The lantern sputtered and flared, throwing light across the broken salt triangle. For a heartbeat the lines glowed, then dulled into pale scars on the stone. From beneath the grate came a slow metallic breath, patient and hungry.
"Step back," the hooded figure ordered. His voice was low, heavy.
Megan stayed inside the gap. Her palm burned, the rhythm pressing against her chest like a hand trying to match her pulse.
The boy in gray whispered, "It's balance… we owe—"
"Balance?" Megan snapped. "You're feeding names to a drain. That's not math, that's theft."
The lantern-holder raised his hand, salt glittering in his skin. The triangle brightened again.
"This is not for you," he said.
"Exactly," Megan shot back. "So I'll ruin it for free."
She ground her heel across one of the lines. Salt scattered. The air cracked. The grate inhaled sharply.
"Stop her!" the third hissed.
The lantern-holder lunged. Megan shoved him off balance, panic lending her strength. The salt cone tipped, spilling a blur across the floor. Another line smeared.
The grate groaned like something shifting beneath. The rhythm faltered, then returned, colder.
Boots struck stone. Keys jingled. Prefects were coming.
The third turned to the boy. "Name! Now."
The boy's lips parted.
"Don't," Megan said, stepping deeper. "The scale's rigged."
"It's supposed to make things even," he whispered.
"Even?" Megan barked. "Ask the six kids on the wall how even looks."
The grate hissed, breath hot and damp. The rhythm pressed harder, forcing her chest to keep time.
"Enough." A new voice cut in.
Marcus. Prefects flanked him, lanterns held high. The corridor filled with ordered light.
Marcus's gaze took in everything—the smeared triangle, the boy, the hooded figures, Megan standing where she shouldn't. His jaw tightened.
"Explain."
Megan lifted her chin. "Safety inspection. Congratulations, you failed."
The lantern-holder bowed his head slightly. "There was danger. We were containing it."
"With geometry?" Marcus's voice was flat.
The third said nothing. The boy trembled.
"Cross. Out," Marcus ordered.
"I improved the design," she said. "You're welcome."
"Now."
She stepped back, dragging her foot through more salt. The rhythm loosened, the grate sighed.
Marcus signaled the Prefects. "Collect names."
"There are no names," the lantern-holder said calmly. "Only carelessness, corrected."
"Corrected by whom?" Marcus asked.
Silence.
His gaze pinned the boy. "Look at me. Was this a ritual?"
The boy shook, caught between fear and collapse.
"No," the third said.
"Yes," Megan said.
Marcus's eyes narrowed. "Cross."
"If it needs salt, a triangle, and a name," Megan said, "that's not math homework. That's ritual."
The Prefects began sweeping salt into buckets. The triangle dissolved. The rhythm retreated into stone.
Marcus turned back. "You three. With me."
The figures obeyed. The boy nearly stumbled; the lantern-holder steadied him.
Megan moved after them.
"Not you," Marcus said. "Dorm. Now. That's a warning."
"Warnings are mercy," Megan muttered.
"Mercy," Marcus said, "is finite."
His gaze flicked once more to the grate, and Megan caught the shadow of fear.
She turned. Something glinted near the rope barrier. A brass token stamped with an eye. She bent, scooped it up, slid it into her sleeve. The mark in her palm pulsed in recognition.
"Cross," Marcus called sharply.
"I'm going," she said.
She walked out as Prefects erased the triangle. The rhythm in the stones faded but didn't vanish.
At the dorm landing, Lena waited in her coat, pale and tense.
"I knew it," she whispered. "You said 'bathroom' like someone who doesn't need one."
"Everyone needs one," Megan said.
"What did you do?"
"Stopped someone from being stupid," Megan said. "Marcus caught us. Let me go. No idea why."
"Because you're terrible at lying," Lena said. Her voice shook. "Did they say it? The word?"
"No," Megan said. "Not yet."
"That's worse."
"Yeah." Megan pressed her sleeve down. The brass token pressed back.
"Tomorrow," Lena said. "In daylight."
"Fine. Tomorrow."
But under her pillow that night, the token warmed, and the rhythm in the stones kept its silent roll call—names instead of numbers, each pause inevitable as breath.