The dining hall was the largest room I had entered so far.
It stretched the length of the building's eastern wing, with a ceiling so high that the oil lamps on the walls could not reach its highest shadows. Long wooden tables ran in parallel rows, each one flanked by benches worn smooth by years of use. The floor was the same black and white marble as the corridors, polished to a mirror shine, and the windows that lined the far wall looked out onto the garden I had walked through yesterday—the marigolds, the jasmine, the banyan trees, and beyond them, the gate that had swallowed itself.
The children sat in silence.
I had expected noise—the clatter of plates, the murmur of conversation, the chaos of dozens of young people beginning their day. But there was none of that. There was only the soft scrape of spoons against steel plates, the occasional clink of a glass being set down, and the rustle of white fabric as children shifted on their benches.
No one spoke.
No one looked at anyone else.
They ate with their heads bent over their food, their movements efficient and mechanical, as if eating was a task to be completed rather than a pleasure to be savoured. The food itself was simple—steaming idlis with coconut chutney, a thin sambar that smelled of tamarind and curry leaves, and small cups of filter coffee so dark that it looked almost black. It was good food, the kind of food my mother might have made on a lazy Sunday morning, but no one seemed to notice.
I stood at the entrance of the dining hall, a steel plate in my hands, and I did not know where to sit.
"You're blocking the way."
The voice came from behind me—low and flat, with an edge of impatience. I turned to find a boy standing there, perhaps seventeen or eighteen, with a plate of his own and a face that looked like it had been carved from the same old wood as Hargreaves. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with skin the colour of well-brewed tea and eyes that were the colour of nothing at all.
"Sorry," I muttered, stepping aside.
He walked past me without acknowledgment and sat at the farthest table, his back to the wall, his eyes scanning the room as he ate. He looked like someone who had learned to watch his own back a long time ago and had never forgotten the lesson.
I chose a seat at the nearest table, next to a girl who could not have been older than ten. She did not look up when I sat down. She did not look up when I set my plate on the table. She simply continued eating, her spoon moving from bowl to mouth in a rhythm that had been repeated so many times it had lost all meaning.
I picked up my own spoon.
The idlis were soft and warm, the chutney was rich and creamy, and the sambar had just enough heat to make my nose run. It was delicious. But sitting in that room, surrounded by children who ate like ghosts, I could barely taste any of it.
Halfway through my meal, a hand touched my elbow.
I looked down. The girl beside me—the ten-year-old—had not lifted her head, but her hand had moved from her spoon to my arm. Her fingers were small and cold, and they pressed into my skin with a urgency that made my breath catch.
"Don't eat too much," she whispered. Her voice was so soft that I almost missed it. "The first session is after breakfast. If your stomach is full, it hurts more."
Before I could ask what she meant, she pulled her hand away and returned to her food, her head bowed, her spoon moving in that same mechanical rhythm.
I set my spoon down.
My stomach, which had been growling when I entered the dining hall, now felt tight and uneasy. I looked around the room, searching for Aanya or Kavita or even Meera, but I did not see any of them. The children around me were strangers—younger than me, most of them, their faces blank and tired, their eyes fixed on their plates.
The boy with the carved-wood face was watching me from across the room.
I looked away.
When breakfast ended, a bell rang somewhere deep within the building—a single, resonant note that hung in the air for several seconds before fading into silence. The children rose as one, their movements synchronized in a way that felt rehearsed, and they carried their plates to a large bin at the side of the hall. No one spoke. No one lingered. They simply emptied their plates, stacked them in neat piles, and walked out of the dining hall in orderly lines.
I followed.
The corridor outside the dining hall was crowded with children moving in the same direction, their white clothes blending together until they looked like a single river of fabric flowing toward an unseen destination. I let myself be carried by the current, my feet moving without my permission, my heart beating faster than it should have.
A hand grabbed my wrist.
I turned. Aanya was beside me, her honey-coloured eyes bright with something that looked like warning.
"Stay close to me," she said. "And don't answer any questions they ask you. Not until you understand what the questions mean."
"What questions?"
"The ones they'll ask in the session. About what you felt during meditation. About what you saw. About what you remember." She glanced around, her grip on my wrist tightening. "They want to know how powerful you are. And the more they know, the more they'll want to use you."
"Use me for what?"
Aanya did not answer. She released my wrist and walked ahead, her white dupatta trailing behind her like a flag of surrender.
I followed her into the session hall.
The session hall was smaller than the dining hall, smaller than the meditation hall, but it felt larger because of the windows. Three tall windows lined the far wall, and through them, I could see the garden again—the banyan trees, the marigolds, the pond with the water lilies. The morning light streamed through the glass, warm and golden, and for a moment, I almost forgot where I was.
Then I saw the chair.
It was a wooden chair, ordinary in every way—straight back, no arms, a thin cushion on the seat. It sat in the center of the room, facing a smaller chair where Hargreaves was already seated, a notebook open on his lap.
"Sit," he said, gesturing to the wooden chair.
I did not move.
"The chair will not hurt you, Nyra. It is just a chair."
"That's what people say before they hurt you."
Something flickered across his face—not quite a smile, but close. "You are perceptive. That will serve you well here. But it will also make things harder for you. Perception without understanding is just another form of blindness."
I walked to the chair and sat down.
The cushion was harder than it looked.
Hargreaves opened his notebook. On the first page, I could see a list of names—dozens of them, written in small, neat handwriting. My name was at the bottom, still fresh, the ink still wet.
"Let us begin," he said. "Tell me about the crow."