*Trigger warnings* being called into the principles office, weird foster family. Very odd sentences (you'll see what i mean.)
The guidance counselor had asked to see me, and it's not my fault the door to the main office was cracked open just enough to hear voices echoing out.
And then I saw her.
Ardere.
Sitting stiff-backed in one of those blue vinyl chairs across from the principal's desk, hood down, hair a tangled curtain around her face. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, bandages peeking out from under her sleeves. She looked… smaller. Still and watchful, like a cornered fox pretending not to bleed.
Beside her sat a woman. Older, maybe late forties. Not a teacher. Her blazer looked too expensive, her heels too sharp. And the way she angled her body ever so slightly toward Ardere, like she was trying to shield her from the fluorescent lighting and the world in general—it made something in my chest tighten.
Principal Halbrook was saying something about "accommodations" and "monitoring reentry," using that voice people use when they're trying really hard to sound like they care but don't want to get sued.
Ardere didn't say a word. Not even when the woman next to her leaned in slightly and murmured something too quiet for me to catch. Ardere just nodded once, expression unreadable.
I took a half step back, intending to vanish before anyone noticed me—
"Mr. Ward."
Damn it.
Principal Halbrook's eyes locked on mine through the cracked door. "Dorian, come in."
Ardere's head turned slowly toward me as I stepped into the office, and her expression flickered just slightly. Not surprise. Not anger. Something more like—bracing.
Like she was waiting for me to treat her like glass or fire.
I didn't.
"Hey," I said, like we were just two classmates bumping into each other in the hallway.
Her gaze lingered on mine a moment too long. Then she looked away.
The woman beside her gave me a once-over. Not unkind. But sharp. Measured.
"This is Dorian Ward?" she asked.
"I'm… yes?" I said slowly, glancing between them like I'd walked into a play mid-performance and missed the plot.
Ardere looked like she wanted to sink into the floor.
Principal Halbrook made a sound that was supposed to be a chuckle. "Dorian is one of our more…students. Ms. Marvos here is part of a temporary care team working with Ardere's guardians."
My brain snagged on temporary care team.
Ms. Marvos stood, offered her hand. "It's good to meet you. Ardere mentioned your name."
That shouldn't have meant anything. But it did.
"She did?" I asked, careful not to look at Ardere again.
"Positively," Ms. Marvos added. "Which is rare."
Ardere visibly winced. I could almost hear her silently praying for the fire alarm to go off and end this conversation forever.
I got the message.
"Hope everything's okay," I said, backing toward the guidance office. "I didn't mean to interrupt."
Ms. Marvos gave me a professional smile. "You didn't. It's… good for her to have friends."
I wasn't sure what to say to that, so I didn't say anything.
Just before I turned the corner out of the office, I glanced back.
Ardere was already watching me again, eyes shadowed and unreadable.
And this time, she didn't look away.
—
I barely made it to my locker before I felt the temperature around me drop.
Not literally—though with Ardere, it was hard to tell sometimes.
She moved like smoke: quiet, contained, but with the constant threat of combustion right under the surface. One second I was fishing out a crushed granola bar from the bottom of my backpack, and the next, her shadow cut across the metal locker door.
"Dorian."
I flinched, almost dropping my water bottle. "Jesus—"
"Don't." Her voice was low, firm. Controlled in that way people are when they're one deep breath away from losing it entirely.
She was standing too close. Not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for me to feel it—the weight of her presence pressing in. Like the air had gone stale just between us.
I looked up and met her eyes. They were flat. Tired. Daring me.
"Whatever you think you heard in the office," she said, "you didn't."
I raised an eyebrow, trying to keep things light. "Technically, I was just standing there. It's not my fault Halbrook leaves his door open like he's begging for eavesdroppers—"
Her hand slammed into the locker next to my head with a metallic clang, shutting me up fast.
No one around us blinked. Either they didn't notice, or they were used to pretending not to see her.
Ardere leaned in slightly, voice just loud enough for me to hear.
"If you tell anyone I was in there… if you so much as hint that you saw me with Ms. Marvos, or repeat a single word you think you heard—I will make you regret it."
My mouth opened. Closed. I wanted to joke. I wanted to break the tension. But the way she was looking at me?
That wasn't a bluff. That was a promise.
