Third period.
History.

They were covering ancient civilizations—forgotten rites, ceremonial relics, dead names etched into stone.

Elle sat stiff beside Ashriel, every nerve wired to his silence.
He hadn’t looked at her. Hadn’t spoken since that one, perfect syllable:

Elowen.

She didn’t know if she wanted to scream or vanish.

Then came Ms. Thorne’s question.

Something obscure—burial customs of a vanished people.

Even the honor students didn’t move.

Silence.

And then—

Ashriel’s voice:

“The Ankarai didn’t bury their dead.
They burned them at dusk, believing the smoke carried the soul to the next realm.
They drew spirals in ash around the pyres—a mark of safe passage.”

His tone was smooth. Low. Quiet thunder beneath velvet.

The class turned.

Ms. Thorne stilled.

Her pen hovered mid-air, forgotten.

“Correct,” she said—slowly.

But her voice held something else.

Not just surprise.
Recognition.
And beneath that… unease.

Elle turned her head, heart thudding.

Ashriel hadn’t even looked at Ms. Thorne.

He stared straight ahead, gaze fixed on nothing—as if the answer had come from some ancient place no one else could see. A memory not his own. Or not from this world.

When the bell rang, chairs scraped, bags rustled, chatter swelled—

But Ms. Thorne didn’t dismiss them.

“Mr. Duskborne,” she said, casually enough—except her eyes had sharpened. “A word?”

Elle lingered, pretending to shuffle her notebook.

So did half the class.

But only Ashriel stayed behind.

The door shut softly behind the last student.

Inside, voices lowered.

Elle couldn’t make out the words—just the tone. Careful. Measured. Like two people negotiating across a battlefield.

Then, through the hairline crack of the door, she caught it.

“You shouldn’t be here yet.”

A pause.

Then Ashriel’s voice, low and even:

“I go where the spiral calls.”

Goosebumps lifted on her arms.