THE NEXT DAY, I wandered through the halls of the house, unsure of where to go in a place that already felt lived-in by so many others. Willowmere was beautiful, yes, but beauty meant very little when my chest still ached from the trauma, with this raw and torn feeling from grief. Every step I took seemed to echo memories I hadn't asked for—the sound of my Dad's voice, the warmth of Mom's arms, and the glow of the life I had been so certain was mine. That life was gone now, reduced to ashes.
I trailed along the polished floorboards, listening absently to the murmur of voices that rose and fell in the distance, until I reached what looked like a recreation hall. Sunlight streamed in through the high windows, and the air was alive with laughter and movement. And of course, Dwight was at the center of it all.
My heart gave the faintest lurch when my eyes landed on him—still so effortlessly magnetic, still laughing in that warm, easy way that made everyone lean closer. He was playing some kind of game with the other teens I couldn't care about, something halfway between football and tag. True enough, Dwight wasn't even trying, not really, yet he shone brightest among them. The way he moved across the field of play made it impossible to look away. I watched as he caught the ball with practiced ease, as his teammates cheered when he dashed forward and scored. The sound of their applause felt like a knife sliding slowly into my ribs. Once, I had been part of that world—admired, envied, and adored. Once, it had been me people clapped for, me people looked at with something like awe.
Now, I was nothing but a girl who had lost everything.
I turned my head, unable to bear the sting in my chest, and my gaze fell on the opposite side of the room. Ugh.
There she was.
Harriet sat apart from the chaos, tucked into the far corner near a window with her crooked posture and her unreadable expression. A book rested in her hands with her fingers curled gently around its spine as though it were her lifeline. She didn't even glance up when the others shouted or cheered. She simply read, wholly unbothered, as though the noise around her was no more disruptive than a breeze.
The contrast between the two of them struck me with brutal clarity—Dwight, the radiant sun that drew every eye without effort, and Harriet, the unshakable shadow content to remain unnoticed yet somehow unmovable. And I…
I was caught somewhere in between.
Memories rose without my permission. School days filled with whispers and attention, the way girls used to copy my hairstyles, the way boys craned their necks for a better look, and everything. My carefully curated perfection. The admiration. The security of knowing exactly who I was in everyone's eyes.
And then Harriet had arrived. Harriet, who didn't care about pastel ribbons or pleated skirts or flawless smiles. Harriet, who walked into a classroom and effortlessly dismantled the pedestal I had built for myself. Harriet, who had been chosen instead of me. I then swallowed hard and wrapped my arms around myself, feeling the fragile weight of my own bitterness pressing down like a cloak too heavy to shed. For a moment, I let myself imagine what it would feel like to go back. Back to when things were normal. Back to when Dwight's smile was something I could admire freely from afar, without the heaviness of loss trailing behind me. Back to when my biggest worry was how to outshine a rival in class, not how to survive in a world that wanted me captured—or experimented.
But the past was unreachable now, no matter how tightly I clung to it.
I was slipping deeper into that hollow ache when a small, soft voice cut through the noise.
"Hello."
I turned around to see this little kid smiling.
"What's your name?" he asked.
I blinked and turned, startled.
He couldn't have been more than eight or nine. I recognized him at once—the little one I had seen yesterday, sitting near Dwight and Harriet in the infirmary like a shadow too young to know how to separate itself from the larger shapes it followed.
I forced a smile because I couldn't bring myself to be sharp with him. "I'm Alice," I said softly. "What about you?"
The boy's lips curved shyly. "Morgan."
"Morgan?"
"Morgan Thornevale."
He shifted, clutching the sketchpad in his hands as though it were precious.
My curiosity flickered. "Did you draw something?" I asked, tilting my head toward the pad.
He hesitated, then nodded, his fingers tightening on the paper as if he feared I might laugh.
"Can I see?" I asked, keeping my voice warm.
Slowly, reluctantly, he turned the pad toward me.
