THE ROOM WAS QUIET. In fact, it was too quiet for how loud my thoughts were. The Headmaster's words replayed over and over like they'd branded themselves into my skull. I mean, when he told me about the necklace. When he told me about their unborn child with Eleanor. I shouldn't be bothered knowing those things weren't even mine to carry, but somehow felt like it had been placed squarely on my shoulders.
I sat cross-legged on the bed, arms wrapped around my knees, staring blankly at the stack of documents I'd shoved to the side of the desk. The dying lamp I shoved before quivered with shadows dancing up the wall, and my chest felt tight. Every time I thought about the humming of that necklace Ryan showed me, the faint pulse of light inside the crystal, my stomach knotted.
I was caught in that spiral when a soft voice pulled me back.
"Whit."
My head snapped toward the window, heart jolting into my throat. Only one person calls me that.
There, framed by the shadows of the trees beyond the house, was Riven. His figure was almost indistinguishable at first, but the faint light from above him caught the lean frame of his body and the glint in his eyes. Hunter was at his side, tail swishing once when he saw me notice them.
I rushed to the window, pushing it open with more force than I meant to. "W-What the hell are you doing here?" My voice came out sharper than intended, threaded with alarm. "Are you out of your mind? If someone sees you—"
"I know," he cut in softly, his gaze lifting to meet mine. "I just… I couldn't stay away. Not after the other day. Not after I left you like that."
I froze, words caught in my throat. The other day, he was talking about the way he'd bolted, the way his fear crashed over him like a wave when he saw Sebastian transform. He had run without looking back, and I'd told myself not to care—that it wasn't my problem. But now, seeing him standing there with Hunter, something in me softened.
He shifted, almost awkward, but his voice was steady when he spoke again. "I wanted to make up for it. And after losing my comrades, after everything—I just need someone to be with. Even if it's only for a while. Is it okay?"
Something inside me cracked at the way he said it. Not dramatic, not rehearsed, but just honest. Simple words wrapped in quiet ache. My instinct was to shut the window, to tell him it wasn't safe, that this wasn't allowed. That Ryan and Eleanor and all the others would probably never forgive me for letting someone from outside get too close. But the truth was—I didn't want to. In fact, I hesitated, caught between responsibility and the sharp, nameless ache blooming in my chest. My fingers gripped the windowsill until they ached.
And yet… when I opened my mouth, what came out wasn't "no."
"Fine," I whispered. "But just for a while."
The way his shoulders eased at those words nearly undid me.
Within minutes, I slipped on my cloak and crept down the hall, careful not to wake anyone. The air outside was cool, biting in a way that made my lungs sting with every breath. Hunter bounded ahead, tail wagging, while Riven walked beside me. Sebastian circled high above, no doubt watching every step, but for once, I didn't mind. We then wove deeper into the woods, past the familiar bends in the path, past the gnarled roots and whispering leaves, until the trees thinned and opened into a hidden clearing.
And there—spread before us like something out of a dream—was a field blanketed in wildflowers.
I stopped dead in my tracks, my lips parting. The flowers swayed gently under the touch of the late night breeze with their petals glimmering faintly in the moonlight. Purples, yellows, whites—delicate bursts of color against the dark canvas of night. The air was alive with the faint, sweet scent of blossoms, mixed with the earthy coolness of the soil.
"It's…" My voice caught. I swallowed hard, eyes wide. "It's beautiful."
Riven didn't answer right away. He just stood a little behind me, hands shoved into his pockets, watching me instead of the field. When I finally turned to him, I realized he wasn't smiling.
The laughter from earlier—the way Hunter had tried to trip him with his paws on the walk, the way Riven had smirked at me when I nearly tripped over a root—that lightness was gone. In its place was something distant, shadowed.
"What?" I asked quietly, stepping closer.
He drew in a breath, let it out slow, and finally met my eyes. His voice was lower now, rougher around the edges.
"You know, my comrades weren't with me long," he said. "But they were… they were the only people I could talk to. The only ones who got it. And now they're gone."
I felt my heart clench painfully as I looked at him. His eyes were far away, fixed on something I couldn't see. The weight in his tone pressed against me, carved into the silence.
I wanted to say something—anything—that could ease it. Words swirled in my head: 'I'm sorry. You're not alone. I'm here.' But none of them felt enough. None of them felt like they would touch the depth of what he'd lost.
So I stood there instead, my throat tight, watching him fight to mask the grief in his voice. He tried to smile then, tilting his head slightly, brushing it off as though he hadn't just let me glimpse the cracks in his armor. But I saw it.
