He returned to Briarwell late that night.
The halls were quiet, lights dimmed low. He slipped into his room without turning on the lamp.
His roommate was already awake, sitting on the bed with a book half open.
"You're late," the boy said, glancing up. "Where were you?"
Elior didn't answer.
His roommate noticed the scrape on his jacket sleeve, the faint bandage wrapped around his hand. He waited a moment, then sighed, the sound tired but familiar.
"Right," he muttered. "Forgot."
He turned back to his book. The room settled into silence again.
Morning came with the usual clatter of trays and chairs.
Breakfast meant assigned seating, and today Elior sat with the Smart Floor, near the railing.
Cassian was across from him, already eating, posture neat as always.
Cassian's eyes flicked to Elior's hands.
"Your hand," he said quietly.
Elior kept eating.
Cassian watched him for a second longer, then looked away, understanding without pushing. That was how it always was between them.
The dining hall buzzed with noise when the doors suddenly opened.
A staff member rushed in.
Mrs. Posh.
Everyone knew her. Always smiling, always cheerful, the kind of woman who hummed while walking and remembered everyone's favorite food.
Today, her smile was still there—but thinner, stretched like it had been practiced.
The room slowly quieted.
Her gaze moved across the tables… and stopped on Elior.
"Come," she said simply.
No scolding. No explanation.
Just one word.
Chairs creaked. Whispers sparked and died. Cassian straightened slightly, eyes narrowing.
Elior wiped his hands, stood, and followed her without a sound.
Behind him, the dining hall exhaled.
Whatever waited on the other side of those doors, everyone knew one thing for certain.
Breakfast was over.
--
She grabbed Elior by the wrist and started dragging him along.
"Come, come, come," she said brightly. "Hurry up."
Elior stumbled after her, feet barely keeping up. He frowned at her hand on his sleeve, then pulled back.
She stopped. Turned. Beamed.
"You're adopted," she announced.
Elior froze.
"…What?"
"Adopted," she repeated, nodding as if she'd just told him it was raining. "Someone adopted you."
He yanked his hand free immediately. "No."
Mrs. Posh blinked. "No?"
"I'm not going," he said flatly. "I like Briarwell."
This was, of course, a lie. Everyone knew it. Even the walls knew it.
Mrs. Posh grabbed his hand again and kept walking. "Don't be dramatic."
"I'm serious," Elior protested, digging his heels in. "I live here. I know where the stairs creak. I know which window whistles. I know which kids steal socks."
"That's lovely," she said cheerfully. "You can remember all that on weekends."
"They'll send me back," he insisted. "They always do."
She stopped and crouched down in front of him, still smiling, eyes sharp and kind at the same time.
"They're nice," she said. "Too nice, actually. I checked."
Elior narrowed his eyes. "That makes it worse."
Mrs. Posh laughed and stood again, tugging him forward. "Come on. If they're terrible, I'll personally haunt them."
He sighed, long and defeated, and followed.
As they walked past the lobby, kids peeked from doorways.
"Is he in trouble?"
"Did he finally get expelled?"
"Is that his walking-to-doom face?"
Elior ignored them all, wearing his most innocent smile. The one that usually meant chaos was already planned.
Outside, a car waited.
Elior looked at it. Then at Mrs. Posh.
"…Do they have rules?" he asked.
"Oh, absolutely," she said happily.
He sighed again.
This time, louder.
He stepped inside and froze.
The room was warm, tidy, unfamiliar in a way that made his shoulders tense. Mrs. Posh gently nudged him forward, then bowed.
"Here he is, Madame Halloway."
Madame Halloway stood near the desk, posture straight, eyes sharp and assessing. Then she smiled.
A real one.
Mrs. Posh lingered a second longer, as if reluctant to leave, then suddenly returned, ruffled Elior's black hair with reckless affection, and whispered, "Behave."
She walked out before he could protest.
Madame Halloway turned to him at once, clasping his hand like she'd known him for years. "This is Elior," she said proudly. "The kindest, smartest, quietest child here."
Elior's eye twitched.
"He's cute," she continued. "Very funny. In his own… silent way. So enthusiastic."
He looked up at her.
"You insult me every time you talk," he said calmly.
Madame Halloway laughed. "See? Hilarious."
She gestured toward the couple waiting nearby. "And these are the people who came for you. Mr. and Mrs. Linden."
The blonde woman smiled first. Soft. Careful. The man beside her nodded, eyes gentle, nervous in the way people got when they were trying very hard not to mess up.
Elior smiled.
It was polite. Practiced.
He extended his bandaged hand.
Mrs. Linden noticed it instantly. Her smile faltered, concern blooming fast. She took his hand carefully, as if it might break.
"Oh," she said softly. "Does it hurt?"
Great. First impression: broken merchandise, Elior thought. They'll return me by Tuesday.
"I'm fine," he said out loud, perfectly mild.
Mr. Linden crouched slightly to meet his eye level. "We heard you're very smart."
Elior tilted his head. "Depends who's asking."
Mrs. Linden laughed, surprised. "He's honest."
And doomed, Elior added silently. Too nice. Definitely temporary.
Madame Halloway beamed, watching them like a judge already convinced of the verdict.
Elior squeezed Mrs. Linden's hand just a little tighter.
He wanted this.
Even if it meant pretending not to notice the way hope crept in, uninvited.