It was a child's drawing, clumsy and honestly uneven, but it caught me in a way I hadn't expected. There was a figure that he drew—clearly meant to be a boy—who stood at the center of the page with a shaky outline and indistinct features. But surrounding him were jagged, chaotic lines that twisted and spiraled like storms. The whole picture hummed with a strange, unsettled energy, even in its simplicity.
"What does it mean?" I asked quietly.
Morgan shrugged, his small shoulders rising and falling. His voice, when he spoke, was full of that peculiar, haunting honesty children sometimes had. "He's someone who gets lost. The lines are everything that tries to take him away. But he doesn't know if he wants to fight it… or let it."
Something cold and sharp traced its way down my spine, though I quickly forced myself to smile as I brushed away the unease. "That's very creative," I said, reaching to lightly tap the corner of the page. "You're a good artist."
He ducked his head, embarrassed, and I thought the conversation was finished. But then he tilted his head at me, those bright, curious eyes narrowing ever so slightly.
"Do you like him?"
The question hit me so suddenly that my breath caught. My cheeks flamed before I could stop them. For a second, I stared at him, utterly undone by the innocence of the inquiry. And then, because I couldn't think of what else to do, I smirked playfully and bent closer to whisper as though we were conspiring together. "That will be our little secret, all right?"
His eyes widened with a mischievous delight far too old for his years, and he nodded solemnly, as if I had entrusted him with the most important truth in the world. Something in me softened then, despite everything.
From that moment on, I felt a strange comfort in Morgan's presence. Perhaps it was because he looked at me without judgment, without expectation, without the shadow of my past pressing between us. To him, I was simply Alice, not the girl who had failed to outshine Harriet, not the daughter of parents lost to fire and violence, and definitely not the broken remnant of what I once believed myself to be.
Just Alice. And in a world where everything had been taken from me, that felt like the smallest, sweetest mercy.
***
The library in Willowmere was nothing like the modest ones I had grown up knowing. It stretched wide and tall like those you see in the movies, with its vaulted ceiling carved with wooden beams that reminded me of cathedral arches. Dust floated lazily in the shafts of light breaking through the tall windows, and everywhere I looked were shelves upon shelves of books—rows so deep I felt I could lose myself in them forever.
I don't know why I went to there that afternoon. Maybe it was the silence I craved, or maybe it was the thought that somewhere, in the endless rows of shelves and old paper, I might find an answer, or even something to make sense of the chaos that had ripped my life apart. You know, the men dressed in black.
When I stepped inside, the air smelled of parchment and candle wax like the sort of scent that clings to old churches or forgotten trunks in attics. I ran my fingertips along the spines of the books as I walked deeper, the polished wood smooth beneath my hand. The shelves rose like towering guardians around me, tall enough that I had to tilt my head back to see the very top, where dusty volumes waited untouched. Light slanted through the tall windows in golden stripes that caught floating dust motes that looked like falling stars.
It was there, in the farthest corner of the library, that I saw a book resting almost deliberately apart from the others, as if someone had left it there for me. When I pulled it free, the weight surprised me. The cover was cracked leather, dark and worn, with its corners curled with age. On the very first page was a note written in neat but hurried handwriting:
'For those who must know what hunts us.
– Ryan.'
I swallowed hard. My father had told me to find him. Perhaps this was why.
Turning the pages, I found sketches, notes, and fragments of research that made my chest tighten. The words "CYGNUS" appeared again and again, inked heavily, underlined twice. Diagrams of syringes, restraints, strange devices covered the margins. A chill ran through me as I read phrases: 'extraction experiments… forced nullification… weaponization of gifts.'
I tightened my grip on the book, the words blurring. My breath came shallow. This was what my father had wanted to protect me from. This was what had killed him.
"Couldn't stay away either, huh?"
The voice came so suddenly I flinched, my heart leaping to my throat. I spun around, clutching the book to my chest.
Sure enough, it was Harriet.
