I WAS JOLTED AWAKE BY NOISE.
At first, I thought it was part of a dream—the sound of footsteps and muffled voices, bleeding into my half-conscious mind like water seeping through cracks. But then it grew louder, sharper, and tinged with panic. Doors creaked, floorboards thudded, whispers pitched with urgency. I sat up, hair tangled and messy, heart still heavy with the haze of sleep. For one fragile moment, I almost convinced myself it was nothing. Just another busy morning in Willowmere. Just chores, lessons, laughter in the halls. Safe. Ordinary. But the air was different. Thicker. Heavy with unease. I don't know.
Slipping from bed, I padded barefoot across the cold floor and opened my door into the hallway. My eyes widened at once. Dwight was there, broad-shouldered and tense, his brow furrowed as though he'd been awake all night. Harriet stood beside him, posture straight, arms crossed, her face unreadable.
"What's going on?" I asked, voice rough with sleep.
Dwight turned toward me. The look in his eyes was grim, far too grim for the hour. "Headmaster Ryan welcomed a woman and a twin sons. Most likely her children," he said. "She said they were attacked by the men in black."
The air drained from my lungs. For a second, I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. The hallway seemed to tilt beneath me, my bare toes curling against the wooden floor to steady myself. 'Attacked.' Those words dragged with them every memory I'd tried to bury—the night of fire, the shouts, the smoke, the way my father's body had collapsed to the ground. My pulse hammered against my temples. Without answering Dwight, I rushed past them both, nearly tripping over the hem of my nightdress as I stumbled down the stairs. The voices downstairs grew louder, overlapping, pulling me like a tide.
And then I saw the lady with her sons. Although the living room was crowded, with Ryan at the center and Eleanor by his side, Miss Byrd perched nervously at the edge of a chair, Dr. Crowe hovering like a shadow, and several of the gifted gathered in tight clusters, murmuring to one another, I still get to see a clear view of the lady. I mean, my eyes found her immediately: the pale, trembling woman on the sofa, clutching two small boys as though letting go would mean losing them forever. Her arms were wrapped so tightly around them I could see her knuckles blanch. Her face was streaked with tears, her hair tangled from wind and rain, and her clothes torn and stained with mud.
She looked like a ghost of someone who had been whole once—and shattered overnight. But the boys clung to her chest, one burying his face in her neck, the other staring out with wide, hollow eyes, blinking rapidly as though trying to understand where he was, who these strangers were, and whether this place was truly safe. They were twins.
The woman sobbed quietly, voice breaking as she tried to recount what had happened.
"They came in front of the porch while my husband was there," she whispered. "I—I thought they were just going to ask him. But then they knocked. No, not knocked. Pounded. My husband went to the door and asked them. But out of nowhere, I heard a loud gunshot. My instincts told me to save my twins. After seeing my husband collapse through the window, I immediately bolted out the back door. My sons and I ran for God knows how long, until we stumbled upon Ryan."
Her words dissolved into tears as she recalled the incident to Eleanor. The sound cut through me like glass. And I stood frozen by the wall, my breath caught in my throat. Ryan crouched in front of her. His voice was soft, deliberate, the kind of voice that could convince you to keep breathing when it hurt too much. "Take your time, Ma'am. I'm so sorry about what happened. But do know you're safe here now."
But she shook her head. Her eyes—red, swollen, desperate—flitted from Ryan to Eleanor to all of us watching. "Safe?" she echoed bitterly, as though the word were foreign. "They knew. They knew what I was. My husband wasn't gifted, he was human, but he accepted me. He never judged me. And they—" Her voice cracked. She clutched her sons tighter. "They shot him. Right on the porch. In front of us."
The room seemed to close in around me, the walls pressing tighter. My mind betrayed me with flashes of what happened when my father fell, smoke swallowing his voice. I shook my head slightly, willing the memories back down. This was her story now. Not mine. But the weight of it pressed into my chest all the same.
She lowered her head, speaking almost to herself. "I always hoped the children would live ordinary lives. That maybe they could pass unnoticed. But…" Her grip loosened slightly, and the boys shifted. The one with puffy eyes—his small fingers twitched, and I swore a faint shimmer of light flickered in his palm, like the glint of sunlight caught on glass. The other boy squeezed his eyes shut, his shoulders trembling, and I felt something in the air shift, a strange tug as if the warmth from the fireplace had been siphoned, bending unnaturally toward him. Gasps then murmured through the gathered gifted.
