The bells of Reichenbach didn't chime. They tolled, low and heavy, like iron striking stone. Thorn pushed her loose waves over her shoulder as she climbed the old, wooden, creaking steps. Her boots clicked against the polished floor, every step echoing like she didn't belong.
The halls smelled faintly of candle wax and old wood polish. Students moved in clusters, already finding their packs: wolves in loud knots of three or four, vampires gliding with their usual theatrical poise, sirens trilling laughter that curled through the air like perfume. Thorn walked alone, the weight of her satchel pulling at her shoulder as the autumn breeze billowed through the partially covered exterior path of the hallway.
Eyes followed. Never the older students, they barely spared her a glance, too wrapped in their own dramas. The first years, however, didn't give her the same luxury. They were the fresh faces who hadn't learned yet to hide their curiosity, and their whispers cut sharp as glass behind cupped palms.
"That's her, the hybrid."
"I thought hybrids were a myth."
"Wonder if she drinks her own blood."
"Her mom's psychic, isn't she? That's how it happened."
Thorn kept walking, chin high, as if she hadn't heard a word. But every syllable slid under her skin like a blade.
"Homeroom," she muttered under her breath, scanning the brass placards above each doorway, looking for the matching number from her schedule.
Thorn pushed through the carved oak doors into a classroom lit by tall arched windows. Laboratory tables lined in rows, already crowded. Thorn scanned for an empty seat anywhere. There was nothing. Except...
Her eyes caught on the far side, near the windows. One seat stood open.
Right next to him.
It was him, the boy from yesterday. His hood was down this time, light brown hair falling into his eyes as he sketched absentmindedly in the corner of the room. His shoulders were hunched, as if daring anyone to notice him.
Of course, it had to be him.
Thorn exhaled through her nose, squared her shoulders, and crossed the aisle. Her boots thudded against the stone floor, conversations dipping into hushed whispers as she passed. She slid into the open seat without asking, her bag hitting the floor with a dull thump, a bold move that left the room in silent awe.
"Don't get used to it," she said dryly, pulling a notebook from her satchel. "It was this or the floor."
The corner of his mouth twitched, though his eyes stayed on the sketchbook in front of him. "Lucky me."
Thorn arched a brow, fighting back the smirk tugging at her lips as the teacher swept in. His long, black robe was gliding against the ground as he walked across the classroom.
"Good morning, everyone. I hope you all had a fun summer." Mr. Calder's robes swirled as he moved to the chalkboard, writing his name in long, looping cursive. Thorn propped her chin in her hand, already sighing.
His gaze swept over the classroom, lingering for just a moment too long on her table, on her, and on Xavier beside her.
"I'll pass around the attendance sheet. Please initial next to your name," Calder said, handing it off to the front row. Low murmurs rippled through the room as the paper began its slow crawl backward.
Thorn's eyes drifted sideways, catching a corner of Xavier's class schedule sticking out beneath his sketchbook. Without hesitation, she pinched it between two fingers and slid it free, her eyes searching.
"Mrs. Draven's a hardass," she murmured, skimming the names. "But her test questions come straight from the textbook, so if you read, you're fine."
Xavier's pencil stilled, his body tense as he kept his gaze down on the sketch he was working on. His fingers stilling against the page, as he waited to see if she was going to continue.
"Ms. Ashford?" Thorn went on, tilting the page. "She's… weird. Likes to flirt with the top guys in her class. Stay in the B range and she won't bother you." She raised her brows, then shrugged. "Unless you like that sort of attention."
At that, he looked up. Not a glare, not quite, it was more like caution edged with disbelief. Unsure whether to listen and take notes or shut her down.
The attendance sheet had finally reached their row. The boy in front of Thorn turned with it, his hand trembling so badly the paper wavered in the air. He wouldn't quite meet her eyes.
Thorn's expression didn't change; she plucked it from his fingers with a flick of her wrist, initials scrawled in sharp strokes before she slid it across to Xavier.
Xavier noticed the boy's shoulders relax only after the sheet had passed over them.
Leaving a faint fingerprint that his own charcoal-stained hand had left as he signed his initials next to his name.
"Mr. Hale," she went on as he passed the sheet along, "is obsessed with his familiar. Kermit." A smirk tugged at her lips. "Yes, it's a frog. Sometimes it pops up in the middle of class, so don't even bother trying to cheat. But you've got him for Alchemical Theory, which is basically the easiest elective on the list. I have it too. Same period."
She handed his schedule back to him, her dark blue nails catching the light as they brushed the page.
Xavier frowned, angling his sketchbook closer as if to guard it. He took the paper from her hand, careful not to touch her fingers. "Why are you telling me all this?" Even as his voice was low, cautious, and edged with suspicion, there was a thread of genuine curiosity beneath it, like he wasn't sure whether he should take her seriously or push her away.
Thorn leaned back in her chair, eyes still on him. "Figured you could use the help. Being an outcast in a school full of outcasts?" She tapped her pen against her notebook as she thought for a moment. "It's not for the weak."
Silence fell between them, heavy but not empty. Xavier turned back to his sketchbook. Thorn finally opened her notebook, lips twitching with the ghost of a smile.
"Very well," Mr. Calder's voice reverberated against the stone walls, cutting through the quiet hum of side conversations. The room settled. "For those who don't know me, I am Mr. Calder. I will be your homeroom teacher. If you are a witch or a warlock, chances are you'll also see me in another class."
He paced slowly along the front row, his long robes whispering against the flagstones. With a flick of his wrist, the chalk lifted on its own and began scribbling across the board.