I saw all of it. The grief. The weight. The way his words carried something heavier than he let himself show. And in that moment, my chest ached for him—not with pity, not with fear, but with something deeper.
***
When I asked where he slept, or what he ate, I half-expected him to dodge the question. Riven didn't strike me as the type to open up easily—not about his grief, and certainly not about his survival. But he didn't hesitate. His answer came out quiet, steady, like he'd already made peace with the roughness of it.
"I salvaged what I could from the wreckage, Whit," he said, eyes flicking briefly toward Hunter before drifting back to the horizon. "Some scraps, some canned goods. The rest I… find. Or I don't. And, yeah, I camp out here by myself in the woods." He gestured loosely to the trees that framed the wildflower field. "It's not much. But it's enough."
The simplicity of his words twisted something sharp in my chest. He said it so matter-of-factly, as if it didn't sting, as if sleeping in the dirt and eating whatever scraps he could claw from tragedy was just another routine. But I saw the hollowness in his cheeks, the slight tension in his posture when he admitted it. He wasn't fine. He was surviving, not living.
I bit my lip, guilt gnawing at me so fiercely it almost hurt.
How could I stand here, wrapped in the safety of Ryan's walls, eating warm meals cooked by Miss Byrd, complaining about chores—when he had nothing but broken rations and ash to hold onto? How could I look at him, knowing he'd lost everything, and not feel like I should do something?
'Bring him back.' The thought screamed at me, hot and reckless. Bring him back to the house. To warmth. To safety. But Ryan's voice whispered just as loudly in my head: 'We cannot risk outsiders. Not now. Not with the Others so close.'
I clenched my fists, staring at the dirt between us. If I asked, if I begged, Ryan would never allow it. Not when the lives of all the gifted rested on secrecy. Riven wasn't gifted—and surely he didn't belong. Bringing him in would mean exposing everything. I hated myself for it.
Riven, sensing the storm inside me, glanced over.
"It's fine, Whit," he said softly, almost reassuring me. "I'm used to it."
The words should have comforted me. Instead, they carved deeper. He was used to scraps, to loneliness, to loss. Used to surviving on the outskirts of life while others lived in safety.
I wanted to scream. Instead, I forced myself to nod, because anything else would betray too much.
We walked after that, weaving through Willowmere's hidden wonders. He showed me places I'd never noticed before—fallen trees forming natural bridges across streams, patches of mushrooms glowing faintly in the twilight, hollowed trunks that looked like doorways into another world. Hunter darted ahead, tail high, occasionally glancing back as if to make sure we followed. Riven laughed once when the dog leapt into a stream and came out soaked, shaking water all over me. I shrieked, shoving Hunter away, and for a brief moment, the sound of my laughter rang against the trees, surprising even me. It felt strange—foreign—to laugh like that. But it felt good.
Sometimes, silence stretched between us, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was steady, quiet, like the woods themselves held their breath around us. And sometimes, our words spilled out easily—light teasing about my clumsy steps, his mock offense when I called his campfire "pathetic," small things that wove threads of something unspoken between us.
By the time the sun began showing up the hills, we circled back toward his camp. Hunter padded ahead, tail wagging, as Riven knelt to stoke the fire.
"I've got food," he said lightly, pulling a dented tin from his pack.
Meal, as it turned out, was little more than bread slightly hardened with age, and a can of something unidentifiable—but edible. My stomach tightened at the sight. He caught the flicker of my expression and grinned, a real grin this time. "Not exactly a feast, I know."
I shook my head quickly, forcing a smile. "No—it's… it's perfect."
"Nah," he said.
He chuckled, though his eyes softened, as if he saw through me but chose not to call me out. He spread the bread with quiet care, dividing it evenly.
I lowered myself onto the grass, tucking my skirt around my knees, and for once, I didn't care about the dirt staining the hem. The warmth of the fire licked against my skin, crackling gently, and I found myself thinking how surreal this all was.
I was once the daughter of rich politicians, raised in luxury, accustomed to chandeliers and marble floors. And yet here I was, beneath an open sky, ready to eat bread and canned goods beside a boy who had nothing but grief in his pockets—and it felt more real than anything I'd ever known.
When he handed me a piece of bread, I accepted it with both hands, as though it were something sacred.
"Thanks, Blackcap," I whispered.
He tilted his head, amused. "For the stale bread?"
"For sharing it," I said quietly.
His gaze lingered on me then, longer than before, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.
The fire cracked softly between us. Hunter curled at his feet, already dozing. For a fleeting moment, everything felt still, suspended in a fragile kind of peace. I was just about to take a bite when the air above stirred violently, wings cutting sharp through the silence.
