Chapter 2
Chapter two
Alex
The knock is unhurried. Not the knock of someone with a folder and a schedule — just a knock. I open the door.
Late thirties, dark hair, decent jacket. Handsome in a way I register and set aside. He introduces himself — acting headmaster, biology professor, both at once, which he says like it mildly amuses him.
"Welcome to Frosthaven," he says. "I know the circumstances aren't ideal."
Not a folder. Not orientation protocol. Just that.
"I don't want to be here," I say. "Send me back."
He doesn't flinch. "That's not my decision."
"Whose is it."
"The panel's." A pause. "For now."
He doesn't apologize. Doesn't tilt toward something easier. Just stands there and lets the weight of what I said exist in the room.
I've been managed by people in authority my whole life. Redirected. Handled toward outcomes they'd already decided on. Tomlinson just stood there.
I don't know what to do with that yet.
"The students will be curious," he says. "You don't owe anyone an explanation."
"And faculty."
"Know what they need to know." He holds my gaze, steady and direct. "Whatever happened at Feral Academy — you have space to breathe here. That's what I want you to know."
I look at him. He means it. I nod.
"My door is open if you need it." He nods at Dalton. "Mr. Dalton."
He leaves.
I look at Dalton.
"Briefed how," I say.
"Enough to know you're not a standard placement. Not enough to know why."
"So he's just — like that."
Dalton picks up his jacket. "Apparently."
***
Becky is at the main building doors, smile already in place, the particular brightness of someone who has been looking forward to this morning. It's genuine — and underneath it, quick and assessing, something else moves before she pulls it back. Gone before most people would catch it.
I catch it.
"Alex," she says. "I'm Becky." She glances at Dalton, who has settled into a distance that is technically not accompanying me. "And — your security detail?"
"He goes where I go," I say.
She pauses, takes a breath. "Okay. Let's start with the main building."
The foyer is all high ceilings and dark wood paneling, the smell of old stone and central heating and coffee from somewhere deeper in the building. Students moving through, some of them glancing up when we pass, some of them not looking directly but watching us anyway.
I track them back.
"So," Becky says, falling into the easy rhythm of someone who has done this before. "How are you finding it so far?"
"Fine."
She waits for more. I don't give her more.
She adjusts smoothly, pivoting to the building — classes here, faculty offices on the upper floors, the student lounge at the end of the east corridor.
She talks the way people talk when they're good at filling silence, and I listen and watch the students watch me and feel Dalton somewhere behind us, not close enough to hear, present enough that the bond runs its steady frequency.
A girl coming out of a classroom stops when she sees me. Full stop, hand still on the door. Not afraid — just stopped, the way a body stops when it gets information the mind hasn't processed yet. I hold her gaze for a second. She goes inside.
"You get used to the stares," Becky says. "New people always get it."
"Sure," I say.
She glances at me sideways and keeps moving, now on to the library building — dark wood and high windows, long tables, students bent over laptops, cold light coming in low through the glass. She pauses at one of the windows and looks out at the quad.
"Access with your student ID. I know you're not technically a student but the parameters are the same." A beat. "It's a good place to decompress. If you need it."
I look at the quad. A group of students crossing the stone path, someone's water bottle on a bench.
"Good to know," I say.
Becky looks at me. That friendly face, warm and open, and underneath it the question she's been carrying since the doors. She's been waiting for an opening and I haven't given her one and she's deciding whether to make her own.
"Can I ask—" she starts.
"What's next," I say.
A beat. "Gym facility."
We go back and out through a covered walkway to a separate building, the cold coming back briefly, and I feel Dalton's bond shift slightly — closer, adjusting to the new space.
The gym is better than I expected. Real equipment, a training floor, a climbing wall along the far side.
A group of students doing drills in the corner, a trainer calling out corrections.
He clocks me across the room, holds the look a second too long, goes back to his students.
"Athletics is a big part of the program," Becky says. "Most students are on scholarship — wrestling, track, a few academic. The physical component is intensive." A pause. "Do you train?"
"Yes," I say.
She waits.
"What's next," I say.
She laughs, short and surprised, the first genuinely unguarded thing she's done since we met, and leads me back through the walkway and across a section of quad to the dining hall.
Warm and loud inside, the morning crowd thinning, a few students lingering over coffee and laptops.
Round tables, real chairs, windows along one wall looking out into the trees.
The stares here are less careful. A table of four near the door goes quiet when we walk in. A boy halfway across the room turns all the way around in his chair.
I get a coffee. I stand at the counter and drink it and let the room do what it does.
Becky stands beside me with her own. "You're not bothered by them," she says.
"Should I be."
She considers that. "Most new people are. The staring." She looks into her coffee. "You just look back."
"Yes," I say.
She looks at me sideways. The question she's been carrying is closer to the surface now, the friendliness still there but thinner.
"The cottage must be nice," she says. "I mean — the dorms are fine, I've been in them since I started and it's fine. But a whole cottage. Private. It's a pretty big deal for a new student."
There it is.
I look at her. She looks at me. The smile still in place and underneath it she's waiting.
"It is," I say. "Really nice."
She holds for a second. Waits for more.
I drink my coffee.
She laughs, short, and shakes her head. "Okay," she says. "Fair enough."
We finish the coffee and she takes me through the rest — the student health center, the academic advising office, a quick look at the class schedule I'll be taking. Real classes, real students, real coursework. She hands me a campus map, a card with her number.
"If you need anything," she says, back at the main building doors where we started. "Seriously. I know this is a weird situation. But I'm around."
"Thanks," I say.
She holds my gaze for a second. "You're going to be fine here," she says.
I don't tell her that fine isn't what I'm here for.
"Thanks, Becky," I say. She goes inside.
Dalton appears beside me.
We stand at the top of the steps and look out at the quad. The cold is doing what it does, the afternoon light already thinning, a few students crossing below us without looking up.
"You watched everyone," he says.
"Yes."
"Anyone worth noting."
I think about the trainer in the gym. The table that went quiet. "Not yet," I say.
He nods. Still in professional mode, the one that reads as unremarkable to everyone who doesn't know him. I've been feeling the bond all afternoon. I know the difference.
"Becky," I say.
"Curious," he says. "Not a threat."
I look at the treeline. The forest sitting dark and dense at the edge of the campus, and somewhere past it everything I'm not allowed to go back to yet. The bonds pulling toward Feral Academy — Leo, Gray, Jake, Jim. All of them too far.
RJ. The bruise at my wrist. Patient.
I stand there long enough, but Dalton doesn't rush me. He just waits, hands in his pockets, looking at the same trees, and I let myself feel the distance for one more moment before I put it somewhere I can carry it.