“I’m fine,” I whisper, though the tremor in my hands tells another story. I hide them beneath the desk, praying neither she nor the professor notices.
Professor Anwen continues explaining the basics of warding sigils, weaving her wand through the air in measured arcs that leave shimmering trails behind. My attention flickers between her gestures and the window at my left, where morning light spills in long ribbons across the floor.Something tugs at me, a strange, prickling awareness raising the hairs at the back of my neck. It’s the feeling of being watched, observed from afar through a lens I cannot see.
My eyes drift toward the lawn.
Students cross the grass in small clusters, their robes rippling in the breeze. The world beyond the window hums with its usual early-day energy… yet something feels wrong. A single figure stands near the old fountain, completely still, unmoving, as bodies flow around them like water around a stone. They face the building directly, posture rigid, the shape too dark to distinguish clearly from this distance. My heart gives a painful squeeze.
I blink once.
Twice.
The figure is gone.
Just gone.
Before I can focus again, the classroom door slams with a violent, echoing crack that startles half the students upright. A wave of whispers ripples through the room.
Sebastian Harwood steps inside.
If I hadn’t known him, even in the limited, tumultuous way I do, I might not have recognized him at first. His robe hangs open, wrinkled, the crimson lining twisted as though he’d thrown it on while running. His shirt is missing its top two buttons. His hair is disheveled in a way that’s not charming but chaotic, pushed back in some places and falling wildly in others. And the scent, gods, the scent of ale clings to him in a thick, sharp haze.
There’s a fresh bruise spreading across his right cheekbone, purpling beneath his eye like spilled ink blooming through parchment.
He looks like he hasn’t slept.
He looks like he hasn’t cared to.
He looks...not like the boy who bathed my wounds in silence, not like the boy who told me I deserved gentleness, but like the version of himself he shows to everyone else...reckless and volatile
He says nothing as he closes the door behind him, though the thud echoes through the room. His gaze flicks briefly, barely, to the Vespera section where Liam sits. Then it drifts toward Theo, who stiffens immediately.
And then, for a fraction of a moment so quick I almost miss it, his eyes find mine.
They widen by a thread, surprise, maybe even regret, and then his expression shutters, everything closing off as cleanly as a slammed book.
He walks past me without a word, jaw tight, bruised cheek shadowed under the lanterns.
Poppy leans in, her breath warm near my ear. “Is he always like that?”
I keep my eyes on Sebastian’s back as he takes a seat two rows ahead, shoulders hunched, hands gripping the edge of the table as if bracing himself.
“No,” I whisper.
Professor Anwen flicks her wand, and the front wall of the classroom splits into six tall panels that glide apart with hydraulic smoothness. From behind them, a row of training dummies marches out, wooden frames stacked with padded humanoid bodies, their joints glowing a faint blue from the enchantments tethering them together. Their faces are blank, but the runes etched along their limbs shimmer with a barely contained eagerness. They move like people, not constructs, reactive, and only limited in that they can cause minor physical impact, nothing lethal.
“Spread out,” Anwen instructs. “Each of you will work independently. Remember, the objective is not destructionbut controlled defense. Your spells are only tools. It’s discipline that keeps magic from turning on its wielder.”
My throat tightens. My wand pulses once in my hand, an eager vibration that feels almost… hungry. I ignore it and move toward the center of the room where most of the Vespera students seem to be gathering, their crimson-lined robes swishing like flashes of blood in candlelight.
I pass behind Sebastian’s desk. His shoulders are hunched forward slightly, his elbows on the table, fingers pressed along the bridge of his nose as if trying to hold himself together by touch alone. Theo leans just close enough to him that I can hear his low whisper carry.
“You smell like you’ve seen your uncle,” Theo murmurs, voice soft with worry.
Sebastian’s jaw clenches, his head lifting just a fraction. He doesn’t reply, but something about the set of his shoulders makes my stomach twist. I hurry on before I’m caught staring.
The dummies begin to spread out across the room, moving with stilted but disturbingly lifelike steps, scanning for the nearest student. Liam is already engaged with one, raising his wand in a smooth, practiced arc. He sends a quick defensive shield shimmering across his forearm, too quick, too efficient for someone who always downplays how much he knows.
He’s been hiding his talent for years.
