Trevor folds his hands in front of him, his voice dropping to a thoughtful murmur. “Well… violet is a color associated with deep reservoirs of magic. Untamed magic. Rare, inherited magic.” He pauses. “The kind that does not simply flow through a person, butanswersthem.”
His words feel like a hand pressed lightly against a bruise.
I swallow slowly. “That sounds like superstition.”
“Sometimes superstition begins as truth,” Trevor replies gently, tilting his head. “And truth, when buried long enough, starts to sound like superstition.”
Ahead, Liam laughs at something Theo says, gesturing animatedly toward a shop selling enchanted daggers. They haven’t realized we’ve slowed. Not yet.
Trevor lowers his voice even more. “Has anyone ever warned you about what violet eyes imply?”
My throat tightens. Not with fear, but with the familiar weight of secrets I’ve carried far too long. Secrets I have no intention of handing freely to someone I met only yesterday.
“No,” I lie, keeping my voice even. “No one has.”
Trevor studies me a moment longer, then nods, not accepting the answer, but respecting the boundary.
“For what it’s worth,” he says softly, “I think they’re striking.”
A flush threatens at the base of my neck, unwelcome and irritating. “I prefer not to stand out,” I mutter.
He smiles again, gentle, almost sad. “Magic rarely asks what we prefer.”
Trevor remains beside me as we weave deeper into the heart of Anvaris, our footsteps soft against the damp cobblestones. Liam and Theo walk ahead, their voices blending with the rising chorus of the market, clinking glass vials, murmured enchantments, the warm hiss of bread pulled from brick ovens. Every scent, every sound seems heightened here, as though magic breathes more freely beyond Vireldan’s walls.
Yet Trevor’s attention is fixed entirely on me.
Not intrusive. Not prying. But undeniably keen.
After a few moments of shared silence, he speaks again, his tone quieter, thoughtful.
“If you don’t mind my asking,” he begins, hands clasped behind him in his usual composed way, “why did you and your brother arrive in the middle of the year? It’s… uncommon. Especially for siblings. Headmaster Brindle is not keen on mixing family and education.” His head tilts. “Especially with Professor Locke escorting you personally.”
My steps falter, just for a heartbeat.
Of course he would notice. Kairoth students don’t simply see, theyobserve.
“We didn’t exactly plan it,” I say, adjusting the fall of my cloak around my shoulders, as though fabric could shield me from memories. “Circumstances changed. Quickly.”
Trevor waits, patient as ever. He does not push. He simply allows space for truth to enter if I choose to share it.
I exhale slowly.
“Our carriage was attacked,” I say at last. “Before we even reached Vireldangrounds.”
Trevor’s eyebrows lift, faint but sharp. “Attacked? By whom?”
“Not ‘whom,’” I correct softly. “What.Windigo.”
He stops walking.
Completely.
The bustling street continues around us, merchants calling out prices, a coven of young witches debating over potion crystals, the rumble of enchanted carts rolling past, but Trevor stands utterly still, breath drawn in tight, disbelief washing over his features.
“Windigo?” he repeats, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re certain?”
“As certain as one can be while running for their life,” I murmur.