"They're manifesting already," the woman said, her voice breaking again. "One controls light. Cornelius." She brushed the hair back from the boy's damp forehead, kissing him gently. "And the other, Augustus. He can drain energy sources especially from living beings. He bends energy itself."
Ryan's face tightened, but his voice was steady as he asked, "What's your name?"
The woman lifted her head slowly, her lips trembling as though the simple act of remembering who she was felt too heavy. Finally, she whispered, "Lucinda. Lucinda Vaughn."
Her voice shook, but in the next breath she straightened her back, as if summoning every ounce of strength left in her bones to calm the sons she held. She smoothed their hair, pressing her lips against their temples, whispering assurances between shaky breaths. "You're safe now. You hear me? You're safe. Mama's here. You're safe."
Her voice cracked on the last word, but she forced herself to keep repeating it. Safe. Safe. Safe. As if saying it enough times could make it true. I pressed a hand to my chest, my nails digging into the fabric of my dress. Watching her made something inside me ache so sharply it was almost unbearable. Because I recognized it. The desperation. The way she clung to her children the way I wished I could cling to my parents. The way she lied through her teeth just to give them a moment of comfort. And the bitter truth underneath it all: that no place was ever truly safe. Not from them. The Others.
***
The room shifted around me as Dr. Crowe stepped forward with his medical bag to tend to the newcomers' wounds, Miss Byrd whispering something hurriedly to Ryan, and Eleanor smoothing her own dress with trembling hands. But my eyes stayed fixed on Lucinda, and the twins pressed so tightly into her sides.
Then I thought of Morgan. Of his nightmares. Of the way his little hands shook when he spoke of fire and bombs. Now there were more children, more victims, pulled into this war they never asked to fight. Something inside me twisted into fire. I mean, the Others had stolen my father. They had stolen Lucinda's husband. They haunted children in their dreams, turned families into ashes. And now, right here, two more boys had been marked by their cruelty.
I didn't even realize my fists had curled until my nails dug into my palms.
Ryan's voice then carried through the heavy silence. "You've come a long way, Lucinda. You're safe in Willowmere now. We'll give you and your sons a place here."
Lucinda nodded weakly, tears sliding silently down her cheeks. "Thank you," she whispered, voice raw.
But even as Ryan offered her comfort, I felt the hollowness in the room. Safety was a fragile word. A promise too easily broken. And all of us knew it.
I stepped back slowly, my breath unsteady, my eyes still locked on the small flicker of light in Augustus's hand. He was barely older than Morgan. He should have been chasing fireflies in a garden, not clinging to his mother with the memory of blood on a porch burned into his mind.
My reverie was cut short when Ryan's hand tapped my shoulder. His voice was quiet, measured, but I could hear the exhaustion buried underneath.
"Alice," he called, leaning closer so only I could hear, "help Lucinda and the boys settle in. I need to speak with Eleanor and Miss Byrd about some preparations."
I nodded quickly, even though my stomach tightened. "Of course."
Relief softened his face just enough before he turned back toward the living room, where Eleanor was speaking gently to the pale woman on the couch. Her arms were wrapped tightly around the two boys pressed against her sides. Their faces buried in her skirts, clinging as though they feared she would vanish if they let go. I took a small step toward her, unsure of how to even begin. My chest still ached from her story. But when Lucinda lifted her head when I approached, I plastered this smile to hopefully put some comfort on her tremors.
"Come with me," I said softly, forcing warmth into my tone. "We've prepared rooms for new arrivals. You'll be safe there."
Safe. The word felt like a brittle promise, but it was all I had.
Lucinda rose slowly, one arm still wrapped around each boy. She smoothed their hair with trembling hands before nodding. "Thank you…" Her voice cracked, but she steadied it. "Thank you. What's your name, dear?"
"Alice," I replied, offering the smallest smile I could manage.
Her lips trembled, but she smiled back, a fragile curve. "Alice. That's a nice name."
I swallowed, motioning for her to follow as I led them toward the east wing. The boys shuffled beside her, clutching her hands like lifelines. The hallways of Ryan's home stretched wide and high, the old oak floors groaning underfoot. Normally, I liked their echoes, the way the house seemed to breathe around us. But right then, with Lucinda and her children trailing silently behind me, each step felt like it cracked open the air.
"You must be tired," I said gently, trying to break the silence.
Lucinda gave a short, humorless laugh. "Tired feels too small a word. But yes."
I glanced back at her, at the way her shoulders shook even when she tried to steady them. Guilt burned in me for even asking.
My curiosity, though, pushed forward before I could stop it. "Lucinda… what exactly happened?"
