Cale had stayed by my side all morning—at least when we weren’t in class.

  Through the plaza, through the courtyards, through the stares. Like on his first day, his shadow fell beside mine whenever we weren’t physically in a lecture hall, a wall I hadn’t asked for but clung to anyway. When we reached my second class, he leaned against the arch until I disappeared inside. When I came back out, he was waiting.

  The pattern repeated through the day.

  It should have been embarrassing. A brother dogging his little sister like she couldn’t walk ten steps without falling over. But the bruise on my cheek still pulsed beneath its dusting of powder, and every time I caught Leira Veylan’s smile across the hall, I understood why Cale refused to leave me.

  Except that afternoon, he didn’t.

  Professor Arlewyn kept him after class—something about transcripts, placements, and where exactly a “transfer” fit into the sophomore schedule. Cale waved at me across the lecture hall and mouthed go on, like it was nothing.

  I believed him.

  That was my mistake.

  The path home wound past the lower courtyard, narrower than the main greens and shaded by high walls etched with ward-lines. It was always quieter there. Fewer eyes.

  I was halfway across when the footsteps came.

  Four of them.

  Leira at the front, her hair shining like lacquer in the sun. Alessa giggling behind her. Brin to the right like a moving barricade. And a fourth girl I didn’t recognize, her casting aid already glowing faint red.

  I stopped. My satchel strap bit into my palm.

  “Going somewhere?” Leira’s voice was sugar poured over glass.

  I forced my own into something steady. “Home.”

  Alessa laughed. Brin cracked her knuckles. The fourth girl’s glyphs pulsed faster.

  Leira tilted her head, studying me like a specimen. “Funny. Home is exactly where you don’t belong.”

  I didn’t answer. There was nothing safe to say.

  Brin moved first—a shove to my shoulder hard enough to spin me sideways. My knees scraped stone when I caught myself. The satchel tore from my grip, books spilling like guts across the path.

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  Alessa’s laugh bubbled higher. “Oops.”

  I scrambled for my notes. Brin’s boot came down, crushing a page flat.

  “Leave it.”

  I froze.

  The fourth girl raised her bracer. A thin line of fire licked from her palm, tracing too close to my wrist. Heat kissed skin. I jerked back—too slow. The flame snapped and bit.

  A red welt bloomed across my arm.

  I bit down on the sound clawing up my throat.

  Leira crouched, bringing her face level with mine. The smile never touched her eyes.

  “You think people like you. You think you’re pretty. You think you matter. But all it takes is one little spark, Ellara…”

  Her fingers brushed the welt. I flinched.

  She smiled wider. “And you burn.”

  Another shove. Another kick. The world tilted until stone caught me again, my cheek slamming into the floor, powder smearing away to reveal the bruise beneath.

  They didn’t stop.

  Spells weren’t supposed to be used outside supervised drills. That didn’t matter. Small bursts of flame. A lash of Arcanum force. Nothing that would get them expelled if a teacher asked questions.

  Just enough.

  Just enough to paint me in cuts and bruises and burns.

  Just enough to remind me what balance looked like in Leira Veylan’s world.

  When they were done, they left me there.

  My papers scattered. My satchel torn. My arms trembling as I tried to gather myself together.

  I don’t remember how I got home. Only that Gran wasn’t there—thank the gods—and the house smelled faintly of bread she’d left cooling.

  I went straight to my room.

  The mirror was cruel. My cheek swollen. A bruise blooming down my jaw. Burns along my arm. Scratches like I’d run through thorns. I sank to the floor and pressed my back against the bed.

  And for the first time since I was little, I cried.

  By the time Cale came in, the light had turned orange. He called my name from the hall. The sound of his boots against the wooden floor made me flinch before I could stop it.

  The door opened.

  He saw me.

  The torn satchel. Marked skin. Bruises no powder could hide.

  His face didn’t change much.

  That was worse than if he’d shouted.

  He crouched beside me. Touched nothing. Asked nothing. Just looked.

  For a long moment, he said nothing at all.

  Then, quietly, “Who?”

  I shook my head, shame burning hot. “It doesn’t matter.”

  We sat for a long moment and I must of dose off because I am not sure what happened next.

  He exhaled slowly through his nose, the sound rough and deliberate, like stone grinding against stone. His hand brushed the casting aid at his wrist, and the device answered with a faint, almost reluctant hum.

  I curled tighter against the bed, my fingers digging into the blanket. “Cale… just leave it.”

  But even as the words left my mouth, I felt the change begin.

  Warmth spread across my bruises, not sudden or sharp, but gradual, as if the ache itself were being persuaded to let go. The heat sank beneath cloth and skin, deeper than surface sensation. It wasn’t fire, and it wasn’t pain. It was something calmer than either—measured, steady, deliberate.

  Sanatio.

  The Expression flowed from his palm with the softness of breath, seeping through me in quiet waves. The pain dulled first, then receded. The cuts stopped screaming. The welt along my arm cooled, the tightness easing as if it had never been there at all.

  I tried to open my eyes, but the effort slipped away from me. My body felt heavy in a way that was not frightening—only final.

  His voice reached me anyway, low and even, not meant for a reply.

  “Rest,” he said. “I’ll handle it.”

  The warmth lingered as the room faded, and I let myself fall into the dark.