"I wasn't going to tell anyone," I said quietly. "I'm not that guy."
Her expression didn't soften. If anything, it sharpened—like she didn't believe me yet.
"Good," she said finally, letting her hand fall. "Keep it that way."
She turned to walk away, then paused, back still to me.
"…And if you ever talk about me like I'm broken, I'll really hurt you."
Then she disappeared into the crowd.
I exhaled, realizing I'd been holding my breath the entire time.
Awesome.
So I was officially being threatened by the girl I was pretty sure I might've been trying to be friends with. Or save. Or—whatever the hell this was.
I slammed my locker shut and trailed after her, cutting through the usual hallway chaos until I was right beside her again. "Hey—wait a second."
Ardere didn't stop walking. "Don't."
"I'm just saying, I don't care that you're in foster ca—"
Her hand was on my mouth before I could finish. Fast. Forceful.
And suddenly, I couldn't breathe.
Not because she was holding me too tightly—but because something hit me. Like a crashing wave of black tar, soaking into my skin and lungs, heavy and hollow and wrong.
My knees buckled.
It wasn't a thought. It wasn't even a feeling. It was the absence of everything good, sharp and echoing and unrelenting. Like waking up in a hospital bed with nothing but white walls and silence. Like watching the last light go out and realizing no one's coming to turn it back on. Like dying slowly, inwardly, while everyone else just keeps walking.
She wasn't even looking at me. Her eyes were locked somewhere over my shoulder. Her voice, when it came, was calm. Steady. Brutal.
"Don't say it like that," Ardere said. "Don't open your mouth like it's some mercy you're giving me."
She leaned in slightly, and her grip shifted, but the pressure in my chest worsened. "You think telling me you don't care makes you special? You think I haven't heard that before? That it'll erase the way people flinch when they find out?"
I tried to speak, to shake my head, anything—but the weight of her grief was pressing so hard against my ribs it felt like something inside me might split.
"You don't know what it's like to be passed around like a package no one ordered," she said, voice softer now—but that didn't make it hurt less. "You don't know what it's like to keep a duffel bag packed just in case someone changes their mind. So unless you've lived it—unless you've had to swallow everything you are to make room for the idea that you might never be wanted again—keep. Your. Mouth. Shut."
She pulled her hand away at last.
Air crashed into my lungs. The sudden release of pressure made me stumble back against the lockers.
And just like that, the hallway came back. The noise, the lights, the buzz of lockers slamming and people laughing and life moving on.
Ardere didn't move.
She looked at me with that unreadable expression she always wore when her walls slammed back up. The weight of her sadness lingered in the air like smoke, and I couldn't tell if it was just me still feeling it—or if she had gotten so used to it, she didn't notice it anymore.
I opened my mouth again. Thought better of it.
Then, quietly, I said, "Okay."
She blinked. Her jaw tensed. But she nodded once before turning down the hallway and vanishing into the crowd again. I stood there, still shaking, trying to remind myself that the world wasn't actually ending.
The next day at school, I barely had time to drop my bag before Ardere found me.
Not "ran into me." Not "passed by casually."
No—she found me, like I was something she had deliberately tracked and now regretted catching.
She stomped up the steps of the courtyard like she had something in her boots she wanted to kick into the sun. Her hood was up, hands jammed deep in the pockets of that oversized leather jacket that always smelled faintly like smoke, and she was scowling in a way that made two sophomores instinctively change direction as she passed.
I braced.
She stopped in front of me and pulled something out of her coat pocket with unnecessary aggression.
"Here," she muttered, shoving an envelope into my chest. "It's from Ms. Marvos."
I blinked. "Uh. Hi?"
She ignored that, already turning away.
I glanced down at the envelope. Pale green. Thick, expensive paper that looked like it belonged in a fancy stationary shop, not in a public high school. On the front, my name was written in ink that shimmered faintly like it couldn't decide if it was gold or rust.
"Wait—your foster mom sent me a letter?"
"Don't read it out loud," Ardere snapped over her shoulder.
I flipped it open anyway.
Mr. Dorian,
You are formally invited to tea and light supper this Friday at dusk. Please come with a clean shirt and a cleaner conscience.
