HARPER
Irummage through the potions cabinet with my good hand, pushing aside half-emptied bottles and mislabeled jars as I hunt for gauze. The pain in my palm pulses with every heartbeat, warm and insistent, reminding me of the razor-thin line of blood that sealed an oath I still barely understand. The cabinet door bangs lightly against its hinges as I shove another row of ingredients aside.
Behind me, Ares sighs, loudly, as though my mere existence is draining him of his will to live.
When I glance over my shoulder, he’s already sprawled into one of the classroom chairs. Arms crossed. Long legs extended. Head cocked, studying me as though I am the densest creature he has ever been tasked with tolerating. His expression says he’s assigning the blame for the entire universe’s suffering squarely on me.
“We made a deal. You can leave now,” I snap, wrapping my hand in my ruined shirt to stanch the bleeding.
Ares lifts his palm, not with urgency or theatrics, just a casual flick of his hand. The cut he made moments ago is already gone, sealed into nothing more than a faint silvery line. A scar that looks older than both of us.
My eyes widen despite myself. “How did you heal that quickly?”
He blinks slowly, unimpressed. “Did your father really teach you nothing for all those years?”
The bitter laugh that escapes me surprises even me. “He taught me what fear is. I’m sure you know that, or you wouldn’t be here making deals behind his back.”
It hits him. Not hard, but enough that his gaze stills.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, posture shifting from lazy disdain to something quieter. The light from the hanging lanterns catches the edges of his features, carving shadows into the lines of his jaw.
“I’m not afraid of your father,” he says evenly. “I’m afraid of what he’ll do with what’s mine.”
The words settle in the air between us, and yet he gives me nothing else, not a flicker of clarity, not a hint of explanation.
A burn of frustration rises in my chest. “What did he take from you?”
I turn back to the cabinet, finally spotting a thin strip of linen tucked behind a basket of empty tincture vials. Before I can reach for it, Ares answers.
“Something he should have never gotten his hands on.” He shifts in the chair, the ink on his forearm sliding into view, dark and unmistakable. Our crest. “Something that puts everyone in danger.”
My eyes snag on the tattoo, unexpected anger sparking in my chest. “Why would you get the Shadeborne ink if you hate him so much?”
He doesn’t hesitate.
“Why do you still call him your father if you hate him so much?”
The words slice deeper than any knife he’s drawn on me, sharper because they’re true in a way I’m still too tangled to admit. My breath stutters as I wrap the linen around my hand, tying the knot tighter than necessary to distract myself from how raw his question leaves me.
I down the vial of Raspar juice beside me, the bitterness coating my tongue before the numbing wave spreadsthrough my hand. The pain eases slightly, but the heat in my chest does not.
I turn toward him fully, and he’s watching me now, not mocking, not bored. Just watching. Seeing far more than I want him to.
He stands slowly, every movement calculated, controlled, the air shifting as if the room recognizes a predator choosing to move again.
“Names,” he says quietly, “don’t make someone family.”
I don’t respond... I can’t, not when every filtered memory of my father and everything he destroyed threatens to rise in my throat.
Ares steps closer, just enough to leave the distance between us brimming with tension rather than fear.
“You think you understand him,” he murmurs, “but you have no idea what he’s become.”
His eyes rake over my bandaged hand, then lift back to mine.
“And if you don’t learn quickly, you won’t survive long enough to.”
“If all you’re going to do is stand there and be a nuisance, you should just leave.”