Sebastian.
He swooped down, his feathers glinting in the firelight, his tone urgent the moment he landed. "Alice."
My heart lurched. The look on his face told me before his words even came.
"Miss Byrd is looking for you. Breakfast duty. You've forgotten."
Panic slammed into me, sudden and ruthless. Breakfast duty. Miss Byrd. Shoot! My place back at the house. I'd lost track of time completely, swallowed by Riven's quiet world.
"I—" My voice caught. I shoved the bread down onto the cloth, half-rising. "I have to go."
Riven blinked, startled by the sudden shift. "Alice—"
"I'm sorry." I turned to him, frantic. "I'll get in trouble if I don't—"
His hand lifted slightly, stopping short of touching mine. His voice gentled, calm in the face of my storm.
"Go," he said. "It's alright. I'll be here."
The way he said it—soft, steady, without disappointment—made my throat burn.
I nodded, too quickly, too harshly. And then I was running, cloak snapping behind me, Sebastian gliding overhead to lead the way.
Branches clawed at my sleeves, roots snagged at my shoes, but I didn't stop. My heart pounded with guilt, louder than my own footsteps, louder than the rush of air in my lungs.
By the time I burst back into Willowmere, the bells already tolling the hour, Miss Byrd was pacing the halls with that sharp-eyed gaze of hers. I skidded to a halt, chest heaving, just as she turned the corner.
"Alice," she snapped, eyes narrowing.
"I—I'm here," I gasped, trying to smooth my hair, my voice shaking with the effort.
Barely.
I had made it back just in time.
The smell of onions clung stubbornly to my hands. I'd been chopping them for what felt like hours under Miss Byrd's hawk-eyed watch. Every slice had to be uniform, every motion efficient, no wasted movement. It wasn't cooking so much as discipline disguised as breakfast prep. The kitchen had been hot and crowded, steam rising from the pots, but I didn't dare complain.
Miss Byrd's voice had snapped once when I tried to sneak a glance toward the window. "Focus, Alice! A dull mind makes for dull work."
So I did focus. I stirred when she told me to stir, ladled when she told me to ladle, carried stacks of plates across the hall until my arms trembled. By the time we set the food out, my legs felt heavy, my back sore, and my stomach was howling.
The meal was served in the long hall. The chatter of the other gifted filled the air—bursts of laughter, the scrape of cutlery, the kind of warm noise that made the whole house feel alive. Eleanor had set flowers down the center of the table earlier, and their faint scent still lingered above the steam of roasted meat and potatoes. I then sat between two younger gifted who whispered to each other with quick, nervous excitement. They barely noticed me, which, truthfully, was a relief. My mind wandered even as I chewed slowly on the food in front of me.
And then—Harriet.
Across the table, her book was set neatly beside her plate, untouched. She was eating with the kind of calm precision that always made me feel clumsy by comparison. Her eyes, dark and sharp, flicked up once—and landed on me. It was only a glance, but it pierced like an arrow. Suspicious. Measuring. As though she could see through me, peel back every layer I tried to keep hidden.
My fork clattered softly against my plate. After eating, I went on my day like usual. I did chores. I did my training. I helped out the garden. I completely forgot the person I left underneath the willow tree until it was around 6. When I returned to my room, I happened to glance at the tree outside, and perched on top of one of its branch was Sebastian. And then it hit me.
The breath caught in my chest. My mind replayed Riven's face by the fire, the way he had smiled earlier when he told me he'd wait.
Oh no!
I hadn't just forgotten—I had abandoned him. Left him sitting under the willow tree with scraps of bread and canned food while I sat here, warm and full, surrounded by light and laughter.
The guilt struck me like a stone dropped into my stomach. I couldn't stay another second.
As soon as Miss Byrd turned her head and the children beside me were lost in their own chatter, I slipped out of the house, heart pounding, the hall's warmth fading instantly behind me.
***
The air outside hit cool and sharp against my face as I ran. My skirts tangled around my legs, but I didn't slow. The grass was slick with dew, my shoes dampening with every step. Through the trees, the faint glow of a small fire flickered. My pulse leapt.
And then, still beneath the willow, his back propped against the trunk, with Hunter curled by his side. The fire had burned low, embers glowing faintly, throwing soft shadows across his face. The bread lay wrapped neatly in cloth before him, untouched.
He hadn't eaten. He had waited.
I stopped dead, breath heaving. For a moment, I couldn't move. I could only imagine how hungry he is. He lifted his head at the sound of my steps. When his eyes found me, he smiled—not bitterly, not even with disappointment. But with quiet joy. A genuine smile. It wasn't his usual, annoying smile. He was truly smiling. And he looked cute. He was smiling as if my return was all that mattered. Like I was all that mattered.
