The Haven always smelled faintly of boiled herbs and woodsmoke, like someone was trying to keep winter out of the walls even when it was summer. Lucian had grown used to it; the smell clung to his clothes the way memories cling to stubborn corners of the mind.
He pushed the door open with his shoulder. The hinges creaked, and half a dozen small faces turned his way from the common room.
"Lucian!" one of the younger boys shouted, dropping a wooden soldier. "You're late again!"
Lucian raised his hands in surrender. "You wound me. I was almost on time this once."
The children swarmed him anyway, tugging at his sleeves, pelting him with questions:
"Did you bring sweets?"
"Did you fight monsters?"
"Did you see the Academy?"
Lucian laughed, ruffling the hair of the boldest. "No sweets. No monsters. And the Academy is still very much standing, in case you planned on sneaking in."
The children groaned in disappointment but clung to him all the same. It was always like this: he left, he returned, and somehow they believed he carried adventure with him even when he only came back with sore boots.
From the far corner, a voice cleared its throat.
"Let the boy breathe," said Master Ansel, the head of the orphanage. His hair had been white for as long as Lucian remembered, and his back had bent more each year, but his eyes still held the kind of sharpness that could catch lies mid-flight.
The children scattered reluctantly. Lucian straightened under Ansel's gaze, suddenly aware of the mud on his boots.
"You were gone longer than you said," the old man remarked.
"Got turned around in the forest," Lucian admitted. "We… found something."
Ansel's brow lifted. "Something worth worrying about?"
Lucian hesitated. He thought of the mist, the borrowed faces, the way one of them had brushed against his skin. His stomach clenched. "Straff and Eliane are reporting it to the Academy. I thought it best not to bring nightmares back here."
Ansel studied him for a long moment, then nodded once. "Good. This house doesn't need more shadows than it already has."
He motioned toward the fire. Lucian followed, easing into the chair opposite. The heat from the hearth licked his boots, driving out the forest's damp chill.
"You're restless," Ansel said, pouring tea into two mismatched cups. His hands shook only slightly. "I can see it in the way you pace before you sit."
Lucian accepted the cup. The tea tasted faintly of mint and ash. "Restless is one word for it. The Academy sent scouts again, didn't they?"
Ansel chuckled softly. "They never stopped. Word spreads fast when a child breaks every crystal they test with. You've drawn attention whether you wanted it or not."
Lucian grimaced. The memory of the shattered testing crystal still lingered—how it had hummed in his grip before exploding into shards that sang across the hall like bells. Every eye had turned to him, some awed, some fearful. He hadn't known what to do with any of it.
"I didn't ask for that," he muttered.
"No one ever asks for talent," Ansel said. "But it asks for you. And you'll have to decide how to answer."
Lucian stared into his cup. The steam made a wavering world above the tea's surface. In it, he almost saw those golden eyes again.
"Is it wrong," he asked quietly, "that part of me wants it? To go. To learn. To prove them right?"
Ansel smiled, faint and tired. "Wanting is never wrong. But remember, the world rarely gives without also taking. The Academy will shape you, Lucian, but it will take pieces as payment. Make sure you know which pieces you're willing to lose."
The door creaked again. One of the girls peeked in, holding a half-mended doll. "Master Ansel? Lucian promised he'd help with the mending."
Lucian blinked. "Did I?"
"Yes," she said firmly.
Ansel chuckled as Lucian was dragged away. "Go on. Even heroes must keep their promises."
⸻
The rest of the evening blurred into small chores and smaller stories. Lucian mended the doll badly enough that the girl laughed but hugged him anyway. He carried water from the pump. He listened to arguments about who had eaten the last of the bread crusts. For a few hours, the mist and its borrowed faces stayed at bay.
Later, when the children were asleep and the fire had burned low, Lucian sat by the window, staring out at the stars. The Academy's towers were only rumors on the horizon, but tonight he swore he could feel their pull.
He touched his cheek where the mist had brushed him. The skin was unmarked. That almost felt worse.
Behind him, Ansel's voice came soft in the dark. "Tomorrow, you'll have to choose. Stay here, where life is small but safe, or walk toward the Academy and everything it will demand. Either way, you'll stop pacing these floors. That much is certain."
Lucian didn't answer. He only kept his eyes on the stars, wondering which of them had already watched him from the mist.