She stood a few feet away, arms full of books stacked neatly against her chest. Her dark hair fell loosely around her face, and her expression—always so flat, unreadable—remained unchanged, as if she'd simply stepped out of a dream and into this place. She looked at me with those dull eyes, like nothing could ever ruffle her.
"Gosh, you scared me," I muttered, my voice sharper than I meant it to be.
Harriet didn't flinch. She tilted her head slightly, like an owl with her monotonous tone as even as ever. "You always ignore me."
I froze, my fingers digging into the leather cover of Ryan's book. "Excuse me?"
"You do," she said simply, shifting the books in her arms as though their weight didn't bother her. "In class. In the halls. Here." She blinked slowly. "It's as if I don't exist to you."
Her words were too blunt and too casual, as though she weren't accusing me but stating the weather. That nonchalance set something hot sparking in my chest.
I laughed bitterly. "Do you want to know why, Harriet?" My voice cracked slightly, but I pushed through. "Because every time I look at you, I feel like a failure."
Harriet's face didn't change. Not a flicker of surprise or pity or satisfaction. Just the same stillness, like she'd expected it—or worse, like she didn't care at all.
My throat tightened. I stepped closer, the book pressed hard against my ribs as if to shield myself. "You ruined everything. You—" My voice shook, and I hated how it betrayed me. "You outscored me, you outshone me, you walked into my life and suddenly I wasn't enough anymore. Nothing I did mattered once you showed up. And do you know what that feels like? To give everything and still—still—be second?"
My eyes burned, but I refused to let the tears fall in front of her.
"You're perfect without even trying. The teachers adore you, my own mother praises you, and now here you are, in a home meant for the gifted—" My voice faltered. Bitterness flooded me, sharp as bile. "Why are you even here? Why would you need this place? Is it not enough that you took everything else? Do you have to take this too?"
For a moment, the silence stretched so long it felt unbearable. The library seemed to hold its breath.
Harriet adjusted the stack of books in her arms. Her gaze met mine evenly, her voice as flat as ever. "I didn't take anything, Alice."
That was all. No defense. No argument. Just that steady monotone, as if nothing I'd said touched her.
The heat in my chest turned to fire. I wanted her to break—to show something, anything. Dislike. Irritation. Even smugness. At least then I would know she cared, that she saw me at all. But she didn't. She just stood there, calm and distant, letting my words fall uselessly at her feet.
I couldn't breathe in that silence.
"Of course you wouldn't understand," I said, my hands trembling as I shoved the book under my arm. "You never do."
And before she could say another word, I turned and stormed out.
The sound of my footsteps echoed harshly against the wooden floors. My chest hurt with every breath, and I couldn't tell if it was rage or grief clawing its way up my throat. By the time I reached the wide hall, my vision blurred.
Miss Byrd was shelving books nearby. She turned at the noise, and her kind face softening as she took in my expression. She didn't ask. She didn't need to. She simply offered the faintest nod, as though she understood something I couldn't even say aloud.
But I just kept walking. My heels clicked against the stone floors, each step harder, faster, until I reached my room. When I finally pushed the door shut behind me, the sound was too loud, the slam ricocheting against the walls. I pressed my back to it, the leather book clutched against me, and slid down until I sat on the floor. The tears I had held back broke free, spilling hot and fast down my cheeks.
Why did Harriet always have to make me feel this way?
The sky outside my window had begun to darken, as if the last light of day had already gave its long shadows across the floor. I pulled myself up, wiping at my eyes with the back of my hand, and stumbled toward the desk. Setting Ryan's book down carefully, I pressed my palms against its worn cover, as though the answers inside could steady me.
That's when I heard a faint rustle of feathers, a soft beat of wings. My gaze lifted to the window, and Sebastian quietly perched. His amber eyes fixed on me, and for a moment, I simply stared at him, the lump in my throat swelling all over again.
"You saw that, huh," I whispered, my voice breaking.
Of course he had. He always did.