Warmly,
Marvos
There was a wax seal at the bottom. It smelled faintly of cloves. I was ninety percent sure it was enchanted.
"You're kidding," I said, catching up to her. "This is real? Your guardian wants to meet me?"
"She insisted," Ardere muttered, not looking at me. "Said she 'felt your energy in the tea leaves' or whatever nonsense she's on this week."
"That's… weirdly flattering?"
"It's not." She stopped walking. "She thinks you're going to be important."
"Important how?"
Ardere gave me a look. One of those looks that could curdle milk. "If I knew, I wouldn't be dragging my feet delivering mystical fan mail to boys who can't keep their locker organized."
"Hey," I said, holding the envelope to my chest. "I'll have you know my locker is a finely tuned chaos system."
She rolled her eyes but didn't walk away.
"So," I said, cautiously, "should I bring anything?"
"Just yourself. And maybe don't say anything for the first ten minutes."
"I can probably do that."
She looked at me, and for the briefest second, the annoyance cracked—just enough for something like worry or nerves or something more complicated to peek through. Then it was gone again, replaced by her usual gritted-teeth scowl.
"Don't make me regret this."
"You won't," I said—then winced. "I mean, you might. But I'll try to keep it under six regrets."
I watched her go, still holding the envelope like it might combust in my hand.
Marvos wanted to meet me. Formally.
Which either meant I was being recruited for a coven… or assessed for extermination. Possibly both.
****
By the time I made it to the house, the sun had dipped below the treeline and the sky was that deep violet color that always makes you feel like something important's about to happen—even if it's just dinner.
The house itself was… unexpected.
It wasn't creepy or falling apart like I half imagined. It wasn't the pristine, modern kind of place either. It was somewhere in between. Older. The kind of house with a wide porch and ivy crawling up the sides, warm yellow light spilling from the windows like the place had been waiting for me before I even knocked.
The envelope from earlier in the week was still in my jacket pocket. I'd read it at least eight more times. Ms. Marvos had a way of writing that made you feel like you were already part of something—whether you wanted to be or not.
I stepped onto the porch and raised my hand to knock—
The door creaked open before I could touch it.
I froze.
And there he was.
Lysander.
Standing just inside the threshold like he'd been there the whole time, like he'd known I'd be arriving at exactly this second. Which, given his general vibe, wasn't completely out of the question.
He blinked at me. Tall, pale, black sweater tucked into even blacker pants, and eyes so light they looked washed-out in the dark. He looked like a haunted Victorian boy band member.
"Oh," I said, because apparently I lose all brain function when surprised. "It's you."
He tilted his head slightly, studying me. Then, "Dorian."
Right. He knew my name. Of course he did.
"You're—uh—Ardere's... stalker."
Lysander didn't laugh. "Brother."
I blinked. "Wait—what?"
He stepped aside, holding the door open. "Come in. She's still getting ready. Ms. Marvos is in the parlor."
I stood there a second too long.
"Brother?" I echoed, like I'd just learned gravity was optional.
"You can keep repeating it," he said, "but the bloodline won't change."
I walked inside, mostly because I wasn't sure what would happen if I didn't. The air smelled like lavender and woodsmoke. The floors creaked under my feet in a way that didn't feel like disrepair—it felt like the house was watching.
Lysander closed the door behind me without a sound.
"She never mentioned you were related."
"She doesn't like to."
"Because you're…" I gestured vaguely. "You know."
He arched a pale eyebrow. "An excellent conversationalist?"
I squinted. "Terrifying."
"Mm. That's closer."
He led me down a hall with thick rugs and paintings I didn't want to look at too long. The kind that felt like their eyes might follow you. I wasn't sure if they actually did or if I was just psyching myself out.
We passed a room filled with books and something that looked suspiciously like an alchemy set, and I was trying to decide if I should comment on it or keep pretending I lived in a normal version of reality when Lysander paused outside a door.
"She likes you," he said without turning around.
I blinked. "Who—Ardere?"
"No," he said, finally glancing back at me. "The house."
And then he opened the door to the parlor.
Inside, the light was golden, the fire crackling softly in the hearth. Ms. Marvos sat in a high-backed chair by the window, stirring a cup of something that smelled like honey and pepper.
She looked up when I entered and smiled like she'd been expecting me for a hundred years.
