15. Alex
Chapter 15
Alex
I t was Monday morning, and despite spending the entire day in bed yesterday, I still didn’t feel completely recovered.
The throbbing in my head had subsided, but I still felt grumpy, and attending Professor O’Donnelly’s lecture after everything that had happened last week was almost unbearable.
Somehow, I managed to make it through, studiously avoiding Sylvester, but that didn’t mean everyone else had.
He’d misquoted one of O’Donnelly’s definitions—something minor, but enough to make heads turn.
Then someone, I couldn’t tell who, muttered “leaky legacy” under their breath—quiet, but just loud enough for the whole class to hear.
A few students snickered.
Sylvester tried to carry on like he hadn’t heard, but I could tell he had.
It struck me as strange—odd, even.
Just the other day at the natatorium, someone had actually dared to call Sutton the “leaky legacy twin.” That had surprised me at the time, but now this?
Mocking Sylvester in the middle of class?
They weren’t untouchable anymore.
Or maybe they never really were.
I wondered, briefly, why it was all bubbling up now.
Maybe people were just as tired of the way things always were around here as I was—even if I was new.
Maybe they were done pretending certain names meant something.
I didn’t linger on the thought; it felt a little too big to pin down, and honestly, my head was still pounding.
Right now, I just needed more aspirin.
I was heading toward the health center in hopes of getting some aspirin to ease the remaining pain.
Just when I thought I’d met my quota for dealing with one Oliveri this morning, the other seems to spring up from nowhere.
“Alex,” Sutton called.
I keep walking.
Words?
I didn’t feel like speaking them with anyone this morning, especially with the sun cheerfully shining down like it was a surprise visit from a long-lost friend.
It was a rarity around here, where the sky was usually a dull, overcast gray.
Of course, it had to be sunny today.
Everyone else seemed to be drinking in the sunshine like it was the elixir of life, but I was over here just trying to avoid projectile vomiting, and daydreaming about crawling back into bed, where the sun didn’t exist.
Sutton, however, seems to completely disregard the cold shoulder and keeps pace beside me, forgetting about the art-related poster she was directing students to hang up just seconds before.
“Heading to the health center?” she asks, her tone casual but unmistakably curious.
I glance over at her, then away.
“Yeah, just going to grab some aspirin.”
“Is this about…you know?” she says, not quite saying the words, so I clarify for her.
“You mean the fall you supposedly saved me from?” I say, the words dripping with sarcasm.
“No, this isn’t about that. This is from Saturday.”
I shake my head slightly, but as I walk, my mind drifts back to that night.
I don’t really remember much—just flashes of being in the car with Bishop driving us there and then him catching me before I fell into the pool.
The rest in between is a hazy blur.
“You said you just need aspirin?” she asks, sounding confused.
We were almost to the building now.
I grunt a non-answer.
“Why not just use your callbox for something simple like that? Another student would’ve fetched it for you. Do you not use yours? Every Legacy has one in their room.”
The words hit me like a freight train, my still-groggy brain struggling to keep up.
I stumble a little, momentarily lost. A callbox?
I blink a few times, trying to focus.
“I have a what in my room?” I ask, probably sounding like I’m on another planet.
“A callbox,” she repeats, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
I stare at her, my head pounding like a drum in my skull.
A callbox? What was that?
I try to piece it together, but everything’s still swimming in a thick fog.
I vaguely remember Chancellor Maxwell saying something about it after the ceiling in my dorm collapsed, but that’s about as clear as my memory of Saturday night—which is still completely hazy.
I squint, still dizzy from whatever I drank the other night.
Whether it was the mix, the empty stomach, or just everything catching up to me, the dizziness hadn’t fully let go.
“It’s how we communicate with the staff or other students to request services,” Sutton continues, clearly enjoying my confusion.
“Has no one explained that to you?”
I shake my head ever so slightly.
Even that small motion feels like it’s going to split my skull wide open.
My brain feels like it’s filled with concrete, and every little sound makes the ache worse.
Sutton snorts, and I can feel the edges of my mood start to fray.
She sounds like she’s trying to be lighthearted, but right now, it’s like a jackhammer to my temples.
She laughs again, louder this time.
“Why do you think Sly took the role of student teacher for Professor O’Donnelly’s class? He was looking for students to recruit to do the mundane things he didn’t want to do. Like fetching a few aspirins for him.” She grins, a little too smug.
