The dorm was quiet except for the steady breath of a hundred students who hadn't been caught in the east wing. Megan lay rigid in her bunk, the brass token hidden under her pillow. It was warmer than it should have been, as though it remembered being held in fire.
Sleep didn't come easy. Every time she shut her eyes, she felt the rhythm again—patient taps in the bones of the Academy, counting not numbers but names. When she finally drifted, it wasn't rest but a slide into a vision.
The token glowed faintly against her palm. Letters that weren't letters crawled across its rim.
—Accounts remain open until closed.
She jerked awake, heart pounding. The token looked dull again, ordinary brass. Lena's breathing above was steady, proof that the world hadn't collapsed—yet. Megan tucked the token deeper and whispered, "Yeah, add it to my tab."
Morning broke with the bell's iron clang. Rain had stopped, leaving the courtyard shining with puddles. Students streamed toward lecture halls, robes flaring, laughter sharp as knives. Megan walked in their current, ignored and unimportant—an F-tier, powerless, safe to dismiss.
In Spellcraft Theory, seats filled quickly. Megan slid into the back, boots still damp, brass token heavy in her pocket.
Professor Karrick droned about "authorized channels of invocation." His chalk squeaked across the slate, listing restrictions by tier.
"Tier A may request duels under staff supervision.""Tier B may access channeling chambers with clearance.""Tier F—" he paused deliberately, glancing toward Megan—"are restricted from unsupervised practice. For your safety, of course."
Snickers rippled through the hall.
Megan raised her hand. "Does sarcasm count as practice, or is that too dangerous as well?"
A few students laughed, mostly the ones who didn't like Karrick. The professor's mouth tightened. "Detention, Miss Cross."
"Wonderful," Megan said. "Finally, a place where my talents are recognized."
More laughter. The professor turned back to the slate, chalk biting harder. Megan slouched low, letting the noise wash over her. The brass token pulsed once, like a heartbeat in her pocket. She pressed her hand against it to muffle the glow.
After class, the crowd spilled into the hall. Megan tried to merge with them, but Marcus was waiting by the doors, arms folded.
"Cross," he said.
She considered pretending her name belonged to someone else, then sighed. "Morning, Prefect Sunshine."
"Walk with me."
It wasn't a request. He led her down a quieter corridor lined with portraits—stern headmasters glaring at centuries of mistakes. Dust floated in shafts of light, the air heavy with polish and disapproval.
Marcus stopped. "You were in the east wing last night."
Megan put on her brightest fake smile. "I go where the architecture inspires me."
"Don't joke." His voice was flat. "I saw you step inside the lines."
"Then you also saw me step out. Congratulations, you witnessed cardio."
Marcus's eyes narrowed. "The three we detained will be questioned. If your name comes up—"
"It won't," Megan cut in. "They're too busy practicing synchronized hood-wearing."
His jaw worked, but he didn't take the bait. "Whatever you touched, it isn't safe."
"I touch a lot of unsafe things. That's how you build character."
Marcus leaned closer. "If there's something in your possession—"
The token pulsed hot, warning her it was listening. Megan forced her face still, her hand pressed casually over her pocket.
"Search me," she said lightly. "You'll find lint and questionable fashion choices."
For a second, Marcus almost moved. Then he stepped back. "Stay out of the east wing. That's not a warning. That's an order."
Megan gave him a mock salute. "Yes, sir. I'll keep my dangerous shoelaces tied."
He left, boots sharp against stone. Megan leaned against the wall, breath coming out shakier than she wanted.
The token cooled, its weight smug in her pocket. She muttered, "Congratulations, you almost got me arrested."
For an instant, the letters shimmered again:
—Debt recorded.
She closed her fist hard enough to hurt. "Yeah, well, good luck collecting."
That night, the dorm windows rattled under a rising wind. Students whispered about the next exam, about who was dating who, about nothing important. Megan lay awake, listening.
The rhythm was back, deeper this time, echoing like a drum in a cavern. Not numbers. Not even names she recognized. Just presence.
The brass token warmed until she thought it might burn through fabric. Words formed in her mind like someone breathing against her ear:
—Tithe Night approaches.
Megan stared at the ceiling. "Perfect. Just what I needed. A deadline."
The wind rattled harder, as though the Academy itself agreed.