"Mr. Dorian," she said warmly. "Thank you for coming."
I'd barely crossed the threshold when Ms. Marvos gestured for me to sit.
No handshake. No small talk. Just a slow blink and a stare that made me feel like I'd walked into a test I hadn't studied for.
"Tell me, Mr. Dorian," she began, voice calm and coiled like silk over wire, "do you believe in spirits?"
The question was so sudden I almost laughed. But I didn't. Something in her eyes made it clear this wasn't a joke. I sat.
"Spirits?" I repeated. "Like… ghosts?"
"Like the dead that don't know how to stop lingering," she clarified, sipping from a teacup shaped like it belonged in a gothic museum.
"I… guess?" I offered. "I mean, I've never seen one or anything."
"Mmm. And what about omens?"
"What kind?"
Her eyes twinkled faintly at that. "The kind that stalk bloodlines. The kind that whisper in dreams and leave feathers on your windowsill."
I blinked. "Uh…"
She smiled, like that was answer enough. Then:
"Do you believe evil is a thing you do, or a thing you are?"
I froze. "I—I'm not sure I understand the question."
"You've never had to understand it," she said. "But Ardere… she's known the weight of both."
That made me sit back a little. This wasn't a conversation. It was a slow dismantling.
"Look, I'm not—"
"Do you believe in fate, Mr. Dorian?"
"I—sometimes. Maybe. I don't know."
Ms. Marvos set down her cup with a delicate clink. Her voice didn't rise, but her energy sharpened.
"Then why are you here?"
I hesitated. "Because Ardere invited me?"
"And why do you think she invited you?"
"I don't—look, I didn't come here to talk about omens and evil and ghosts. I came because I was invited for dinner."
She nodded slowly, folding her hands. "You were. And I appreciate that you came, even without answers."
There was a long pause. The room was dim, firelit. Shadows moved without reason across the old stone floor.
After a moment, Ms. Marvos turned her head slightly toward the stairs.
"Hm," she said.
"What?"
"It's unlike her to let me handle the entire opening act alone."
It took me a second to realize what she meant.
"You mean Ardere?"
"She should have joined us by now."
"She might be getting ready," I said quickly, though even I could hear how weak that sounded.
"She doesn't get ready," Ms. Marvos murmured. "She stalls."
There was a low, amused noise from somewhere deeper in the house—too soft to tell if it was human.
Ms. Marvos didn't flinch.
"She's testing you," she said, more to herself than to me. "Or perhaps testing me."
She leaned forward again, resting her hands on the ancient wood of the table. "Either way, let me be clear. This house does not take kindly to those who walk through it blindly. If you continue down this path with Ardere, you will find things. Strange things. Beautiful things. Dangerous things."
I swallowed. "That's… oddly specific."
"Life is oddly specific, Mr. Dorian," she said, rising gracefully to her feet. "Especially when you're born under strange stars."
She turned toward the stairs.
Ms. Marvos had already turned her gaze to the far hallway. She lifted her hand and snapped her fingers once.
A shape emerged from the shadows—quiet, tall, and far too practiced in obeying orders without speaking.
Lysander.
He didn't say anything, just tilted his head, awaiting instruction.
"Bring her," Ms. Marvos said.
He nodded once and disappeared back into the house like a shadow peeling off the wall.
I blinked. "Wait, what do you mean bring—?"
Ms. Marvos poured herself another cup of tea. "She gets like this sometimes. Dramatic. Stubborn. Theatrics are part of her coping."
I wasn't sure what stunned me more—that Ardere was hiding from her own dinner guest or that her brother had just been sent like a bounty hunter to fetch her.
Muffled thuds echoed down from the ceiling a minute later.
Something hit a wall.
Then a voice—Ardere's—"Get off me, you cave-bred cryptid!"
Lysander responded with a single, flat, "No."
"I'm not dressed—"
"You're lying."
Another thud. A chair scraped. Something else fell over.
And then—
Lysander appeared in the doorway, completely unfazed, one arm hooked under Ardere's elbow as he half-dragged, half-walked her into the room like she was a reluctant pet. Her hood was half-on, her boots weren't laced, and she looked like she was debating murder with every step.
