to fix it. She didn't say how. Nobody will tell me how.
I flip through another book—Diagnostic Methods for Magical Affinity, Third Edition—and find the same thing I've found in every other book. Testing spheres are designed to isolate a single discipline. If the sphere cracks, the student's magic is too weak to register. If the sphere cycles between disciplines before settling, the student has latent potential in multiple areas but will eventually declare for one.
Nothing about a sphere that cycles all four continuously without stopping. Nothing about glass that shatters from the inside. Nothing about colors that won't stop moving even now, three weeks later, sitting on a library table under fluorescent lights.
I check the index.Multi-discipline manifestation, see: Undifferentiated Magic.I flip to that section and find a paragraph about students whose magic never develops a clear affinity—weak, unfocused, usually wash out by sophomore year. That's not me. My magic isn't weak. It's too much, too everything, and no one will tell me what that means.
There's a cross-reference at the bottom of the page:For historical cases of unified magical expression, see: Grimoire Phenomenon (RESTRICTED).
I go to the card catalog. Search for "Grimoire Phenomenon." The little drawer spits out a single card with a call number that leads me to a section on the fourth floor I've never been to before. The stacks are dustier up here, the lights dimmer. I find the shelf, run my finger along the spines until I hit the right number.
The book is gone. In its place is a gap just wide enough, and a small placard that reads:Removed by Administrative Order, 1927.
I check the neighboring books.The Unified Arts: A History—removed, 1927.Concordia Hall and Its Legacy—removed, 1927.The Schism: Causes and Consequences—this one's still here, but when I flip through it, there are pages missing. Whole chapters torn out, the ragged edges still visible in the binding, carelessly yet clearly sending a message.