"Call me Lucy, dear," she said. Her lips pressed into a thin line. For a moment, I thought she wouldn't answer. But then, her voice came low, halting.
"But I'll recall what happened. The strange men came at morning. Men—no, things. Pale, almost gray. Smooth faces. No hair, not a single lash. Their suits were pressed so perfectly, it was like they hadn't moved in hours. They carried suitcases, but when they opened them, it wasn't papers inside. It was instruments. Needles. Restraints. Inventions I can't even name."
I pictured the sketches Ryan had shown me in those old files, the blurred photographs with labels that looked more like horror than research. 'The Others.'
Her voice broke, dragging me back. "My husband was outside. But when he approached them, they shot him like he was nothing."
When we resumed walking, her voice had softened to a whisper. "I always hoped the boys would be ordinary. That they'd never have to carry this. But Cornelius… he glows. He lights up whole rooms when he laughs. And Augustus… sometimes animals stop moving when he touches them. Even my own strength dwindle when he holds my hand without his gloves."
I glanced down at the twins. Augustus's eyes were bright, almost golden, catching what little light filtered through the windows. Cornelius clung tighter to his mother's skirt, his gaze heavy and dark.
"Have they…?" I hesitated, unsure how to phrase it. "Do they know?"
Lucinda shook her head quickly. "No. Not yet. They're children, Alice. They shouldn't have to know the word 'gifted' means hunted."
Her voice cracked again, but she straightened, brushing her cheeks with the back of her hand. "I'll tell them in time. For now… they just need to believe they're safe."
When Augustus tilted his head up suddenly and asked, "Mama, where's Papa?" I thought my own chest might shatter.
Lucinda bent low, cupping his face with shaking hands, and somehow managed a smile. "Papa's gone to work, love. He'll… he'll be back when he can."
Augustus blinked, his little mouth opening as if to ask more, but he stopped, nodding with a child's unearned trust. On the other hand, Cornelius didn't ask. He just pressed his face deeper into her side.
By the time we reached the small room at the end of the hall, my throat was burning. I opened the door quickly, motioning inside. "Here. It's not much, but it's yours now. Two beds for the boys, one for you. Linens are fresh. If you need more blankets, I can fetch them."
Lucinda stepped inside slowly, her eyes roaming over the modest space. The twins clambered onto one bed immediately, their little fingers running across the quilt, as though even simple cloth could be wonder after horror. Lucy then turned back to me, tears spilling freely now. "Thank you. You've been so kind. I don't—" Her voice cracked. She covered her mouth, shaking her head. "I don't even know how to thank you."
"You don't have to," I said quickly, but my voice wavered.
Because I wasn't sure I had been kind. Not really. I was just doing what Ryan asked. But still, standing there in that doorway, I wanted desperately to mean it. To promise them safety, to promise they wouldn't end like my parents, or Lucinda's husband.
Instead, I just whispered, "Rest now. You're safe here."
Safe. The word again. Empty, fragile.
But she nodded anyway. "Safe," she repeated, as if she could anchor herself to it.
Before I left, Lucy called my name one last time. I then turned to see her smile.
"I sense an incredible future in you, Alice. I can feel heartbreak and serenity all at once."
I stopped upon hearing her words. I wanted to respond, but I couldn't. Instead, I forced this smile as I told them to be comfortable. Afterwards, I closed the door softly behind me, my chest aching like it was splitting apart.
When I left, my feet carried me without thought.
In fact, I wanted to scream. To slam my fists into the walls and demand answers from the universe. Why did it always happen this way? Families shattered, children robbed of laughter, lives burned down by shadows in pressed suits. Whatever the Others were, they weren't just monsters in Ryan's files anymore. They were real. And they were coming closer.
I turned the corner sharply—and stopped. Harriet was standing halfway down the hall, her posture perfectly composed, with a book balanced in her hands. But she wasn't reading it. She was watching me. Our eyes locked.
Her face gave nothing away—no sympathy, no disdain, not even curiosity. Just that quiet, unnerving calm that always made me feel like she was seeing something I couldn't hide. I wanted to speak, to snap, to demand what she thought she saw. But the words stuck like shards in my throat.
So I did what I always did. I walked past her. The silence between us screamed louder than any words. And for the first time since I had met her, I wondered—not with bitterness, but with something sharp and uneasy—whether Harriet knew more about the Others than she let on.
***
Sebastian's smirk that afternoon was faint, the kind that almost dared me to argue. "Safety is a luxury, Alice. We don't always get to keep it."