"I hate this house," she hissed under her breath, shooting daggers at Lysander before shifting them to her foster mother. "I told you I wasn't ready—"
"You had twenty minutes," Ms. Marvos said sweetly, sipping her tea. "And a guest."
Ardere's eyes flicked to me, and for a second, her frustration faltered into something like embarrassment.
"You didn't have to send the crypt keeper," she muttered.
Lysander released her without a word and returned to the shadows by the door.
Ms. Marvos smiled, as if this were the most normal family dynamic in the world.
"Now that we're all here," she said, "let's begin."
And that's when I realized I hadn't even seen the weird part of the night yet.
It started in the kitchen—where everything smelled like cloves and garlic and something else sharp I couldn't quite place. The table was wide and old and had enough mismatched chairs around it to seat a small cult. Which, at that moment, didn't feel entirely out of place.
A girl was already seated at the table when we entered. She had a smudge of ash across one cheek and wore a jacket with patches sewn into the sleeves in careful, deliberate rows. Her braid was the color of chestnuts and her eyes were so dark they almost looked red in the light.
She looked up. Then grinned.
"Well, well, well," she said, dragging the words out like they were candy. "If it isn't the infamous Mr. Dorian."
I blinked. "I'm… infamous?"
"Only a little." She kicked a chair out with her boot. "Come on, you're real now. Sit. Tell us if the stories were accurate."
"I'm sorry—stories?"
"That you were tall. Awkward. Tense in the shoulders. Probably cursed."
Ardere groaned. "Araxie."
Araxie just looked delighted. "You talked about him. That means I get to interrogate."
Ardere ignored her and plopped into a chair beside the one Araxie had kicked out. I followed, half-expecting the seat to vanish beneath me. It didn't. The wood creaked under my weight, but it held.
"Dorian, this is Araxie," Ardere mumbled, already reaching for a plate. "Ignore ninety percent of what she says."
Araxie stabbed something green and unsettlingly iridescent with a fork. "So. You're into her."
"I—uh—"
"Don't worry. She likes you too. Even if she'll pretend she doesn't until you're on your deathbed or actively bleeding."
"Araxie."
She winked. "What? I'm rooting for the apocalypse love story."
I had just decided that I maybe liked her—maybe—when something shifted in the room.
The kind of shift you feel before you see.
It started with the lights. Just a little flicker. Not enough to make anyone react—but enough to set off the animal part of your brain that still remembered how to fear the dark.
Then the chair across from me scraped back.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
No one was in it yet.
Ardere looked up.
Araxie went still.
Even Ms. Marvos paused, glass mid air, as a boy I hadn't seen before stepped out from the far end of the kitchen hall.
He was barefoot.
That was the first thing I noticed.
Bare feet on cold tile. Quiet. Almost too quiet.
He moved like someone who had practiced being invisible, and now wasn't trying quite hard enough.
His hair was a mess of black curls, uneven like he'd cut it himself in a mirror that didn't work right. His face was too symmetrical, too clean—like a mannequin sculpted to look just wrong enough to pass for human in bad lighting.
And his eyes.
His eyes were void.
Not blank—not empty—but full of the kind of nothing that devours something.
He looked at me.
And smiled.
The kind of smile that shouldn't have been a smile. It looked like he was trying it on for the first time, unsure where the muscles went. Like he was mimicking a photo of what people looked like when they were happy.
"You're the new one," he said. His voice was calm. Light. But there was a coldness underneath, like a blade wrapped in silk. "I thought you'd be taller."
I didn't respond. I wasn't sure if I should.
Ms. Marvos gave a soft sigh. "Riven."
He didn't look at her. He was still staring at me.
Still smiling.
"Do you know what compulsion feels like?" he asked.
Araxie sat up straighter. "Riven—"
"That's enough," Ms. Marvos said, sharper now.
Riven turned toward her, that smile dropping off his face like it had never been there.
"I was just making conversation."
"No," Araxie said. "You were winding the strings again."
He blinked. Once. Slowly. Then sat in the chair across from me.
It made a sound like a coffin lid closing.
Ardere leaned close to me, voice low. "Do not let him touch you."
I looked at her.
She didn't blink.
"Even if it seems like a good idea. Even if it feels like a good idea. It won't be your idea."
My mouth had gone dry.
I nodded.