“I mean, I’m not above it myself. I had a few students slip those flyers under doors on the day you gave me that idea in the lobby. Who’s got time for that?”
Her words barely register, a distant hum in the back of my mind.
All I can think about is how much I’d rather be back in bed, not dealing with this hangover that makes even the lightest of conversation feel like a full-blown assault on my senses.
“Thank you,” a petite woman in her thirties with short, dark hair styled in a cute bob that ended just above her shoulders said as she walked past, Sutton holding the door for her.
“No worries, Dr. Chen,” Sutton replied.
Chen. The last name sounded familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it.
Maybe I had heard it around campus or in one of my classes.
Whatever. I quickly dismissed it.
Sutton was still holding the door.
I arched an eyebrow.
“Uh, I’m good. Thanks, though.” Was she holding it for me?
“Normally, others do this for me, but you looked like you had your hands full,” Sutton said, her gaze flicking to the textbook in my arms.
Oh right.
This monstrosity. Carrying it felt like a full-body workout.
I might as well have been lugging a paving stone.
“I don’t have a backpack,” I admitted, too tired to come up with a more clever excuse.
“Is that so?” she said, her voice light, but something about the way her eyes narrowed made me pause.
I stepped past her, eager to get inside and away from whatever weird energy she was giving off.
Her reaction to my lack of a backpack was…
strange. Not mocking, exactly.
More like she was filing it away.
Like that tiny detail meant something to her.
It made me uneasy. The Legacies had a way of turning even the smallest things into power plays, and I wasn’t in the mood for games.
My head was still pounding, and Sutton’s chipper energy was grating.
It felt odd, though.
Like she was being… nice to me?
The same way she’d seemed almost vulnerable at the swim meet days ago, when I’d thought she needed a friend.
I wasn’t sure what this meant for us.
So why did it feel different this time?
I glanced back once before the door shut behind me—just in time to catch Sutton still standing there, watching me walk away with a thoughtful little smile tugging at her mouth.
Weird. But I didn’t have the energy to figure her out right now.
I focused on finding an empty seat, setting the textbook down with a heavy thud.
My arms were already sore from carrying it.
Great.
The health center was an odd contradiction.
From the outside, it was all sharp edges, towering spires, and dark stone.
The kind of place you’d expect to find a haunted library or a secret society meeting in the dead of night.
But the inside was a complete contrast. Soft, warm lighting and plush chairs making it feel more like a cozy little lounge than a place where you’d go to get poked and prodded by a nurse.
The receptionist, a kindly older woman with silver hair, looked up as I approached.
“What can I do for you, dear?” she asked, her voice gentle.
“I was hoping to get some aspirin,” I said, my voice sounding raspier than usual.
She nodded sympathetically.
“Of course. Just fill out this form, and the nurse will be with you shortly.”
I took the clipboard she offered and sank into one of the cushy chairs.
As I began filling out the form, I felt my head pulse with every word I wrote.
And just when I thought I might escape in peace, the door opened.
Alfie.
His red hair stood out like a flame in the low light, and his face was flushed from what I assumed was some sort of exercise-induced injury.
The top hat perched jauntily atop his head only added to the absurdity of the moment.
I couldn’t even muster up the energy to give him the courtesy of a nod.
We locked eyes, and before I could even process it, he was grinning like a golden retriever, making his way over to the receptionist.
“Hey, Mrs. Hawkins,” he said, his voice low.
“Is Dr. Patel in? I think I might’ve pulled something again.”
Mrs. Hawkins glanced up, her eyes darting between him and me before she replied, “He’s with a patient, but I can squeeze you in next if you’d like.”
“That’d be great, thanks,” Alfie said, then turned to me.
“You okay, Alex? You’re looking a little green around the gills.”
I didn’t even bother looking up.
“Just a headache,” I muttered, my eyes firmly fixed on the form in front of me.
Name, date of birth, student ID number—it should’ve been mindless, but somehow, it felt like an exam.
The room was spinning a little, and Alfie’s presence was making everything feel just that much worse.
“You sure it’s just a headache?” Alfie leaned in too close, his warm breath on my ear, invading my space like it was no big deal.
“You look like you’ve been through the wringer.”
I shift away, annoyed and uncomfortable.
“I’m fine,” I snapped, though it was half-hearted at best. “Just need some aspirin.”
Alfie leaned back, his smirk widening like he’d cracked some kind of secret code.
