The days after the fight felt like walking through a chapel where someone had just smashed a stained-glass window and everyone was pretending not to see the glass.

  Officially, it was a “training exercise accident.” The Wardhall put that on a neat placard by the entrance, and the Vice Principal repeated it in three separate missives, as if the words themselves could glue the courtyard back together. Unofficially, thirty seniors were treated in a single afternoon. The smell of their burned uniforms lingered in the stone. The gossip howled for a night and then went quiet, like a dog kicked under a table.

  In that quiet, everything else got louder.

  Cale and I fell into a rhythm because rhythm was the only thing that felt like it belonged to us. He escorted me through the front gate each morning without ever saying he would. He walked me to class. He waited outside each of my classes somehow always being there by the time it ended. He walked me to the next. He didn’t rush or loom or act like a guard. He simply existed beside me, and the path rearranged itself around us.

  Students moved aside now. Not dramatically—no one wanted to be seen giving way—but a half-step here, a shift of a shoulder there. The way water parts for a boat when it isn’t sure it wants to be seen moving. Nobles pretended to be bored; eyes slid away too neatly, laughter polished thin and brittle. Scholarship kids lowered their eyes not out of shame but out of caution, like they’d learned there were questions you could be punished for simply by thinking them too loudly.

  Admiration grew teeth. I could feel it. Girls who never noticed the scholarship girl who sat behind them in Expression Studies started finding me after lecture. Not to be cruel, not this time, but to pry through kindness.

  “Ellara,” one whispered as we crossed the green, cheeks flushed, crest gleaming. “Your brother… does he date?”

  “Is he seeing anyone?” another asked two days later, eyes wide and hopeful and terrified of her own audacity.

  A third didn’t bother with pretense. “You know his type, right? Is he into nobles? He looks like he would be. Not—oh gods, I didn’t mean—”

  I learned very quickly that there are only two answers that work in a place like Arclight: I don’t know and I’m not sure. Anything else is a stick you hand someone to beat you with later. So I said those two things, and I said them with the softest edges I could manage, and found the nearest door and put myself through it.

  Even when they didn’t ask me, I caught them watching him from safe distances. There was one from behind a colonnade, another from the shade of a warded tree, anthter still from the second-floor balustrade outside Scriptura Club homeroom. They stared like he was a secret written in a language they almost remembered how to read—laughing, whispering, daring each other to walk three steps closer and then backing away with the speed of survivors.

  The seniors—the ones that weren't totally broken, the ones with bandages under their cuffs and gaiters—said nothing at all. They wore silence like armor. I watched two of them limp past Cale near the fountain and never lift their eyes. One adjusted his bracer and muttered training accident to no one in particular, as if saying it in the open would keep the lie stitched to the skin.

  Parents didn’t know yet. You could feel it in the empty spaces of conversation, the way messages home were written with light hands and sent with shaky seals. But the rumors were already leaking beyond campus. The pastry vendor at the east gate asked Selene if the “accident” had anything to do with the Vice Minister’s son. Two underclassmen argued about whether the Regent would shut the school down for a week to “recalibrate wards” if this went public. Somebody in Dominion colors stood at the Wardhall desk one afternoon and left with a face like he had stepped in something that wouldn’t come off his boots.

  It would become a problem later. I knew that. Arclight’s annual Dueling Tournament sat on every noble calendar like a coronation with better seats. If half the senior class couldn’t lift their practice blades without wincing, the scandal would outlive the cover story. You can hide a rumor. You can’t hide a tournament bracket.

  Through all of it, Cale never changed. Or maybe he did, and the changes were small and careful, reserved for me. Between classes he pointed out flaws in the Technica lamps that ringed the quad—old runes that made the light stutter on damp mornings. He taught me the trick to the eastern stair (step on the third riser from the bottom or the ward hums at you like a scold). Once, passing the pastry stall, he bought a chocolate twist and handed it to me without comment. I bit into it and almost cried; the heat loosened some knot I hadn’t known I’d tied around my heart.

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  He joked sometimes. Quiet things. Once he tapped my overstuffed notebook and asked if I planned to use it as a shield. I told him yes, and that I would beat him with it if he dared me, and he made a sound that might have been a laugh if it had let itself be.

  Other times, the air changed. It was strange this certain... pressure, like before rain. The space around us tightened by a hair and everybody’s spines learned what the word straighten meant. My bracer would give a soft, annoyed hum under my sleeve—stability marginal—the way it did when too many people crowded into a hallway and refused to admit they were crowding.

