Chapter 5
HARPER
At this hour, the Vespera wing is quiet enough to feel almost abandoned.
The stretch of early morning typically draws students toward breakfast or last-minute preparations, leaving the corridors hushed and the dormitory rooms steeped in comforting stillness. It is a rare and precious solitude, one I need far more than I admit.
My wooden chest sits at the foot of my bed, just as Locke promised, filled with everything he salvaged or replicated from our old life.
Robes, uniforms, blankets that once belonged to the sanctuary we called home, they are all folded neatly, untouched by the violence of our arrival.
I press my hand to the top layer, inhaling the faint scent of cedar and travel.
For a moment, it brings a flicker of calm.
The illusion breaks as soon as I roll my shoulders.
The ache of last night’s unrest coils down my spine.
Sleep never truly came, just flashes of memory, the lingering echo of Sebastian’s voice, the vulgarity I should have disliked yet somehow didn’t, and the warmth of his breath along my cheek.
I tried to banish him from my thoughts. I failed.
Shaking loose the remnants of his shadow, I pull a uniform set from the chest. Relief eases through me when I uncover the women’s long black skirt tucked beneath the robe, far preferable to the humiliatingly short ones Vireldan insists on issuing.
Beside it rests a fitted blouse and, atop everything, a deep black robe trimmed in Vespera’s crimson thread.
Gathering the garments with both hands, I slip into the large bathroom and lock the heavy door behind me.
My toiletries clatter softly onto the counter as I splash cold water over my face, scrubbing until my skin tingles.
I undo my braid next, letting my hair tumble free down my back in soft, damp waves.
The faint coconut scent from last night’s shampoo fades as the warm steam from the bath fogs the mirror.
With a flick of my wand, I warm the tub until curls of vapor unfurl into the air. Sliding out of my old uniform, I turn toward the bath, the mirror catching a glimpse of my back.
And I stop.
The scars always take me by surprise, no matter how many years have passed.
Under the soft morning light, they appear starker: pale ridges cutting across my skin in abrupt, jagged patterns.
Some thin like wiry threads. Others wide and raised, the kind that never fully healed.
They cascade over my back in grim, violent strokes, reminders of things I refuse to speak aloud.
But woven between them, ink.
The serpent.
Its black coils climb the length of my spine, each scale etched with painstaking detail.
Its tail begins low, near the dip of my back, winding around the scars as though guarding them.
Its body curves upward in elegant, deliberate strokes, matching the lines of the wounds it was made to conceal.
Its head rests at the base of my neck, mouth open, fangs poised, eyes narrowed in eternal vigilance.
Some part of me always thought the tattoo made the scars easier to bear. Another part believes it simply made them impossible to ignore.
Liam once told me I would learn to love them in time. I knew even then he was speaking more for himself than for me. His trauma mirrors mine too closely. We share wounds the world cannot see, but the ones carved along my back are harder to forget.
He never asked why I chose the serpent. He only helped me endure the healing.
Steam pools around me as I step into the bath.
The heat seeps into my muscles, unwinding knots that have lived beneath my ribs for too long.
I wash my hair with the shampoos Locke placed in the chest, scrubbing until the last remnants of yesterday’s fear and grime swirl down the drain.
For a moment, I allow myself to imagine the water carrying away the weight of the last few days, the attack, the travel, the fountain, the stares, Sebastian’s vile whisper curling itself around my thoughts like a hook.
But weight like this never dissolves fully.
When I finally step from the tub, wrapping my hair into a knot atop my head, the cold air lashes against my damp skin, forcing a shiver from me.
It motivates me to move quickly. I slip the long black skirt up my legs, feeling the fabric settle comfortably at my waist. It drapes gracefully, pooling around my ankles with a reassuring heaviness.
The blouse pulls snug over my ribcage, fitted enough to shape my silhouette while remaining modest. It lifts my chest slightly, far more generously than I feel I deserve, but not enough to bother me.