“Ah, I see. Rough weekend, huh? Don’t worry, we’ve all been there.” He paused, clearly about to launch into some lengthy, unsolicited advice about how to “power through,” but instead, he shifted gears.
“Speaking of rough weekends, I’ve got this big plan for the carnival. I’m talking, like, front and center in front of the board. I’m gonna pitch them this whole—”
He started to get excited, rambling on and on about his “big plans,” practically vibrating with the enthusiasm of someone who believed their idea was the next big thing.
Of course, today of all days, the universe was making sure to penalize me.
The sun was actually out— out —which almost never happened at this university.
Sutton was skipping around like she’d just won the lottery.
And Alfie? Well, Alfie was Alfie, trying to turn an ordinary conversation into a stage performance.
Before I could come up with a sharp retort, a nurse called my name, and I practically shot out of my seat.
Alfie was halfway through his explanation, but I didn’t wait to hear the rest of it.
Today was not the day.
After receiving my medication, I returned to the lobby and found that Alfie had already left, probably in an exam room for his own checkup.
Our relationship may have been improving, but today was definitely one day where I was relieved to leave without any additional interaction necessary.
Especially since Alfie was always so buoyant.
As I leave the health center, walking along the winding pathway, I hear a voice call out, “On your left.” Instinctively, I move aside, and a sharp sting rips across my face as a low-hanging pine branch smacks me.
My cheek burns, and I stumble back, fuming as the pain sinks in.
Camden steps out from behind the tree, laughing, followed by another person who I assume must be on the archery team, given the bow slung across their back.
I grit my teeth, fury building as they share a laugh at my expense.
“You need to be more aware of your surroundings,” Camden teases, as if I’m the one in the wrong.
Without waiting for a response, he takes off with his companion, their laughter fading as they jog away.
I stood there, stunned, as the sharp pain from the branch mingles with my lingering headache.
The laughter of Camden and his friend fades into the distance.
I reach up to touch my face, wincing as my fingers brush against the tender skin.
The urge to shout something back at them rose in my throat, but I swallowed it down.
It wasn’t worth it. Not today.
I glance up at the eagle statues on the pillars lining the fence, the same ones that have been mocking me since I got here.
Of course, they’re laughing again— at me , like they always do.
I don’t find it amusing.
I never do. If anything, it just makes my headache worse.
I mutter under my breath, glaring at the statues, “You can kiss my ass, you overpaid lawn ornaments.”
As if on cue, Ophelia walks by, her eyes catching mine as I stand there cursing out birds.
She smirks, shaking her head.
“Talking to the birds now, huh? Maybe they’ll give you some advice on how to avoid being so gullible next time.”
She walks off a moment later, practically beaming like she’d just scored a personal victory.
“Awesome,” I mutter to myself.
“Just what I needed.”
I drag my feet as I make my way back to my dormitory, now with added pain to accompany my current misery.
The aspirin I had taken just moments ago seems insufficient to relieve this new discomfort.
Finally, I reach my dorm room and immediately remove my uniform blazer, not bothering to change out of my skirt and polo shirt underneath, before crawling back into bed.
Just then, the loud rumbling sound of several power tools echoes through the hallway outside.
Can’t I catch a break today?
I groan and pull my pillow over my head, trying to muffle the noise.
But it’s no use. The drilling and hammering seem to penetrate every surface, vibrating through my mattress and into my bones.
I reluctantly drag myself out of bed and stumble to the door, ready to give whoever is making this racket a piece of my mind.
That is, assuming I don’t explode like a shaken can of soda first.
With a heavy sigh, I force myself to sit up.
The room spins for a moment before settling.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror across the room and wince.
My hair is a tangled mess, and there’s an angry red welt forming on my cheek where the branch hit me.
Lovely.
As I yank open the door, I’m immediately met with a cloud of dust and the sight of two maintenance workers tearing away the hallway ceiling and walls.
They barely glance at me as they continue their work, the noise even more deafening now that there’s no barrier between us.
“Excuse me,” I try to shout over the construction.
“What’s going on?”
One of the workers, a burly man with a thick mustache, pauses long enough to answer.
“Old pipe burst. Gotta replace this whole section before we can update the rest of the building. Shouldn’t take more than a few weeks on your level.”
“A few weeks?” I exclaim, my voice cracking.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
The worker shrugs, seemingly indifferent to my distress.