  If I looked up at him in those moments, I caught the stormglass in his eyes deepen, as if something behind it had turned and noticed a window. Once—just once—I saw a thread of red slip through the violet and disappear before my brain could decide whether to be afraid. I blinked and it was gone. He blinked and it was gone. We walked on, and I pretended the world hadn’t moved under my feet.

  Leira avoided me. Or rather—she avoided me when she was alone. In pairs, with Alessa and Brin flanking her like little moons, she found ways to be at the edge of my vision. She smiled when she knew I was looking. Once she lifted a hand in a half wave whose shape made my cheek sting by memory alone. I pressed my palm against the place the bruise had been and kept walking.

  “Don’t give her your eyes,” Mara warned me, blunt as a stone. “She only smiles when she’s taking something.”

  Selene, to her credit, tried to unfurl the tension with ribbons. “It will all settle,” she insisted. “It always does. School has a way of swallowing things.” She didn’t convince herself. You could hear it in the way her voice tripped over always.

  We ate in the smaller courtyard behind Arcanum Hall on the third day because the larger greens felt like theaters. Cale tore his bread into small, methodical pieces and listened to me babble about Professor Arlewyn’s lecture on “core identity alignment” as if the words mattered. When I told him I’d been called on and had not fumbled the answer, he tapped his messaging device twice in a little rhythm that made me smile like a fool. Little victories felt allowed again.

  People were brave enough to ask me where he’d come from when Cale wasn’t there. They were less brave about how they asked.

  “Your brother,” a girl from Scriptura murmured, glancing over her shoulder. “Living aboard? Truly?”

  “Is he… I mean… is he registered? Properly?” a boy from my Sanatio elective asked, cheeks pink. “I only wonder because the paperwork must be… a lot.”

  “You don’t have to answer,” Mara said when I opened my mouth and nothing polite came out.

  “I don’t know,” I said, which was a kind of truth. I didn’t know how you register someone who’d fallen out of your life and then walked back in carrying something the school didn’t have words for.

  “Is he from a house?” the Scriptura girl persisted, crest bright enough to blind. “An unacknowledged branch, perhaps? No one looks like that unless—”

  “Unless what?” I asked, sharper than I meant.

  She blinked. “Unless they’re important,” she said softly, as if she had said beloved instead.

  After that, I kept my answers to I’m not sure and I don’t know, and learned how to smile in a way that closed conversations.

  At the end of the week, the tournament posters went up. Formal script. Gold ink. Arclight Dueling Tournament — Heats Begin Next Fortnight. Names would be announced after sign-ups closed. Practice lists opened that afternoon, and the line outside the drill yard wrapped the colonnade like a snake.

  I watched two seniors in immaculate jackets read the poster and pretend to laugh. “We’ll be fine,” one said. “We always are.” His knuckles were bruised under his cuff.

  When I told Cale about the tournament, he only said, “A lot of rules. Not much fighting.” It was not contempt. It was an observation.

  “Will you… enter?” I asked. It came out before I could swallow it. Stupid. Brave. Both.

  He glanced down at me, and for a heartbeat I saw the boy I remembered—the one who’d made a wind chime that never hung right and pretended it sang like a cathedral. “If I do,” he said, “you’ll complain about the practice schedule.”

  “I’ll complain no matter what,” I said, and he smiled with his mouth, if not his eyes.

  That night, on my way home, two first-years argued outside the pastry stall.

  “If he signs up, it won’t be fair,” one whispered. “Not after—”

  “Shh,” the other hissed. “Do you want to get expelled by rumor?”

  The vendor caught my eye and lifted her chin toward the Wardhall. “They keep saying accident. I’ve never seen an accident that leaves cracks in the stone.” She wrapped my bread tighter than usual. “You be careful, little one.”

  I promised I would.

  In bed, staring at the ceiling while the house settled into its night noises, I let myself admit what everyone else was pretending not to: nothing had settled. The fight hadn’t faded into the tapestry. It had torn a seam. Nobles were dressing it with words and silences, but I could see the raw edges. The tournament would tug at them. Parents would hear. The school would have to choose between the story it liked and the truth it had met in the courtyard.

  I turned and pressed my cheek to the pillow. The red was gone. The stormglass wasn’t. I didn’t know which one scared me more.

  In the morning, Cale would be at the gate. We would walk. We would pretend. We would gather our small moments and make them into a path while everyone else decided whether to follow it or throw stones.

  Rhythm, I told myself, is still a kind of victory. Even when the floor remembers how it cracked. Even when the glass under your shoes glitters, reminding you what broke.

  And outside, in halls that smelled faintly of chalk and ozone and secrets, Arclight pretended not to hold its breath.