Riven's eyes flicked between us like he was tasting the tension in the air. Then he rested his chin on one hand, elbow on the table like this was all perfectly casual.
"Don't worry," he said, smile flickering back like a glitch. "I only play with what I'm allowed."
There was a long moment where no one moved.
The fire popped once, a fork scraped a plate, and Araxie exhaled like she was bracing for a storm.
I cleared my throat, desperate to shift the atmosphere into something—anything—less cursed.
"So…" I said, forcing a smile that I hoped read as friendly and not please don't eat my soul. "I don't think I've seen you around school before."
Riven blinked.
Just once.
And smiled again—this time very slowly, like someone unzipping a bag just to show you there's something awful inside.
"I'm not allowed to go to school," he said, voice airy, almost cheerful. "Not with other kids. Not anymore."
I hesitated. "Oh. Uh—why's that?"
He tilted his head, like he was trying to decide how much fun to have.
"What happened last time," he said, each word shaped like a secret. "They said I couldn't come back after the… incident."
Araxie muttered something into her cup. Ardere reached for the salt like it was the only solid thing in the world.
Ms. Marvos didn't react at all.
I blinked. "Incident?"
Riven's eyes widened slightly, as if surprised I'd asked, like a child thrilled to have someone indulge their bedtime monster story.
"Well," he said, drawing the word out, "you know how sometimes, people don't know what they really want until you show them?"
"No," I said immediately. "Absolutely not."
He leaned across the table, elbows pressing into the wood. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper.
"There was a substitute. And a scalpel. And a very insightful essay about anatomy."
I stared.
He stared back.
The smile never touched his eyes.
Ardere slammed her fork down. "Riven."
"What?" he asked innocently. "I didn't name names."
"You shouldn't name organs either!"
Araxie snorted. "Technically, the pancreas is very underrated."
"I was making a point," Ardere hissed.
"To who?" Araxie hissed back.
"Guys," Ms. Marcos said, a little too high-pitched, "maybe we could just talk about—like—school lunch policies or something? Normal stuff?"
Riven blinked slowly at me. "I had a class pet once. A rabbit."
I opened my mouth to respond, unsure of where this was going.
"I named him After," Riven continued.
"After what?" I asked, because I am a fool.
He grinned. "Exactly."
Silence.
Araxie shoved a piece of bread into her mouth and mumbled, "This is going great."
"After bit someone," Riven went on. "A lot. Then I wasn't allowed to bring pets. Then I wasn't allowed to bring scissors. Then I wasn't allowed to come back."
I cleared my throat again, hoping it would push down the rising sense of unease in my chest. "So… home-schooling."
"House-schooling," he corrected. "The house teaches me things now. It has opinions."
He reached into his coat—when had he put on a coat?—and pulled out a notebook with edges that looked torn and water-damaged. He opened it and showed me a page.
It was filled with neat, slanted handwriting. All in red ink. All in Latin.
A single feather was pressed into the center of the page like a bookmark.
"I write down what it whispers," he said.
Ardere's voice was flat. "He's lying. Mostly."
Araxie made a slicing gesture across her throat and mouthed stop talking at me.
Eventually, Ms. Marvos cleared her throat softly. "Dessert?"
"Yes, please," I said, with a little too much desperation.
Riven sighed like a disappointed cat and leaned back in his chair, folding his hands like a disappointed prince at the gallows.
"I was going to tell the one about the violin string," he said to no one in particular.
Riven didn't stop just because dessert had arrived.
In fact, he seemed mildly insulted by the interruption—like the universe had cut him off mid-monologue. He glanced down at the perfectly constructed almond tart on his plate like it had personally challenged his authority.
Then he picked up a fork.
And kept talking.
"It's interesting," he said, to no one and everyone at once, "how people forget proximity is just another kind of vulnerability. Sit too close to the wrong person and it tells them everything you didn't say."
I froze halfway through chewing.
Ardere didn't react. She was doing that thing where she shut down her entire face, like she could wall herself off through sheer willpower.
Riven's gaze flicked to me again, sharp as a scalpel. "You notice how she's sitting next to me, right? Not her brother."
My eyes did a quick dart—Ardere, then Lysander, who was still seated at the opposite end of the table, calm and quiet and watching his dessert like it might eventually offer him penance.