“Sorry, kid. Orders from above. We’ll try to keep it down during quiet hours.”
I slam the door shut, wincing as the sound reverberates through my aching head.
A few weeks of this?
It’s barely been five minutes and I’m already at my wit’s end.
I collapse back onto my bed, burying my face in my pillow to muffle a frustrated scream.
I know Victoria mentioned renovations happening in our building, but why did they have to start today of all days?
As I lay there, drowning in my own misery and feeling sorry for myself, I make the decision that I can’t handle it anymore and seek refuge in the only place I think I might be able to find some comfort.
I head out, but the relentless sun up above?
It’s like someone decided to turn the brightness up on everything.
I squint and throw my hand up to shield my eyes, cursing under my breath as the sunlight punches me right in the face.
But then I see it—Bishop’s dorm, looming just ahead.
I stop for a moment, watching the building from across the fountain.
A strange, foggy thought brushes the back of my mind—something about the party…
and my mom? A piano, maybe?
It’s like waking up from a dream, the details slipping away just as quickly as they appear.
I blink, trying to shake it off, but it lingers for just a second.
No, that doesn’t make sense.
I must be mixing up what happened at the natatorium.
I exhale sharply, dismissing the thought entirely.
I turn away, my eyes moving forward, focusing on the path ahead stretching out before me, leading toward the greenhouse.
The air is still, but at least the walk doesn’t feel as oppressive as it did last time.
I feel a sense of relief with each step.
The quiet here is different.
Calmer. Not like the heavy, unsettling silence of the night when I found the notes.
No, this is just…still.
The kind of stillness I could actually use right now.
I’m almost there.
When I push open the door to the greenhouse, the damp air hits me immediately, and it’s like stepping into another world.
The sun’s still blazing outside, but in here, it’s different—softer, gentler.
The plants greet me like old friends, their rich, earthy scents wrapping around me like a blanket.
This is where I belong.
The hum of the outside world fades away, replaced by the rustling of leaves and the soft chirp of birds somewhere far off.
The light filters through the glass roof, casting dappled patterns across the edges of plant pots, the glossy green leaves of ferns and vines.
It’s like the sun here is finally tolerable.
I let out a deep breath and let my shoulders relax, my body sinking into the rhythm of the place.
This is what peace feels like.
I wander through the aisles of plants, the feel of the familiar soil beneath my fingers grounding me in a way the chaos of campus never could.
There’s a certain magic in these plants—something about their stillness, their quiet growth, their resilience.
I let the calm wash over me, finally able to breathe without the constant hum of noise or the pressure of having to think about…
well, everything.
But the longer I stay, the more something nags at me.
It’s subtle at first—just a flicker of a thought—but it keeps creeping back.
The sundial. Every now and then, I catch myself glancing toward it, and each time, the feeling tightens in my chest. It’s like when you have an itch but can’t quite reach it.
You think it’s gone, but then it flares up again, persistent and irritating.
I stop at one of the plant shelves, running my fingers gently over the smooth, cool surface of a nearby pot, trying to ignore the tug of that thought.
But it’s impossible.
It lingers, quietly pulling at the back of my mind.
I glance back toward it.
The light reflects off the surface, casting shifting patterns onto the stone floor.
There’s something about the way it sits in the middle of the room, commanding attention without saying a word.
It’s unsettling. But not in a way I can pinpoint.
A flicker of memory—my hand, the sharp edge of the sundial, the blood—it all rushes back, my fingers instinctively moving to the small mark on my skin, where I had cut myself that day.
I press my fingers against the spot, tracing the faint scar.
The memory of that moment floods my mind again—the rush of curiosity when the room below opened up.
A room that wasn’t supposed to exist. I pull my hand back quickly, trying to ignore the slight pulse of unease that flares up within me.
I shake it off. Focus, Alex.
I close my eyes for a second, breathing in the scents of the plants around me.
The earthy, rich smell of soil, the fresh green of new growth.
This is what matters now.
The plants, the peace.
That other thing? Whatever it was, it can wait.
I move deeper into the greenhouse, pulling my attention away from the sundial and its mysteries.
A part of me wonders if it’s even worth thinking about right now.
But then again, if I had something like my old microscope—like the one I used back at my old school—maybe I’d be able to observe these plants with more clarity.