Riven and I met underneath the willow tree, while Sebastian followed me on my way here.
His words dug under my skin like thorns, though. I hated that he was right, but I hated more that he could say it so easily, as if the idea of putting himself in danger was nothing. Maybe for him it wasn't. He'd always been the silent observer, always perched on rooftops, on trees, on the edges of places no one else dared. Watching was his way of being alive. But this was different. This wasn't just about him disappearing into the sky. This was about the Others.
Riven shifted beside me, arms crossed tightly across his chest. "You think you're invincible because you've got wings. But if these things are experimenting on the gifted, don't you think they'd love to get their hands on you? You'd be a prize catch."
Sebastian's amber eyes narrowed. "Better me than Alice stumbling into them blind."
That stung. My lips parted to protest, but Riven cut in first. "She's not stumbling. She has me." His voice lowered, the rough edges softening when he glanced at me. "She doesn't need to be protected by someone who thinks disappearing into the clouds is enough."
Heat climbed up my neck.
I stepped forward, the grass cool beneath my shoes, and forced myself to steady my voice. "Enough."
The word came out firmer than I expected, and both of them turned their eyes on me. My pulse jumped, but I stood straighter. "We can't afford to tear each other apart before the Others even touch us. If Sebastian wants to scout, then he scouts. But he doesn't go alone. Riven's right—we can't risk losing anyone."
Riven exhaled, jaw flexing. Sebastian tilted his head, studying me the way he always did when he wanted to measure if I was serious or just scared.
"I'll accept a shadow," Sebastian said finally, his voice calmer, "but only if they don't weigh me down."
Riven barked out a humorless laugh. "Try me."
For a moment, the air hung tight, like a rope stretched too thin. Then Sebastian shrugged, his feathers rippling as wings spread behind him once more. "We'll see."
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. I had thought telling Lucinda's story to Riven would make me feel lighter, but instead, the heaviness settled deeper in my chest, like stones pulling me under. Every detail—her trembling hands, the way Augustus asked about his father—sat on my tongue like a bitter taste. When the words spilled out, Riven's expression shifted, growing darker with every sentence. He didn't interrupt, though. Didn't joke, didn't smirk, and he didn't even look away. His jaw tightened, the muscles flexing, and when I finished, his hand dragged slowly through his damp hair as though grounding himself.
"Bastards," was all he muttered. "Killing a man in front of his wife and children…" He trailed off, eyes lowering, but I saw the heat in them, saw the storm brewing.
I hugged my arms to my chest. The silence stretched too long, and I had to break it.
"I want to find them." The words left me before I could stop them. They trembled, but they were true.
Riven's gaze shot up to me, sharp and searching. "Find who?"
"The ones who killed Lucy's husband."
"You mean the men in black?"
I nodded once. "I want to know where they are. What they're doing. But I can't just sit in that house while people like Lucy—" My throat closed. I forced the rest out. "While families get torn apart."
For a moment, he just studied me. Then he shook his head, huffing a humorless laugh. "And how do you plan on doing that? What, storming through the valley yelling, 'Hey, monsters in suits, come get me?'"
I bristled, heat flushing my face. "I'm serious."
"So am I," he shot back, but softer this time. "Alice, how could we even begin?"
My lips parted, but the only answer I had was the one I hated. "I don't know."
The words fell flat between us, hollow and fragile. I dropped my gaze to the grass at my feet, feeling foolish for admitting what burned inside me. A second later, Sebastian swooped down from the branch he perched moments ago, landing so close the force stirred my hair. His feathers melted away, his form folding, stretching, reshaping until his humanoid body stood in front of us. His eyes—sharp even in the dim light—settled on me.
"I'll go," he said simply.
I blinked. "What?"
"I'll scout," Sebastian clarified. "From above. They can't hide their movements forever. If there are patterns, I'll see them."
Panic shot through me, tightening my chest. "Sebastian, what about your safety? If they catch you—"
He tilted his head, his lips quirking in the faintest smirk. "They won't. I'll be fine."
The certainty in his voice pressed against me like a hand I wanted to trust, but fear clawed anyway. My heart raced as though trying to speak for me, but before I could argue more, Sebastian spread his wings wide again. The wind kicked up, scattering the grass.
"Stay here," he said, almost like an order. "Don't do anything reckless."
