The side chamber closed behind her with a heavy click. The temperature dropped at once.
No fire burned in the hearth. The air smelled of oiled wood, old paper, and dust that had been polished over rather than cleaned away. Portraits lined the paneled walls: past headmasters, stern-eyed scholars, winners of forgotten duels. Their painted gazes followed every movement. Beneath them, glass cases displayed tarnished medals and cracked plaques, brass edges green with age. The room was silent enough that the ticking clock on the mantel sounded like a hammer.
Headmaster Halloway sat at a narrow table, long fingers folded. His hair was white steel, his eyes pale gray, cold as winter water. The fire irons stood neatly by the hearth, aligned like instruments, unused.
"Megan Cross." His voice was not raised, yet it reached the corners. "Sit."
She dragged out the chair, its legs grating against stone, and sat opposite him. Marcus remained at the door, straight-backed, sash cutting across his coat like a stripe of judgment.
"You saved a boy today," Halloway said. "Moments before a chandelier fell."
Megan leaned back. "Fast reflexes. All those years of gym class paid off."
"Luck is a poor explanation." His gaze weighed her like a coin on a scale. "Marcus reports you moved before the chain snapped."
"It squeaked," she said. "I spook easy."
"The chain had not yet broken."
"Then I'm paranoid. At least it's efficient." Her smile was thin, a blade shown sideways.
The clock marked the silence. Outside, a gust rattled the windowpane.
"This Academy functions on order," Halloway said at last. "Records, ranks, rituals. Without order, panic grows. Panic is dangerous."
"Good thing I'm F-tier," Megan replied. "Nobody panics over me."
"On the contrary." He leaned forward. "It is often those marked lowest who invite the greatest disorder."
Her throat tightened, but she forced her chin up. "Disorder's a big word. I'd call it seasoning."
Marcus shifted, as if swallowing a comment. Halloway's eyes flicked to him, then back.
"You act as though you expect dismissal," Halloway said. "But you move as though you expect to be needed."
In her head, the truth rose: if she hadn't, the green-sash boy would be in the infirmary or worse. Out loud she said, "I expect to graduate without breaking too much school property."
"You hide behind jokes." Halloway's voice pressed low. "Jokes protect. They also obscure."
"Then they're working," she said. Her pulse ticked hard, louder than the mantel clock.
His eyes narrowed, a knife's edge of gray. "Tell me. Have you heard the phrase Tithe Night?"
Heat flared in her palm. Her mind jumped to the posters: last seen in the east wing, midnight. The sixth missing face stared back at her.
She kept her face smooth. "Sounds festive. Do we bring snacks?"
Halloway did not smile. "You will hear whispers in the dorms. You will not repeat them. You will not follow them. Do you understand?"
"Crystal. I'm practically saintly."
"I do not doubt your obedience. I doubt your curiosity."
The words hung heavy. For a moment, the chamber seemed to press in. The portraits leaned, the medals gleamed faintly as though listening.
Then Halloway leaned back, folding his hands again. "You may go."
"That's it? No detention? No old-school flogging ceremony?" She heard the tightness beneath her own joke.
"Consider this a warning," he said. "Warnings are mercy. Mercy is finite."
Marcus opened the door. Cold air slipped in, carrying damp stone and candle smoke.
Megan rose, tugging her sleeve low to cover the mark. "Thanks for the chat. Ambiance was a ten out of ten."
Neither man replied. The door shut behind her like a vault.
The halls of Blackthorn were never empty, even when they were. Stone remembered footsteps too well.
She walked toward the dormitories. The rain tapped at the windows in even rhythm. A patrol of Prefects passed, boots striking wet stone, badges clinking faintly at their belts. The clock tower tolled half past nine, each chime drawn out like a warning.
Two girls whispered in a wall recess. As Megan passed, she caught one word:
"Tithe Night."
The girls froze. Both turned, eyes flicking toward her sleeve. Then they broke apart quickly, voices raised in meaningless chatter about classes.
Tithe Night. East wing. Missing students. The words slotted together like pins on a map. She thought bitterly: a perfect line pointing to the place she was supposed to avoid. Out loud she muttered, "Rumors sure love overtime."
"Cross." Marcus's voice was quiet but close. "You heard the Headmaster."
"Clear as crystal," she said. "I'll hang my curiosity on the coat rack."
"You acted before the chandelier fell," he pressed. His eyes slid to her covered hand. "What did you see?"
"I saw your safety inspections need work. Chains rust, lights fall, everyone panics."
"I asked what you saw."
"I saw someone about to be crushed, someone I shoved, and one chandelier down. Statistics finished."
His jaw tightened. "Do you take part in the gatherings? The ones the rumors speak of."
"Rumors don't need me. They broadcast themselves." She let her voice sharpen. "If you want them gone, stop hammering new posters on the board."
Marcus didn't answer at once. His hand brushed the keys at his belt, metal chiming faintly. "Stay away from the east wing at night."
"Then stop dragging me through it," she said flatly.
He studied her for a long moment, as if weighing more than her words. Then he said nothing further.
By the time she reached the dormitory stairs, the corridors were thinning out. Lamps guttered in the wind, flames shrinking like animals in cages. A door opened and shut; the scrape of books, the whisper of pages, the hush of someone pretending nothing strange existed. Each time Megan's footsteps neared a pocket of whispers, the voices stilled. When she passed, they resumed, softer, but the phrase "Tithe Night" was gone, as if erased.
Lena waited at the stairwell. Arms crossed, expression tight. "Well? What did he want?"
"To admire my dazzling personality," Megan said. "Might nominate me for a chandelier rescue award."
"Try again."
"He said curiosity is dangerous. He's not wrong. And he said to stay out of the east wing."
"Why the east wing?" Lena stepped closer, lowering her voice. "Did you see something today—"
"I saw my coursework vanishing in gossip," Megan cut in. She pulled her sleeve lower. "Also, green-sash owes me shoelaces."
"Megan. Your hand."
"No."
"Show me."
"No."
They held each other's gaze until Lena sighed. "Then at least promise me: no wandering tonight."
"I'll wander efficiently. Bed to pillow, pillow to bed."
"Be serious."
"I'm F-tier. That's as serious as it gets."
Back in the dormitory, the air was thick with damp cloth, ink, and soap. The wind pressed through window cracks, carrying cold that smelled of rain and stone.
Megan kicked off her boots and sat on the edge of her bed. She lifted her sleeve.
The mark in her palm gleamed faintly: an eye, lashes too many, lidless. It looked ready to blink. She stared for three seconds, gave herself the rule: don't be afraid.
The truth slipped out anyway: not afraid is just a higher form of afraid.
She yanked the sleeve down and lay back. Around her came the ordinary sounds of dorm life: rustle of blankets, the scratch of pen on paper, a sigh in the dark. The wind found her ear, chilling as if someone leaned close to whisper.
Not numbers, but names.The silence pressed in waves, each one as measured as a roll call taken by someone she could not see.
The rhythm was patient, exact. Not numbers. Names.
The air pressed colder with each count, like a lung she couldn't see was breathing beside her. She clutched the blanket higher, shoved her other hand against her ear. The marked hand pulsed heat against her chest, thudding in time with the rhythm.
She muttered into the dark, "Maybe drifting once wouldn't be so bad."
The mark warmed in answer, almost amused.
The clock in the tower tolled again, distant but heavy. The dorm lamps went out, one by one.
The counting did not stop.
It stayed at her ear, cool and steady, pressing her name against the glass of the night, waiting to see what kind of fog would form.
She shut her eyes. Inside the dark, eye met eye: one behind her lids, one in her palm. Neither closed.