Maybe I could study their growth patterns or hear the subtle rhythms of life within their stems. That was one of the few things that ever truly fascinated me at that place—the biology of plants, their hidden lives that were just as complex and intricate as anything else.
But here? All I’ve got are my hands.
Not quite the same.
Still, I guess it’s enough for now.
I close my eyes again, letting the quiet of the greenhouse fill me, the whisper of the leaves and the subtle shift of light guiding me deeper into the room.
For a while, I lose myself to the plants.
Their calm becomes my calm.
I stop for a moment, a flicker of realization crossing my mind.
This is exactly what I need.
Not just the plants, not just the peace, but the stillness.
The quiet. The absence of everything that’s been gnawing at me.
Maybe I’m not just running from the noise.
Maybe I’m running toward something.
Hours slip by unnoticed as I drift between the aisles of plants, letting the calm of the greenhouse consume me.
My fingers brush against leaves, tracing the veins of ferns and the smooth, waxy surfaces of succulents.
The quiet is comforting— perfect, even.
But every time I glance at the sundial, that nagging feeling returns.
The one I can’t shake, no matter how hard I try to ignore it.
The sun’s position in the sky has shifted, the light now casting long, soft shadows that stretch across the floor.
The air in the greenhouse has grown cooler, but I’m still drawn to the center of the room.
Just one touch, I tell myself.
Just to see. Nothing more.
I walk toward it. Each step feels heavier, like the dial itself is pulling me in, calling me to do something I can’t walk away from.
I stop in front of it, staring down at the polished surface of the dial.
The sharp pointer glints under the fading light, almost daring me to touch it.
My fingers itch to run across it, to feel the cool surface once more, to test the boundaries between curiosity and madness.
I can feel my heartbeat picking up.
This is ridiculous, I think.
But I can’t help it.
The question lingers in the back of my mind—what would happen if I did it again?
If I just let my blood spill like it did last time?
With a slow, deliberate motion, I extend my hand, hovering over the dial.
The air around it feels colder, like something waiting to happen.
I draw my finger across the sharp edge.
A hiss escapes my lips as the tip of my finger slices open, the pain sharp and immediate.
The blood wells up quickly, hot and red, trickling down and over my skin.
I watch, transfixed, as it circles the dial.
The room feels suddenly heavier, the silence broken only by the faint sound of my breath.
And then, just like before, the mechanism shifts.
The air thickens. The stone beneath me groans as the ground trembles slightly, sending a jolt of anticipation through me.
The sundial shudders with a low, echoing creak, and before I know it, the crisp gloom of the hidden stairs reveals itself once again.
The opening widens, a dark, narrow staircase leading downward into the unknown.
My pulse quickens, the rush of adrenaline drowning out everything else.
I can feel my breath coming faster, my finger still slick with blood as it hovers above the opening.
The lure of what lies below is too strong to resist.
I could turn away.
I could leave right now.
But the temptation, the pull of whatever’s down there, is stronger than my better judgment.
I step forward, my feet moving before I can talk myself out of it, and the darkness below swallows me whole.
The staircase is narrow and winding, the stone steps cold beneath my feet as I descend deeper.
The air grows cooler with each step, the musty scent of old stone filling my lungs.
I can barely see anything, the faint flicker of candlelight at the bottom of the stairs casting warped shadows against the walls.
The further down I go, the more oppressive the silence becomes—almost suffocating, like I’m stepping into a forgotten part of this place.
I pause. Candlelight?
That doesn’t make sense.
Who lit them?
Someone must’ve been down here recently.
Maybe still is.
I hesitate on the steps, straining to listen.
Nothing—no footsteps, no voices, not even the creak of movement.
Just the low, steady flicker of light against stone.
My pulse picks up. I shift my footing, careful not to make a sound, and take the last few steps slower, quieter.
If someone’s down here, I don’t want to announce myself.
When I finally reach the bottom, my breath catches in my throat.
I step into a large, circular room, the walls lined with shelves that stretch from floor to ceiling, crammed with books.
The golden glow of the candles around the room barely breaks the darkness, leaving the space bathed in a dull, flickering light.
The candles are oddly fresh, too.
No dripping wax. No smell of smoke.
In the center, a brass eagle statue stands proud on a pedestal—its wings outstretched, as though ready to take flight.
The statue is centered, surrounded by a circular table, its surface cluttered with papers and old, leather-bound volumes.
The air feels dense here, unlike above.
This space, it’s like the room is holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.