And with that, he morphed. His outline shimmered faintly, a ripple in the air, like heat rising off stone. Then his shoulders began to collapse inward, bones folding with an elegance that defied nature. His arms stretched and elongated, fingers fanning wide before thinning into feathers, glossy and sharp-edged. The last traces of his humanoid form vanished into plumage as these sleek, mottled feathers that shimmered came in place. One moment, Sebastian stood tall before me. The next, a great owl blinked where he had been, tilting his head with uncanny grace. Then, with a single beat of his wings, he took off. I stood frozen, staring after him until he was nothing but a dot in the stormy sky. My fists clenched at my sides. 'Why is it always him taking the risk?'
Beside me, Riven exhaled hard, almost a whistle. "Your bird's got guts."
"He's not just—" I cut myself off, biting down on the words.
The restlessness in my veins only grew, refusing to let me sit still. So when Riven suggested walking—just to move, to breathe, to do something—I agreed. Hunter padded ahead, his tail wagging lazily, and for a time, the woods became our anchor. We walked without aim, our boots sinking in the soft soil, our breaths forming little clouds as the air grew cooler. The trees loomed tall, their branches whispering secrets I couldn't decipher.
But we found nothing. No trails, no clues. Just the same forest, the same endless silence. By the time the sky cracked open, the rain came heavy and merciless. It soaked us within seconds, plastering my hair to my face and chilling me to the bone.
"Perfect," Riven muttered, his voice raised over the downpour. "Really, just what we needed."
I hugged my arms tighter, shivering. My clothes clung to me like a second skin, every step heavier than the last. The path back blurred under sheets of rain.
"Come on," he said, raising his voice. "I'll walk you back to your home before you drown in your own sulking."
The sarcasm was weak, forced, but it made me lift my head. His eyes met mine through the curtain of rain, and for a fleeting second, I felt something like warmth spark there. But when thunder rolled overhead, I knew the walk back would be miserable, maybe even dangerous.
I stopped, grabbing his arm. "Riven—no. The rain's too heavy. You'll get sick out here."
He arched a brow, water dripping from the brim of his black cap. "And what, you want me to camp in this storm? I'll be fine. I'm used to worse."
The thought of him huddled under some tree, drenched with his dog, trying to keep a fire alive with shaking hands—it twisted something sharp inside me.
"Stay inside my room," I said, the word tumbling out before I could overthink it. My voice cracked, softer this time. "Just this once. Stay the night."
His brow furrowed, as though he couldn't quite believe I'd said it. Then his gaze softened, and he nodded once. Hunter also barked as if in agreement, bounding ahead toward the house.
By the time we reached my window, mud clung to our shoes and water dripped from every inch of us. Hunter leapt inside first, shaking off rain with a spray that soaked the floorboards. Riven climbed in after him, his soaked backpack slung over one shoulder, his grin sheepish. He dropped the bag with a heavy thud and rubbed the back of his neck. "So… uh." His grin turned boyish, crooked. "Can I shower before I turn into a swamp?"
Despite myself, a laugh broke through, thin but real. I nodded quickly. "Yes—just… yes. I'll grab you a towel."
He gave me a small salute, still dripping water all over my floor, and disappeared into the bathroom.
I pressed my palms to my face, my cheeks burning despite the chill. What am I doing?
***
While he showered, I slipped into the hallway. The scent of food from the dining hall drifted faintly, but I wasn't headed there. My only thought was to find something warm for him, anything to fill the hollow ache in my chest.
As I turned the corner, nearly colliding with the polished wood of the banister, a shadow loomed. Harriet's eyes caught me immediately, cool and assessing, scanning me like she could peel back every secret I carried. Of course, I stiffened, gripping the bundle of bread and fruit I had swiped from the kitchen.
She tilted her head slightly. Suspicion simmered behind her gaze, but she said nothing. And I couldn't bring myself to speak either. Instead, I ducked my head, quickening my pace until I slipped past her and back down the hall.
My pulse only steadied once I reached my room again. I pushed the door open—and when I did, I was internally screaming. When I stepped back, I nearly dropped the plate in my hands.
There, in the middle of the room, was Riven. But he wasn't just standing there. He was Shirtless.
Water still glistened on his skin, his hair damp and sticking to his forehead as he carelessly rubbed it dry with a towel. He was lean—not bulky like the football players back at school—but every line of him looked sculpted from endurance. His shoulders were defined, his chest taut, and when he shifted, I caught the ripple of muscles down his abdomen. It wasn't the kind of strength you got from posing in mirrors; it was the kind you earned—hours of running drills, carrying packs, wielding weapons heavier than they looked.
I didn't even realize my cheeks burned before I even realized I was staring. Heat coiled up my neck, and I snapped my gaze away, scolding myself. What was wrong with me?