"You will report to homeroom every morning for attendance and announcements from Principal Maren. These thirty minutes are for housekeeping. Rosters, notices, warnings, and, occasionally, reminders about decorum." His eyes lingered pointedly on a group of werewolves in the back who were already slouched like they owned the place. "After that, you'll continue with your day."
The chalk tapped once, sharp against slate.
A ripple moved through the room. Thorn drummed her fingers lightly against the table, chin propped on her fist, unimpressed. Xavier's pencil slowed, pressing harder into the page until the lines deepened into shadow.
Mr. Calder clasped his hands behind his back. "Now, a word about safety. This school is old, and its walls remember. You will show respect to the grounds as well as to one another. Recklessness here has consequences, sometimes permanent ones."
That silenced even the werewolves.
Calder allowed it to sink in before his mouth twisted into something almost like a smile. "Questions? Or shall I assume you all know how to behave?"
No one spoke. The only sound was the faint scrape of pencils against paper, a nervous cough from somewhere in the back.
"Good," Calder said smoothly. "Then let's enjoy the school year."
"You're all dismissed."
Chairs screeched back, voices rising in a low hum as the students spilled toward the doors. Thorn scooped her bag off the floor, slid her notebook inside with a flick, and slung the strap over her shoulder.
Xavier hesitated, then shut his sketchbook and followed as the hall filled with motion. By the time he lifted his head, Thorn was already halfway down the corridor, her stride unbroken.
"Thorn! There you are!"
Xavier's eyes landed on an even shorter girl. She practically bounced into the aisle, honey blonde curls pinned back with glittering cat clips. Big, pink, round glasses balanced low on her nose. She beamed like she'd been searching for Thorn all morning, then froze when her eyes landed on the tall boy walking just behind her.
She gasped. "Oh my god—you're, like, The Xavier Thorpe, aren't you?"
Xavier stopped short, grip tightening on his sketchbook. He didn't answer, but that never stopped people like her.
"I knew it! People were whispering you were here, but I didn't believe it. What's it like being accused of murder? I mean—uh—cleared of murder. Obviously. But still! That's like... huge." She leaned in like he was about to spill secrets just for her, eyes wide with shameless curiosity.
Thorn sighed, brushing past with a muttered, "Pippa."
But Xavier just stared at Pippa's open, relentless grin. How could so much energy be crammed into one person? It was almost blinding. And for a moment, it wasn't Pippa he saw. It was Enid. Giddy, nosy, always pushing into places she wasn't invited, talking until the silence gave way to warmth.
A hollow ache opened in his chest. God, he missed her.
Pippa didn't notice the change in Xavier's expression. She was already chattering again, keeping her attention firmly on him. "I'm Pippa Duval, Thorn's roommate. Shapeshifter and honorary gossip queen. So if you ever want to get your story out there, and I totally recommend that you do, I'm your gal."
"Pippa," Thorn warned again, tightening the strap of her bag.
Pippa blinked, then grinned wider, unbothered. "Fine, fine. I'll back off." She twirled a sparkling pink pen with a white poof on top between her fingers, already skipping a step ahead. "Come on, Thorn, we're going to be late for Gothic Lit. You don't want to sit in the back of that class. Mr. Alden gets all cranky if he thinks you're not paying attention."
Pippa's laughter bounced against the stone walls, chasing them forward. Thorn exhaled, long and slow, casting one last glance in Xavier's direction before following the golden-haired blur down the corridor.
Pippa's voice carried like a songbird that refused to die out. "So, how was your summer? Mine was wild. You'll never guess what happened in Milan-oh! And I heard that the Aviary is haunted again. Like, actually haunted this time, not just bats-in-the-attic haunted. I think it's just the seniors playing a prank on the freshmen again, but who knows."
The Aviary. That was what everyone called the East Wing dorms. Loud, chaotic, always spilling with music and gossip. The official names of the dormitories were sterile, forgettable, but the students had long since renamed them, claiming the stone walls as their own.
The North Wing was known as The Observatory or "The Obs" for short. High windows staring out at the Alps, a haunt for psychics and insomniacs who spent their nights awake, "observing" visions. Artists gravitated there too, pinning sketches and canvases across the walls, though always quietly. Reichenbach didn't exactly encourage self-expression; it was better to create in silence than to get reprimanded.
East Wing had become The Aviary, alive with sirens and eccentrics, chatter echoing like birdsong through the halls.
South Wing was The Furnace. Hot, rowdy, full of duelists and wolves who couldn't sit still. The smell of smoke, or fur, always seemed to cling to it.
And then there were The Vaults, the West Wing. Secretive, narrow halls with more shadow than light. Charms and contraband were hidden in every corner. The ambitious made their nests there, trading loyalty for leverage.
Every nickname was a rebellion in miniature. A reminder that it is the students, not the school, who gave these halls their soul.
Thorn almost smiled at the thought. Almost.
She adjusted her bag higher on her shoulder and kept moving, letting Pippa's words wash over her like background noise. Thorn didn't bother answering half of them. Pippa didn't need her to; she filled every silence herself.
They rounded a corner, and Thorn caught sight of the tall arched door marked Room 305. Gothic Literature & Philosophy.
"Here we go," Pippa chirped, tugging at Thorn's sleeve.
Thorn pulled free with a look that should have been enough to send anyone else running. Pippa only smiled brighter.
Three years at Reichenbach had taught Thorn plenty: how to sharpen her teeth, how to keep her chin high, and how to survive every whisper that cut her way.
But even she hadn't figured out how to shake off a girl like Pippa. Someone who actually wanted to stick around. Someone who wasn't scared when she bared her fangs.