The cold of the stone floor seeped into Liams robes a sharp chill that kept him grounded. The echo of Alistairs laugh had faded but the sting of his words and the shove in the corridor stayed with him. It burned in his chest, like shame that wouldnt wash off. He looked down at his hands, soil from the greenhouse still caught under his nails. They were plain hands—honest, hard working hands. A farmers hands. They were all he had.
Running back to the greenhouse to Magister Briars calm care seemed like the easy thing. It would be safe there. But safety, he thought with a sudden cold jolt, was only a trick here. Her greenhouse could not protect him from Alistair in the halls, from Kaelens sharp and cutting words or from the heavy truth of his own useless magic.