He must have noticed, because when he glanced at me, there was a flicker of something in his eyes—a quiet amusement, maybe. I fumbled with the plate, suddenly all thumbs, setting it down with more force than necessary just to give myself something to do. But the damage was done. I couldn't shake the image, the way his body seemed carved from the very discipline I had always lacked. I pressed my lips together, willing the warmth in my chest to fade, but it only deepened, humming beneath my ribs like a secret I wasn't ready to name.
I told myself it was nothing. Just surprise. Just embarrassment. Just… something I could push down. And yet, even as I tried to bury it, the feeling lingered—strange, insistent, like a spark waiting for air.
When I did look at him again, I realized he was only in his boxers, towel in hand as he dried his hair. For a moment, my brain short-circuited. Water traced the lines of his shoulders, dripping down his back, his skin catching the lamplight in ways I did not need to notice.
Heat flared across my face. "What the hell is wrong with you? Do that in private!" I hissed, slamming the door shut behind me.
He looked up, blinking, then grinned sheepishly, scratching the back of his head. "What? Thought you'd still be gone."
I tossed the bundle of food onto the desk, refusing to meet his eyes. "Well, I'm not."
He chuckled, low and amused, before tugging on a shirt from his bag. The air felt less suffocating once he was covered, though my heart hadn't gotten the message.
Hunter lifted his head from where he lay curled on the rug, tail thumping lazily as if laughing at me too.
I sank onto my bed, pulling the blanket over my legs, trying to still my thoughts. He sat across from me on the floor, a pillow tucked under his arm, his damp hair falling into his eyes. The storm outside raged, wind rattling the windows, thunder cracking the night open. But inside, the quiet between us was oddly gentle.
I didn't realize until much later, as his voice drifted low and my eyelids grew heavy, that something warm had settled inside me.
***
The hours after that conversation dragged like heavy chains. I couldn't shake the image of Lucy's face. The quiet way she lied about her children's father, her voice breaking on words she forced into place for her children's sake. That kind of grief was worse than screaming. It was the silence that killed you, slowly, each day.
When I shifted, I realized Riven was still awake.
"Hey, Blackcap," I called him.
"Hmm?"
"Do you ever think," I said quietly, "that no matter what we do, we're just one step behind whatever we're trying to solve?"
Riven's gaze flicked to me. He didn't answer right away. His fingers brushed absently over Hunter's fur. "Sometimes," he admitted. "But if I thought it was hopeless, I wouldn't still be here."
There was something in his voice—something heavier than just survival. It lingered in the air, unspoken.
Riven pulled a dented can from his pack, pried it open with a knife, and passed it to me with an almost sheepish look.
"It's not much," he said. "But it's the only thing I can offer you for letting me stay here for the night."
I took it, the metal cold in my hands, and smiled despite the hollowness of the meal. "Thanks."
We shared the meager drink. There was something about the way he watched me when he thought I wasn't looking. For a moment, it almost felt like safety. Although, the storm outside still hadn't let up. It roared against the roof, rattled the panes of my window, and hissed through the cracks of the frame like the house itself was being tested. I pulled the blanket tighter around my shoulders, the fabric rougher than what I was used to back home, but at least it was warm. Riven had claimed the floor, spreading the pillow and spare blanket I'd shoved into his hands earlier. Hunter had curled loyally at his side.
For a long time, we didn't speak. Just the rain, just the steady beat of it drowning out everything else. I thought he might already be asleep, but then his voice broke the quiet.
"You don't regret letting me stay, do you?"
I turned onto my side to look at him. His face was only half-lit by the flicker of the candle I'd left burning on the desk, the shadows sharpening the lines of his jaw, the slope of his cheekbones. His dark hair was still damp.
"No," I said, and it came out softer than I intended. I cleared my throat and tried again, steadier this time. "No. It's fine. But just this once."
He smirked faintly, though it wasn't the cocky grin he usually wore. "You sound like you're trying to convince yourself."
"Maybe I am."
He shifted onto his side, mirroring me, one arm tucked under his head. "You don't trust easily. I get that. But thank you."
I blinked. "For what?"
"For not letting me drown out there." His lips tugged into a wry half-smile. "Figuratively and literally."
I couldn't help it—I laughed, the sound surprising even me. "You're ridiculous."
"Ridiculous but alive," he countered.
My laughter faded into something gentler, a small smile that I quickly hid against my pillow. I wasn't used to this—to someone being so unguarded with me. Most people in this house spoke with caution, their words weighed down by fear or discipline. But Riven, he was rough edges and raw honesty, even when it made no sense.