"I mean," Riven went on, tone casual but too deliberate, "it's not because she likes me better. She doesn't. She thinks I'm a freak." He smiled at me like it was a compliment. "Which is fair."
"You are," Lysander said.
The room went still.
Riven grinned, unbothered. "See? He's still upset I ruined his poetry phase."
"Stop talking," Lysander said, the words cold and clean like glass just before it shatters.
But Riven was already moving past it, back to me. "She sits near me because I don't feel anything."
"Riven," Ms. Marvos warned gently, but didn't stop him.
"Most people crumble around her. You've felt it, right?" he asked me, cocking his head. "That weight. That sadness that doesn't belong to you but digs in anyway."
He leaned forward like he was offering a gift. "You've touched her, haven't you?"
I didn't answer. Not really because I didn't want to, but because the memory of it—the ache in my chest, the grief that had no source—was the answer.
Riven nodded like he'd heard the thought instead of the silence.
"Lysander can't sit near her. You know why?" he asked, voice light again. "Because he feels everything. Guilt. Rage. Regret. All that mess. And Ardere? She's got sorrow baked into her bones. You sit too close and it bleeds out. You felt it. You just didn't know what it was."
He looked at Ardere then. Not cruel, exactly—but uncomfortably knowing.
"She tries not to hurt people. But she can't help it. She's sadness personified."
Ardere's fork snapped in half between her fingers.
She stood up so slowly it made the scrape of the chair seem louder than thunder.
"I'm done here."
No one moved to stop her.
She disappeared out of the room like a warning shot.
Araxie pushed her plate away, muttering, "And this is why we never use the good china."
For a second, no one moved. The only sound was the quiet clink of silverware against porcelain as Ms. Marvos set her teacup down.
Then:
"Well," Riven said brightly, dragging the word out like a knife across silk. "That was exciting."
Lysander's fists curled against the edge of the table.
Araxie rolled her eyes. "Don't."
But Riven was already too far gone.
He leaned forward, fingers steepled beneath his chin, smiling like someone who'd been waiting for this moment.
"Shall we guess where she went?" he asked. "I'll start."
He slapped one hand dramatically on the table. "Graveyard. Two miles north. She likes the statues. Real Victorian sad-girl energy."
"No one's playing your game," Araxie snapped.
"Fine, fine," he said, unfazed. "Then you guess. Lysander?"
Lysander didn't answer.
Riven grinned wider. "Come on. You know her so well, don't you? Surely you've got a theory. Or is this where you brood in the corner and pretend not to care until someone finds her in a ditch?"
"I will put you through that window," Lysander said, voice low and lethal.
"I'm counting on it."
"Enough," Ms. Marvos said sharply.
But Riven wasn't looking at her. His eyes were still locked on me now, gaze sharp with curiosity. "What about you, new boy? You've got those romantic hero vibes. Think she went somewhere meaningful? Somewhere tragic?"
I didn't answer. I was too busy staring at the empty spot beside me—her plate untouched, the chair still slightly askew.
Riven leaned closer.
"Maybe she's waiting for you to follow," he whispered. "Maybe she wants to see if you will."
I looked up, and something in his expression made my stomach twist.
It wasn't amusement anymore.
It was interest.
Predatory.
Araxie shoved her chair back and stood. "I swear to god, if you don't shut up—"
"Or what?" Riven murmured, tilting his head. "You'll scream? Cry? Tell everyone how tired you are of watching her bleed sadness all over this house while no one does a damn thing?"
Araxie froze.
The smile on his face turned quiet. Small. Almost genuine.
"But hey," he added, "I'll give you this—at least you don't run."
Lysander was on his feet again in an instant, moving like a blade unsheathed.
Riven laughed and threw up his hands. "Game over! You're all so tense. You act like she's never walked out before." Riven leaned back in his chair, arms stretched out like a king surveying a ruined feast. "I'll put twenty on the graveyard," he said lightly. "Anyone else betting?"
No one answered. But the longer the silence stretched, the more certain I became: I was going after her. And Riven knew it. He watched me like a child staring into a fire—waiting to see what would catch next.
And for the first time since I entered this house, I realized—he wanted me to go.
Because this was still part of his game.
And I had just stepped into the second round.