Sebastian tilted his head, the same way Harriet had earlier, but where hers had felt sharp, cold, his felt gentle. Understanding. He didn't need to speak for me to hear him: 'You are not nothing, Alice.'
The thought was enough to make the dam break again. I pressed my hands to my face and let the sobs come, muffled and raw. Sebastian didn't say much after that, either. He only stayed by the window. I sat there, staring at the book still clutched in my lap, until my tears slowed and the exhaustion pressing at my bones finally won. My eyelids grew heavy, my breathing uneven but softer, and with Sebastian's silhouette keeping watch at the windowsill, I let myself slip into a shallow, uneasy sleep.
***
When I woke again, I noticed that the room felt suffocating. The air was too still, the blanket too warm, and my mind too loud. I tossed, turned, pressed my face into the pillow, even tried counting the uneven lines carved into the ceiling beams. But none of them helped. It didn't matter how tightly I pulled the blanket around me, how many times I turned my pillow to the cooler side, or how long I stared at the ceiling waiting for exhaustion to drag me under. My mind was far too loud. Every time I closed my eyes, I only saw how my home was engulfed in flames, how the shadows of the men in black suits sliced through the smoke, and how my father collapsed to the ground after that sickening injection and the crack of gunfire. My chest clenched just thinking about it, as if my heart was trying to tear itself apart from the inside.
The book Ryan had given me lay untouched on the bedside table. I had tried reading it, hoping facts and ink might smother the images haunting me, but it hadn't worked. As I placed the book back, I glanced toward the window and saw Sebastian. He gave me one slow blink, but said nothing. After doing so, I realized I couldn't stay in bed any longer. The walls felt like they were closing in, trapping every thought inside my skull until I couldn't breathe. I pushed the blanket aside, careful not to creak the floorboards, and tiptoed toward the door. The handle was cold against my palm, and the hallway was beyond colder.
For a moment I hesitated as I stared at the hall. What was I even doing? Wandering in the middle of the night through a house that wasn't mine? But staying still felt worse. If I stayed, I would drown.
I moved quietly, careful not to let the old wood creak under my weight as I slipped out into the living room.
And honestly, the home at night had a different presence. In the day, it had been bustling with soft laughter, footsteps, and snippets of conversations echoing down the corridors. Now it was hushed, probably because of the curfew.
I padded past closed doors as I observed every room I walk past. When I reached the end hall, I turned toward this one particular window. The curtains swayed faintly, as it was stirred by a breeze that slipped through a crack in the frame. The moonlight pooled across the floor, like it was laying down a path just for me. I don't know why, but I thought of the willow tree. It was as if something in my chest—some strange tug I couldn't explain—was pulling me back there.
I hesitated. If anyone caught me sneaking out, I'd have questions to answer. But the thought of lying here, trapped with my thoughts until morning, was worse.
Quietly, I swung my legs over the side of wall. The floor was cold beneath my bare feet, and every creak of the old wood made me freeze, listening for footsteps. None came. I padded across the room and pushed the window open wider. The night air rushed in, and I inhaled.
I gripped the windowsill so tight as I slowly peered out. My anxiety worsened, but I pulled myself up anyway, perching on the edge. For a second, I looked back into the living room. Then I swung down. My feet hit the ground harder than I expected, and pain shot up my ankles, but I gritted my teeth and steadied myself. The grass was wet with dew, chilling the hem of my nightgown, but I didn't care. I didn't stop.
The pull inside me grew stronger the farther I walked. It wasn't a voice, not exactly, but more of a feeling, like the willow itself was waiting for me. My steps quickened as I crossed the quiet grounds, with the night alive with the hum of crickets and the whisper of leaves. And when the tree finally came into view, I felt something in me loosen, just a little.
I then reached out to the willow tree's leaves, brushing my fingers along one of the hanging branches. For a second, I thought I could almost hear a whisper in the rustle. Like the tree was welcoming me back. But I froze when I realized something did rustle. At first, I thought it was my mind playing tricks on me. The night was full of shadows, after all. But then I caught the faint outline of someone seated at the base of the tree. I thought to myself, 'Oh well. I'm already caught by Headmaster Ryan.'