I approach the shelves, drawn to them as if I’ve been here before, though I know I haven’t.
I run my finger along the spine of one of the books, but it’s not the book I’m focused on.
My eyes are on a gap in the shelves—a space where a book should be, but isn’t.
The area around it is completely untouched, no dust or smudge to be found.
The book was pulled out recently.
I glance at the shelves again, taking in the light layer of dust on everything else.
A faint track here, a clean edge there.
Was this from whoever lit the candles?
I pause, my finger still hovering in the air.
My curiosity flares, and I turn, following the pull toward the table.
There, sitting on its edge near a flickering candle, is an open book.
The pages are yellowed with age, the ink faint but legible.
Resting neatly on the open page is a photograph—just sitting there, like it was meant to be found.
I pick it up carefully, my fingers brushing the brittle corners.
It’s old, worn at the edges, but the image is still clear enough to make out the faces.
My breath catches. Standing at the center is my father—only much younger, probably around my age, his smile tight and unreadable.
On his left stands Sylvester and Sutton’s dad, positioned close, his shoulder nearly touching my father's. Just to my father’s right is Bishop’s mom—his hand almost brushing her sleeve. Her opposite arm is draped casually around Camden’s mother, the kind of easy closeness that spoke of longtime friendship, like they knew how to take up space together without needing to say a word.
They all look so connected—relaxed, familiar. Not just a group of classmates or peers, but something tighter. Like they shared something more.
I stare at the photo, the weight of it pressing down in my hand. It shouldn’t surprise me—and yet it does. What is this? I wonder, my mind racing.
I glance back at the book, curiosity gnawing at me. The text beneath where the photo sat is dense and formal, typeset in a narrow column, like an old article—something preserved. The edges of the page are slightly uneven, not quite the same as the others, as if this particular section had been printed separately and bound in later.
My eyes catch on a headline printed in faded ink:
“Prescott Gala Marks Legacy Alignment.”
Beneath it is a grainy black-and-white photograph of two familiar people dressed in formalwear—my father again, standing beside Bishop’s mom, both wearing matching pins on their collars. They aren’t touching, but they’re angled toward each other, smiling in a way that feels rehearsed. Expected.
The short article beneath reads like a clipped society column, something ceremonial but distant.
"During the annual Prescott Gala, hosted by the Prescott family, guests witnessed what one faculty member described as a 'quiet affirmation of unity between two Legacy bloodlines.' A gesture of tradition, not unlike the alignments that once shaped the university’s founding years."
I read the line again. Then again.
Symbolic pairing?
My stomach twists, but I don’t know why.
I glance back down at the page, my fingers tightening on the edges. The rest of the article trails into vague language about “shared futures” and “heritage stewardship,” but my eyes catch on something handwritten in the margin—inked in the same darker script as before.
“Was this always the plan?”
It’s not a statement. It’s a question—simple, but strange. Like whoever wrote it wasn’t sure what they were looking at either.
I don’t know what it means. I don’t know why it makes my pulse spike. But I lean in, about to turn the page—
“Alex.”
I freeze, my heart jumping. I’d known someone could be down here—the lit candles made that clear—but I’d gotten so caught up in the article, I’d stopped thinking about it. The voice—deep, calm, and unmistakable—snaps me back to the moment. I whirl around, pulse spiking as I scan the room.
“Atlas?” I say aloud, my voice unsure. What is he doing here?
I blink, but there’s no mistaking him. He’s standing in the doorway beneath the arch, posture casual—too casual, maybe. A book is tucked under one arm, his expression calm, but there’s something unreadable in the way his eyes flick around the room. This doorway is far from the stairs I just descended, tucked into a shadowed corner, making it feel like a completely different space.
“What is this place?” I ask before I can stop myself, my heart still beating hard from the surprise.
Atlas gives a slow, almost amused smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Ah,” he says, stepping further into the room. “This? This is the Vault of Nightfall. A…restricted section, if you will. A place where the school keeps its more… unique texts.”
Unique texts? What did that mean?
I open my mouth to ask more, but the candlelight flickers, casting long shadows that dance across the walls. A sudden chill creeps down my spine. I swear I feel something shift behind me—no sound, no movement, just the prickling sensation of being watched. I turn, but the room is still.
Just my nerves.
And then, behind Atlas, the heavy door creaks closed and slams shut with a dull finality that echoes through the vault like a warning.