"What do you know about the Grimoire Girls?"
"You mean the sorority that was 'dissolved' after the Schism?"
"I mean what do you know. Specifically."
"I know they were female mages who could channel all four disciplines. I know they were powerful and respected until the Schism. I know their headquarters was Concordia Hall, which is now condemned and boarded up. I know Helena Grimoire vanished. I know someone named Cordelia 'disappeared' in 1930." I watch his face as I list each item, looking for cracks. "And I know that every grimoire who surfaced after 1926 was 'handled' according to a protocol that no one will explain. No death records. No transfer papers. Just gone."
He doesn't react to any of it. Not visibly. But the shadows in the room have gone very still — not moving, not spreading, just holding in place like they're listening.
"Is that all?"
"No." I uncross my arms. "I also know you've been reporting on me to your mother since the day my sphere cracked. I know she wasn't surprised when I absorbed the shadow spell. And I know the Administration put me on probation instead of expelling me, which makes no sense unless they want me here for a reason."
Silence. The moon slides behind a cloud and the room goes darker, the only light coming from the hallway through the open door and the faint glow of Callum's shadows, which are doing something I haven't seen before — pulling close to him, tight against his body, like armor.
"You're smarter than they think you are," he says finally.
"Is that a compliment?"
"It's a problem."
The honesty of it catches me off guard. Not a deflection, not a calculated response — just a flat statement, almost tired, like he's thinking out loud.
"A problem for who?" I ask. "For you? For your mother?"
"For everyone."
"That's not an answer."
"No." He turns from the window and faces me, and something about his expression is different than I've seen before. Not softer — Callum doesn't do soft. But the mask isn't sitting right. The edges are showing, like a picture frame that's been knocked slightly off center. "It's not."
I should leave it alone. Take the non-answer and walk away. But I've spent weeks being tested and bullied and monitored by this person and his mother, and he's standing in a dark room looking almost human, and I'm too tired and too angry for diplomacy.
"Why did you help me in the library?"
"I told you. Practicality."
"Bullshit."
The word cracks through the room. His chin lifts.
"You've been your mother's perfect errand boy since the day I got here. You put me on probation because she wanted it. You organized the other presidents to push me, test me — don't think I haven't figured that out. Every time they came after me harder, it was right after you made your little reports." Another step toward him. Not aggressive — just refusing to let him have the distance. "So why stop them? Why walk me out? Why saywe'lldeal with it?"
"Because —" He stops. Jaw working, the muscle clenching and releasing. I watch the war on his face — not between truthand lies, but between the version of himself he performs and whoever's underneath.
"Because what?"
He doesn't finish the sentence. Instead: "You should stop researching. The restricted section. Concordia Hall. Whatever you're looking for — stop."
"Are you warning me or threatening me?"
"I don't know."
And I believe him. That's the terrifying part. Callum Bolingbroke, who has an answer for everything, who delivers cruelty with the precision of a surgeon, who has never once in my presence admitted to uncertainty — is standing in the dark telling me he doesn't know.
"You know what I think?" I don't step back. "I think you came here to find out what I know so you could report it. I think that was the plan. And I think somewhere between the hallway and this classroom, the plan stopped working."
His eyes narrow. "You don't know what you're talking about."
