Chapter 4: Masks and Lies
The scent of rotting leaves and damp earth clung to the old greenhouse as Evan pushed open the rusted door. Morning light filtered through grime-caked glass, painting the overgrown foliage in sickly hues of green and gold. Somewhere in the tangled undergrowth, water dripped in a steady, mocking rhythm.
Rowan Vale stood with his back to the entrance, his broad shoulders blocking whatever he was examining on the workbench. Without turning, he said, "You're late."
Evan stepped over a shattered flowerpot. "You're cryptic."
A chuckle rumbled in Rowan's chest as he turned, revealing a spread of strange artifacts—a bone-handled knife, a vial of mercury-like liquid, and a book bound in what looked like tree bark. "And you're in over your head." He tapped the book's cover. "How much do you know about the Solstice family?"
"Just what the admissions letter said. Old magic lineage. Founded the academy three centuries ago."
Rowan's mouth twisted. "That's the pretty version." He flipped the book open to a marked page—an illustration of seven figures standing in a circle, their hands joined over a writhing shadow. "The Solstices didn't found this place. They bound it."
Evan leaned closer. The shadow in the drawing had too many eyes.
"Every fifty years," Rowan continued, "the binding needs renewing. That's what the headmaster's little 'tests' are really about—finding suitable vessels." His gaze locked onto Evan's. "And you, stormcaller, just made the shortlist."
A branch scraped against the glass overhead. Neither of them breathed until the sound passed.
"Why tell me this?" Evan asked.
Rowan's fingers brushed the bone knife. "Because I was supposed to be last year's offering. And I've got a vested interest in making sure Caine doesn't get what he wants."
The eyeless ravens haunted the dining hall.
Students gave the black-feathered centerpiece a wide berth as they collected their meals. Evan picked at his food, his appetite gone the moment he noticed Mira Solene watching him from the Pyre Department's table. Her crimson bob was unmistakable even in the crowd, her dark eyes tracking his every move like a hawk sighting prey.
A tray clattered down beside him.
Aria Vance stabbed a sausage with unnecessary force. "So. You've met the gardener."
Evan nearly choked on his water. "You followed me?"
"Please." She rolled her eyes. "Rowan's terrible at subtlety. He's been trying to 'warn the new ones' for months." She leaned in, her breath warm against his ear. "But here's what he doesn't know—the binding's already breaking."
Before Evan could ask what she meant, a scream tore through the hall.
At the entrance, a second-year student from the Flora Department stood trembling, her uniform sleeve torn. "The north wing," she gasped. "It—it moved."
Selene Arkwright intercepted Evan before he could investigate.
Her grip on his arm was steel. "You will not go to the north wing."
Evan yanked free. "Why? Because you don't want me seeing what's really happening here?"
Selene's gray eyes flashed. For a heartbeat, her pupils elongated like a cat's. "Because the things that live in those walls," she said softly, "remember stormcaller blood."
Then she was gone, leaving Evan standing alone in the corridor as the academy's stones groaned around him.
That night, Evan dreamed of crows.
They perched on his ribs like tree branches, pecking at his flesh while a woman's voice whispered: "Find the mirror."
He woke to fingers brushing his cheek.
Isolde Renard stood over his bed, her glasses glinting in the moonlight. "You talk in your sleep," she murmured.
Evan sat up, his heart pounding. The kiss in the library hung between them, unspoken.
Isolde pressed something cold into his palm—a silver key. "The restricted archives," she said. "Answers are there. But you won't like them."
As she turned to leave, Evan caught her wrist. "Why help me?"
For the first time, Isolde looked uncertain. "Because the book we touched? It showed me something too." She swallowed hard. "And I think we're both going to die here."