We fell quiet again. My thoughts spun, refusing to settle. I stared at the faint outline of his shape against the dim glow, and before I could stop myself, the words slipped out.
"Do you miss them? Your comrades?"
His chest rose with a slow inhale, and his eyes flickered to the ceiling before back to me. "Yes and no."
The bluntness of it made my heart clench.
"I don't talk about it much," he continued, his voice lower now, meant only for me above the storm. "Because if I do, it feels real. Permanent. Like saying it out loud seals it. But they're gone. And I—" He cut himself off, running a hand through his hair. "I don't even know why I made it out when they didn't."
Survivor's guilt. I'd read about it once, in one of my old textbooks, but reading the words in a paragraph wasn't the same as hearing them bleed through someone's voice.
"But you're still here. That's all that matters."
He let out a humorless chuckle. "You say that like the universe has rules. Like it cares about deserving."
I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it again, frustrated with myself. What did I know about loss compared to him? Mine had been sudden, cruel, yes, but his—his had been slow and brutal, one by one until he was standing in the ashes alone. Still, I forced the words out.
"Maybe it doesn't care. But I do. And I'm glad you're here."
The silence stretched. I thought maybe I'd said too much, maybe I'd ruined the fragile balance we'd been keeping. But then his expression softened in a way I'd never seen before. Not teasing, not guarded, not broken. Just soft.
"Me too," he said quietly.
Something fluttered in my chest, light and treacherous. I rolled onto my back, staring at the ceiling, because if I kept looking at him, I might forget how to breathe.
The storm raged on, but inside that small room, a different kind of storm had begun. The candle burned lower, wax dripping silently down its side, casting the room in an amber haze. I could feel every beat of my heart pressing against my ribs, insistent, as if it wanted to claw its way out and sit in the space between us. Riven was still lying on his side, watching me in that quiet way of his. It wasn't unnerving—not anymore. It was something else. Like he was trying to memorize me, as if tomorrow I'd vanish.
I rolled back onto my side to face him again. "You should sleep. You've probably gone days without a decent night."
He gave me a lopsided grin. "You, ordering me around now?"
"Don't make it weird," I muttered, tugging the blanket tighter.
He laughed softly, the sound warm despite the storm rattling the window. "Alright, alright. But only if you do the same. You look like you carry the world on your shoulders."
I wanted to argue, to say he had no idea what I carried, but the truth was—he did. Maybe not all the details, not the secrets of the gifted or the exact horrors the Others had committed, but he knew what it was like to shoulder grief, to be left behind. That was more than most people here.
So instead of snapping, I whispered, "I don't remember the last time I slept without wishing my parents' death didn't happen."
His eyes softened. "Nightmares?"
I nodded. My throat tightened, but I pushed through. "Every time I close my eyes, I see them. I see fire. Smoke. And those men."
For a while, there was only the storm and the sound of Hunter shifting in his sleep. Then Riven's hand moved, hesitating for a moment before it slipped from beneath his blanket and reached across the narrow stretch of floor between us. He didn't touch me—just let his fingers rest there, palm open, like an unspoken offer. And I stared at his hand, at the calluses that spoke of training, of survival, of battles I hadn't seen. Slowly, almost against my will, I let my hand fall from the blanket and rest against his.
The contact was small, barely anything, but it sent a warmth rushing up my arm that startled me more than the storm. I blinked fast, swallowing the lump in my throat. We stayed like that for what felt like hours, with the storm outside beating against the world while inside we held onto the fragile stillness we'd created. At some point, the tension eased, my breathing evened out, and sleep began tugging at me. But even as my eyelids grew heavy, I didn't pull my hand away.
When I finally drifted off, it was the first time in weeks that the fire didn't find me.
***
I woke with the gray light of dawn pressing through the curtains. The storm had passed, leaving behind the scent of damp earth and clean air. For a moment, I thought it had all been a dream—that Riven hadn't really been here, that I hadn't really let someone breach the walls I'd built. But then I turned my head and saw him, still on the floor, with his face relaxed in sleep, Hunter curled against his side. My heart gave a strange, unsteady lurch. He looked younger like that. Softer. The hardened edges of his expression smoothed away, leaving someone I wasn't sure I should be seeing. Someone I wasn't sure I deserved to see.
Careful not to wake him, I slipped from the bed and padded to the window. The field outside of Ryan's home stretched beyond, quiet and misted. Somewhere in the house, I could already hear the faint stirrings of morning routines—voices, footsteps, the clang of pans from the kitchen. Soon, the day would begin, and this fragile pocket of stillness would disappear.