As I fasten each button, I catch the faintest hints of the serpent tattoo peeking from beneath the fabric, small dark curves just visible near my shoulders. Hidden, yet always waiting to be revealed under the right touch. The thought sends a small, unwelcome surge of heat through me.
I drape the Vespera robe across my shoulders, letting its weight settle with a quiet authority.
The deep red tie hangs loosely around my neck; I knot it without cinching it too tightly.
Finally, I comb my hair free from the towel and let it fall in loose, soft waves, the brown strands contrasting sharply with the stark black of the robe.
When I step out of the bathroom, my belongings remain scattered across the bed. With a flick of my wand, I cast a protection charm over my side of the room, thin but potent, enough to keep Imelda or anyone else with vindictive intentions from creeping too close to my things.
The clock’s quiet glow reads 6:00 a.m., and though classes will begin soon, the early hour leaves me a slim window of opportunity, one I intend to seize. If I move quickly, I may be able to reach Anvaris, the neighboring town that serves as the lifeblood for Vireldan’s magical community.
Anvaris is not merely a village. It is an artery, an extension of the academy itself, designed for magic-wielding souls who require tools the school cannot always provide.
Wandwrights, potionmongers, rune-carvers, sigil-smiths…
all have storefronts clustered along the cobbled main road, their windows glowing with enchantment even before sunrise.
Students slip there in handfuls during free hours, looking for stronger wands, rare inks, charm components, or simply air that hasn’t been stifled by the stone walls of Vireldan.
And today, I need it more than ever.
The loaner wand Locke gave me feels as hollow as a stick, it sputters even with simple charms, and yesterday’s confrontation with Sebastian made one truth painfully clear:
I cannot afford to be defenseless.
If something, or someone, unexpected confronts me again, I need a wand that responds to me, not one that shakes in my grip like a frightened branch.
Sliding my cloak around my shoulders, I fasten it at the collar.
The fabric settles like a protective veil, soft enough to conceal the faint marks of ink along my upper back.
For a moment, I glance at my reflection in the darkened windowpane: long skirt falling neatly to my ankles, blouse crisp and fitted, robe draped in Vespera crimson, hair cascading in soft brown waves.
I look like a student. But beneath the silk and fabric and illusion of order, something else thrums, something restless and alive.
Nudging open the heavy door to the Vespera common room, I step into a wash of gentle firelight that pools across the velvet furnishings and long stone floor.
The early hour grants the space a quiet serenity; only a few students linger, voices low and unhurried.
My eyes find Liam almost immediately. He stands near the tall arched windows with Theo beside him, both deep in conversation.
Their postures are relaxed, their expressions warm, an ease I am grateful to see after everything that unfolded last night.
Liam’s face brightens the moment he notices me, and he gestures for me to join them with the same, familiar enthusiasm he has offered me since childhood.
He shifts slightly as I approach, making room at his side and, whether intentionally or out of instinct, revealing a third boy with them. One I do not recognize.
He is not Vespera; that much is evident at first glance.
The gold threading along his uniform identifies him as Kairoth, member of the house dedicated to Knowledge.
His jacket catches the lantern light with a soft shimmer, complementing the warm olive tone of his skin.
His white-blond hair falls neatly around his temples, and his eyes, light green laced with a quiet blue, regard me with a lively, unguarded curiosity.
He smiles easily, and the expression feels refreshingly sincere.
“So,” he says as I draw nearer, his tone warm and utterly unthreatening, “this is Harper?”
His voice holds none of Sebastian’s sharp edges, none of the dark, veiled meaning coiled beneath every word he utters. The man’s manner is open, almost disarmingly so.
“My one and only sister,” Liam replies, reaching up to adjust the collar of my blouse with a small, protective tug.
I know instantly what he’s doing, concealing the faint edges of my tattoo before strangers have the opportunity to ask.
Whatever quarrels Liam and I fall into, his loyalty has always been a quiet, unshakeable constant.
The Kairoth boy extends his hand with a polite dip of his head. “Trevor Collins.”
“Harper Whitlock,” I answer, taking his hand firmly. His grip is steady, warm, respectful. I find myself offering him a genuine smile, surprising even myself.