But when the outline came in to view, his cap tilted just enough to cast part of his face in shadow. Shoulders relaxed like he had all the time in the world. And at his side, the faint rise and fall of a dog's chest was illuminated by the moonlight.
My breath hitched.
The moonlight traced the sharp angle of Riven's jaw, the lazy confidence in the way he sat, as if the night itself bent to accommodate him. I had only spoken to him briefly before, and even that conversation had ended with me walking away in frustration. But something about his presence here made my chest loosen just a little.
Hunter noticed me afterwards, ears perking up as he gave a low, friendly whine. Riven followed his gaze and smirked faintly when his eyes met mine.
"Couldn't sleep?" he asked.
I shook my head, stepping closer. "You?"
He shrugged. "Didn't try."
I almost rolled my eyes but didn't. Instead, I lowered myself onto the grass across from him.
For a moment, neither of us said anything. Hunter stretched, shifting to rest his head on his paws, with his eyes half-closed. Riven absently scratched the dog's ear with one hand while watching me with quiet curiosity.
It was me who broke the silence. My voice sounded strange, even to myself. "Do you ever… hate someone so much it eats at you?"
He raised a brow. "Strong word."
"Huh?"
"Hate," he said.
"It fits," I said sharply before softening. "Or maybe not. Maybe it's more like… someone who makes you feel small just by existing."
His smirk faltered, replaced by a contemplative look. "Can't say I've ever disliked anyone that much. Not worth the energy, you know?" He tilted his head, studying me. "But sounds like you've got someone in mind."
I stared down at the grass, plucking a leaf between my fingers. "Maybe."
"Who?" he pressed lightly, leaning back against the trunk.
I didn't say Harriet's name. I didn't want to give her that power, not here. Instead, I muttered, "Just a girl who has everything I don't. Smarter. Better. No matter what I do, it's never enough. People look at her like she's a miracle. When they look at me…" My voice cracked before I could finish.
Riven didn't rush to fill the silence. He just let it hang, the quiet between us stretching wide. Then, softly, he said, "Sounds exhausting."
A bitter laugh slipped from me. "You don't know the half of it."
"Maybe not," he admitted. "But if she makes you feel like that, maybe the problem isn't her. Maybe it's you."
I glanced at him sharply. His expression was unreadable, but there was something steady in his gaze—like he believed his words even if I didn't.
"I doubt that," I muttered.
"Suit yourself, Whit," he said with a shrug, though his eyes lingered on me a moment longer, thoughtful.
Our conversation drifted after that, carried by the ease of the night. He had a way of talking that was disarming, slipping between sarcasm and sincerity so smoothly I almost didn't notice when he shifted from one to the other. Sometimes he teased, making light of my sharp retorts. Sometimes he fell quiet, listening, letting me say things I hadn't even realized I'd been holding in.
Above us, Sebastian perched silently on a branch. I could feel his eyes on me. I could feel like he's giving some sort of malice in me talking with Blackcap.
And then, Riven eventually tilted his head back, looking up at the owl. When he did notice Sebastian, he pointed at him as he looked at my direction.
"You ever notice it's always around when you are?"
I followed his gaze, a small smile tugging at my lips despite myself. "Oh yeah," I admitted softly. "It's my pet owl."
He gave me a look, half amused, half skeptical. "A pet owl? That's new."
I didn't correct him. I just held the small smile, keeping Sebastian's truth close and safe.
For the first time since everything had fallen apart, I felt something I hadn't dared hope for. Not peace. But something gentler. And though I wouldn't admit it aloud, part of that had to do with Riven.
I leaned back against the grass, staring up through the veil of branches at the patch of stars beyond. My chest still ached, with the weight of grief still heavy, but it didn't feel as suffocating. Not here. Not tonight.
For now, I let myself stay. For now, that was enough. Somehow, Riven did made me feel calm.