I pressed a hand to the glass and whispered to myself, 'What am I doing?'
Because I knew. I knew letting him in like this—into my room, into my thoughts, into the rawest parts of me—was dangerous. Dangerous for him, dangerous for me, dangerous for everything Ryan was trying to protect. And yet I couldn't deny it. Something had shifted last night. And I wasn't sure I wanted to undo it.
Behind me, I heard him stir. His voice, groggy but warm, broke the silence.
"Morning already?"
I turned, caught in the act of staring at him again. He stretched, rubbing his neck, and pushed himself up with a grunt.
"You look like hell," I said before I could stop myself.
He smirked. "And good morning to you, too."
I rolled my eyes, but the corners of my mouth tugged upward anyway. "You should go before anyone sees you."
His grin faded slightly. He stood, gathering his damp backpack and slinging it over his shoulder. "Yeah. You're right."
Hunter whined as if protesting the decision, then padded toward the window when Riven opened it. Before stepping through, he looked back at me, his expression unreadable.
"Thanks, Whit. For last night."
I swallowed hard, nodding once. "Just this once," I reminded him, though the words rang hollow even to me.
He caught it, I think, because his smile tilted—half amused, half something else entirely. Then he was gone, slipping into the morning mist with Hunter at his side, leaving me staring at the window long after it closed.
The rest of the house stirred awake as though nothing had happened, as though the storm hadn't left its bruises across the sky, as though I hadn't just let a boy I barely knew unravel my defenses. I dressed quickly, tugging on a plain pink dress and running a brush through my hair, trying to shake off the heaviness of last night.
When I arrived at the kitchen, it was noisy, as it always was. The clatter of dishes, the chatter of gifted children who hadn't yet learned to temper their energy. I sat at the long table with a bowl of porridge that had already cooled, my spoon dragging circles in it instead of eating. Across from me, Dwight laughed at something one of the older boys said, and for a moment, I almost smiled. But then my gaze drifted down the table—and landed on Harriet. She was eating with the same composure she did everything, with her dark hair falling like a curtain around her face. At one point, she glanced up. Our eyes met. Just for a second. But it was enough. My stomach knotted. Because she looked at me differently. As if she knew something. As if she'd been awake last night, watching the window of my room glow faintly with candlelight while a soldier sat on the floor inside.
I dropped my gaze quickly, heat rising to my cheeks, and forced myself to take a bite of the porridge. Bland. Heavy. Nothing like the bread and firelight from the woods.
The guilt pressed heavier with each swallow.
By midday, chores filled the hours—sweeping, folding linens, helping Miss Byrd chop vegetables for lunch. My hands moved mechanically, but my mind replayed Riven's face as I had seen it in the dawn light. Peaceful. Human in a way I hadn't allowed myself to see before. Every so often, I'd catch myself staring out the window toward the woods, half expecting to see him there, waiting. Hunter bounding through the trees. That crooked grin tugging at his lips. But the forest was still.
"You're distracted," Miss Byrd said at one point, handing me another carrot. Her tone wasn't accusing, just matter-of-fact.
I shook my head quickly. "Just tired from the storm."
Her eyes lingered on me, sharp and knowing, but she didn't press. Still, my pulse thudded faster until she turned away.
And by the time evening came, I thought I had shaken it off—that I could bury the memory of last night under the weight of the day's routines. But sitting at dinner again, I couldn't stop the thought from creeping in: Riven wasn't here.
He was out there, in the damp woods, with nothing but scraps and a dying fire to keep him. And he had waited for me once. Sat under the willow tree with untouched bread and canned food, his smile softening just because I came back. The thought made my chest ache. I pushed my plate away, appetite gone, and excused myself early. My steps carried me to my room, but I didn't stop there. I crossed to the window, staring out into the night where the woods lay dark and endless. My fingers pressed to the glass, as though I could reach across the distance.
'What am I doing?' I thought again, bitter and sharp. 'Why does it matter so much?'
But I knew the answer, even if I hated admitting it. Because for all the walls I had built, for all the bitterness and grief I carried like armor, someone had chosen to wait for me. Not out of obligation, not because I was special. Just because it was me.
By the time the moon lightened the sky again, my decision was made, though I couldn't yet put it into words. That night with him hadn't changed everything. But it had changed something. And I wasn't sure if I wanted to run from it—or toward it. I just couldn't stop thinking about Riven. And I don't know why I feel empty without the idiot's presence.