He still waited. And I hated the fact that he did wait.
Something broke open in my chest, aching sweetly in a way I hadn't expected. I forced myself forward, legs shaky, until I was close enough to see the firelight flicker in his eyes.
"You didn't eat," I whispered, my voice rough.
He looked at the bread, then back at me, and shrugged. "Didn't feel right without you. I did promise myself I'll eat once you're back."
The words were simple. Too simple for how deeply they struck.
I sank onto the ground across from him, folding my legs beneath me. Hunter stirred, lifted his head to sniff the air, then let out a content sigh and rested it again.
"I'm sorry," I said, the words tumbling out, clumsy but desperate. "I shouldn't have forgotten. I—Miss Byrd had me running around the kitchen and then dinner and—"
Riven raised a hand, stopping me gently. "Alice. It's alright."
He didn't call me 'Whit.'
"No, it's not." My voice cracked more than I wanted it to. I clenched my hands in my lap. "You waited. And I sat there, eating—"
"And now you're here." His tone was steady, grounding. "That's all I wanted."
I swallowed hard. The fire popped softly between us.
There was something different about him now. The shadows carved his features into sharper lines, but his eyes—his eyes softened everything. They carried a gentleness that didn't match the scars he bore, the weight of what he'd lost.
I hugged my knees to my chest, searching for words that wouldn't sound foolish. "Do you always… wait for people like that?"
He gave a faint smile, shaking his head. "Not really."
"Then why me?"
For a moment, he didn't answer. He just studied me, as though weighing whether to speak truth or spare me. Then he said quietly, "Because you came back the first time. And I believed you would again."
The ache in my chest deepened.
Why does he have to say things like that?
I looked at the meal he prepared—bread torn into uneven halves, canned beans warmed slightly over the dying fire—and when he handed me a piece, I took it as though it were something rare and precious.
Finally, I asked, "Do you ever… wish you'd stayed? With the soldiers, I mean."
His expression shifted. For a moment, he looked far away, as though staring into memories only he could see.
"I think about it," he admitted. "But if I'd stayed, I'd be dead with them."
I winced. "Riven…"
He glanced at me, caught the guilt on my face, and softened. "It's not your burden. I made my choice. And I'm still here."
My chest tightened again, and I had to look away, down at the fire, to keep from unraveling right there.
And yet, I couldn't help the thought that slipped in unbidden, the one I would never say aloud.
If I lost everyone like he did, would I still be able to smile at someone the way he just smiled at me?
The bread was rough, the beans bland, and yet… I don't think anything had ever tasted quite like it. Maybe it wasn't the food itself but the way it was offered—the quiet care stitched into the act. He could have eaten alone. He should have. But instead, he waited, just so we could share this meager supper together.
I stole glances at Riven as he chewed, the firelight catching the curve of his jaw, the faint sweat at his temple. His shoulders were broad, steady, but in moments like this I saw past the soldier's exterior. I saw the boy beneath it, the one who had lost everything and still found it in himself to smile at me.
When I finished, I set the crust of bread down carefully, as though it were fragile. My throat felt too tight for words.
Riven stretched his legs out, leaning back against the willow, his eyes tilting toward the stars. "Not much of a dinner," he said lightly.
I shook my head quickly. "No—it's…" My voice faltered. I swallowed and tried again. "It's more than enough."
His lips quirked faintly, like he didn't quite believe me but wanted to.
I pulled my knees to my chest, hugging them close, and stared into the embers. The warmth brushed my skin, but inside, something cold and heavy lingered. Because no matter how much I smiled, no matter how grateful I was, the truth gnawed at me: this wasn't right. He was out here in the woods, scraping by on scraps and canned goods, because he had nowhere else to go. And yet—yet—he'd gone out of his way to treat me. To make me feel welcome, to share what little he had, as though I were someone worth waiting for.
The thought stung.
I pressed my chin against my knees, eyes fixed on the fire, and let the weight settle in my chest.
Riven didn't deserve this. Not the loss of his comrades, not the lonely nights with only Hunter and half-empty tins of beans. And certainly not having to pretend a simple meal was something more, just to make me feel cared for. Because for all my complaints, all my bitterness, all the times I resented Harriet or envied the others, Riven had lost far more—and still, he managed to give.
Still, he managed to wait.
I closed my eyes, letting the sound of the fire and his even breathing wrap around me.
He did whatever he could, with nothing at all, just to treat me.
And that, more than anything, made my heart ache.