L U K E

I don’t sleep. Not really. Every time I shut my eyes, I see Elle stiff at the dining table, her soup fogging like breath on glass while that new boy stared at her down. By the time dawn hits, my jaw aches from grinding my teeth.

I planted myself outside the girls’ dorm before the first bell, hoodie shoved over my head, granola bar in my pocket. When Elle finally steps out, scarf wrapped so high it nearly hides her chin, she looks… pale. Tired. Pretending.

“Morning,” I say, like it’s normal.

She forces a nod. “Morning.”

The corridor hums with students streaming toward the first period. Heads turn. Whispers carry. Wrenwood. Witch.

I step closer, blocking the worst of it with my shoulder. “Have you eaten yet?”

Her pause is too long. “Couldn’t.”

“Then I’ll share.” I tug the granola from my pocket and wave it like a peace treaty. “Rule one: don’t faint in class. Makes a bad first impression.”

Her lips twitch, almost a smile. That’s enough.

Folklore & Myth is buried in one of the oldest wings with stone walls dripping with damp, shelves sagging with books that look ready to crumble if you breathe on them. Candles gutter in heavy brackets, their smoke trailing up toward rafters so dark you can’t see the ceiling. The place feels less like a classroom and more like a crypt.

Students trickle in, buzzing like bees. Cassian Veyra slouches into the back row with his pack of idiots, already whispering like this is all beneath him. Maribel Crane makes her grand entrance, hair gleaming, heels too loud for the stone. Her glance at Elle is quick, sharp and satisfied like she’s already won something. Then she glides into her seat.

I guide Elle toward the middle, sliding in on the aisle so I’m the barrier between her and everyone else. If anyone wants to take a shot at her, they’ll have to go through me first.

At the far corner, he’s already here. The new boy. Sitting too still, too calm. Hands folded, eyes lowered. Who shows up this early just to sit in the dark? Pretending not to notice Elle walk in. Pretending badly.

The door creaks open and silence drops, thick as fog. Professor Maelor glides in with robes brushing the stone, gray hair slicked back, eyes that don’t blink often enough. He carries a bone-white folio and sets it on the lectern like it weighs more than stone.

“Folklore,” he says, voice soft but carrying to every corner, “is how a place remembers what it refuses to admit.”

A page turns with a papery sigh.

“Today, we remember the Seal-bearers.”

The word hits like a thrown stone. Ripples of sound follow. Giggles. A cough that’s really a laugh. Almost every set of eyes slides toward Elle. Her shoulders hunch tighter. She stares at her empty notebook like she could vanish inside it.

“Cursed children,” Maelor goes on, gaze sweeping the rows and lingering half a second too long on her. “They are locks wearing human names. Born only when the Rift hungers.”

A girl in front of us whispers, smirking, “Guess Ravenshade’s got one already.”

Heat spikes in my chest. My fist curls under the desk so tight my knuckles pop. One more word like that, and I don’t care if Headmistress Draven herself hauls me out. I’ll shut them up.

Elle’s scarf shifts higher, almost covering her mouth. Her pen doesn’t move. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was carved from the same stone as the walls.

I lean just enough to nudge her knee with mine. Not hard, just enough to break the freeze. “If he gives us a group project, I’ll put glitter on our poster. You in?” I murmur.

Her eyes flick sideways, startled. For a second, the panic cracks. The corner of her mouth twitches half a smile, fragile as glass.

“There it is,” I whisper, grinning like I just scored the winning shot in practice. “First laugh of the day. I won.”

She shakes her head, but the faintest sound escapes her, like a breath caught between a laugh and a sigh. The tension in my chest eases, just a little.

Around us, the whispers don’t stop. They never do. But for one second, Elle looks at me instead of the page, and I’ll take that.

Maelor paces in front of the lectern, fingers brushing the edge of his folio. “What do we know of the First Seal War?” His eyes scan the room, waiting.

Silence. Not even Juniper Vale dares scribble a guess. Cassian pretends to yawn, earning a chuckle from his friends.

I almost raise my hand as I skimmed the pamphlet, enough to bluff through, but Maelor’s gaze drifts past me, toward the corner.

“You,” he says softly.

The new boy lifts his head. No hesitation, no fumbling. His voice cuts through the room, low and exact. “The First Seal War began when the Lucent Circle fractured. A faction, calling themselves the Sovereign Order, opened the Rift with forbidden sigils. The first Seal-bearer was bound here, before this place was Ravenshade. The Guardian assigned to protect her fell. Every Seal-bearer since has failed.”

The room stares. Not impressed but uneasy.

How does he know that? It wasn’t in any student guide.

And when his eyes shift, he doesn’t look at Maelor. He looks at Elle.

The room holds its breath. Even Cassian’s grin falters.

That answer wasn’t from a textbook. It was too smooth, too exact, like he’d been there. My stomach knots. Who walks into Ravenshade on day one already knowing more than the professors?

And why does he look at Elle like that?

I lean closer to her, searching her face. She’s stiff, staring down at the frostless wood like it might betray her next. My chest tightens.

A whisper floats from behind us: “Figures. She’d know all about failed Seal-bearers.” Snickers follow, sharp as glass.

Another voice adds, “Locker slammed shut when she passed it. Now this.”

My fingers bunch under the desk. If they say another word, I’ll make sure they regret it.

Instead, I slide a granola bar from my pocket and set it on Elle’s notebook. “Eat,” I mutter, trying to sound casual. “Nan would kill me if you skipped breakfast.”

Her mouth twitches, but her eyes stay clouded. The whispers don’t stop. Neither does my pulse.

Professor Maelor closes his folio halfway, eyes sweeping the room like he’s searching for a weak spot. “Tell me,” he says softly, “why do legends insist Seal-bearers are always young?”

No one moves. The question hangs heavy, and I can hear Cassian’s pen tapping nervously against the desk behind us.

Then the new boy speaks. His voice is low, steady, like he’s answering something he’s been asked before. “Because older hearts have already chosen. The Rift lures with what you fear and what you want. Youth is easier to turn to.”

The hairs on my arms lift. The words settle into the room like cold fog. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t guess. He knew.

A girl gasps. Juniper scribbles furiously, wide-eyed.

Maelor studies him for a moment, then asks, “And the Guardian?”

The boy’s gaze doesn’t shift from Elle. He waits. Silence stretches.

Finally, Maelor says, almost to himself, “Some say the Guardian saves the Seal. Others… that he dooms her.”

I clench my jaw, pulse hammering. I don’t like the way he said it.