Chapter 8
Chapter eight
The whispers started before I reached the dining hall.
I'd heard whispers before—those were background noise. Static. Easy to tune out.
These were different.
"—the one Twilson called out—"
"—orphan, apparently—"
"—knows Rae Whitaker, can you believe—"
I kept walking. Eyes forward. Spine straight. The posture Gregor had insisted on since I was old enough to stand: Don't let them see you flinch.
Ivy fell into step beside me, tray in hand. "So. You're famous now."
"Lucky me."
"On the bright side, at least they're not talking about what you wore to the welcome mixer."
"I didn't go to the welcome mixer."
"Exactly. Very mysterious. Very aloof." She bumped my shoulder with hers. "Come on. Let's get food before the vultures circle."
We found a table near the windows—not hidden, but not central either. Ivy launched into a story, and I let her voice wash over me while I picked at my salad.
The whispers didn't stop. They just got quieter. More careful.
I could feel eyes on me from across the room. Students I didn't know, cataloging information they'd gathered from hallway gossip and Twilson's public performance. Building a profile. Deciding who I was before I had a chance to show them.
Orphan. Connected. Problem.
The words formed a shape I recognized. A story being told without my permission.
Wilderness First Aid was worse.
Mr. Boone had us partnered up for practical drills—splinting, wound packing, emergency carries. I'd been paired with a guy named Derek, broad-shouldered and confident in the way that usually meant he'd never had to work for anything.
"Okay," Boone announced, circling the room with his usual enthusiasm. "Scenario: your partner has fallen through ice and is showing signs of moderate hypothermia. Walk me through your response. Go."
I knelt beside Derek, already running through the protocol. "First priority is getting them out of wet clothing without causing further heat loss. You want to cut the clothes away rather than pulling them over—"
"Hang on." Derek held up a hand. "You know all this stuff already?"
"I grew up in a cold climate."
"Right." He leaned back, something shifting in his expression. "Or maybe you're just friends with the professor."
The words landed like a slap.
I went still. "Excuse me?"
"I'm just saying." Derek shrugged, casual, like he hadn't just accused me of cheating. "Word is you've got connections. Twilson had to step in because you were getting special treatment. Maybe Boone's in on it too."
Heat climbed up my throat. My hands were shaking—not from cold, from anger. The kind that started in your chest and spread outward, looking for somewhere to go.
"I don't know Mr. Boone," I said. My voice came out flat. Controlled. "I've never spoken to him outside of class and the hike. And if you think knowing how to treat hypothermia requires insider connections, maybe you should pay more attention to the lectures."
Derek's eyes narrowed. "Hey, I'm just asking questions—"
"No. You're repeating gossip and being an ass." I stood up, grabbing my supplies. "Find another partner. I'm done."
I walked away before he could respond. The room had gone quiet around us—not fully silent, but that particular hush that meant people were listening while pretending not to.
James was across the room, working with a dark-haired girl I recognized from somewhere. The mythology class. Ellen. She was going through a checklist focused and competent.
The hum flared as I approached. James looked up, surprise flickering across his face.
"Can I join you?" The words came out harder than I intended. "My partner has opinions about how I learned basic survival skills."
James glanced past me to where Derek was sitting alone, looking irritated. Something darkened in his expression.
"Yeah," he said. "Of course."
Ellen shifted to make room, and I dropped to my knees beside them, channeling all my anger into the task at hand.
"Ice water immersion scenario," I said. "What's your status?"
"Shivering stopped about ten minutes ago," James said, playing along. "Can't feel my hands."
“Severe hypothermia. We need to rewarm the core without triggering cardiac arrest.” I grabbed a thermal blanket from the supply kit. “Ellen, help me get his wet layers off. James—stop moving. You’re making it worse.”
His eyes flicked to mine, twinkling. I could almost read his mind. Yes, Lumi, get me out of my clothes.
I broke eye contact and got back to work. We moved through the scenario methodically. Ellen was good—quick hands, steady focus, no unnecessary chatter. James followed instructions without arguing, which was more than I could say for Derek.
Boone circled past us and nodded approvingly. "Excellent technique, Miss Orlav.
I didn't look at Derek. Didn't need to. I could feel his glare from across the room, sharp and resentful.
Good. Let him stare.
The mythology wing was quieter than usual.
I'd arrived early, hoping to slip into my seat before the room filled up. But the whispers followed me even here, drifting through the door as students filtered in.
"—heard she basically recited the whole myth from memory—"
"—how would she know all that unless—"
"—Tomlinson's practically family, right? Maybe he told her what to say—"
I stared at my notebook. The words blurred.
Cheated. They thought I'd cheated. Because I'd told Darian's story too well. Because I'd known things I shouldn't know, felt things I shouldn't feel, revealed too much of myself in a room full of strangers.
Ivy dropped into the seat beside me. "Hey. You okay?"
"Fine."
"Lumi."
"I said I'm fine."
She was quiet for a moment. Then: "I heard what happened in First Aid. Derek's an asshole, by the way. Everyone knows he coasted through orientation on his dad's donations."
“Great. So I’m the cheater because of who I know, and he gets to stay the rich asshole.”
"That's not—" Ivy stopped, frustration flickering across her face. "Look, people are idiots. They'll find something else to gossip about by next week."
"Will they?"
She didn't answer. We both knew the truth.
This place had a long memory.
I'd thought I could slip through unnoticed. Keep my head down, do my work, get what I needed and get out.
Twilson had made sure that wasn't an option anymore.
Professor Tomlinson entered through the side door, and the room gradually settled. I tried to focus on his lecture—something about the function of trickster figures across cultures—but the words kept sliding off my brain.
My name. They were using my name like a story.
The orphan who knows people. The girl who got called out. The problem Twilson had to handle.
I wasn't Lumi anymore. I was a narrative that bore no resemblance to truth.
The lecture ended. Students gathered their things, conversations resuming at normal volume.
"—can't believe she just switched partners like that—"
"—Tomlinson's going to give her an A no matter what—"
"—Twilson should've expelled her honestly—"
I shoved my notebook into my bag, keeping my movements controlled. Ivy reached for my arm.
"Lumi, wait—"
The classroom door opened.
Headmaster Twilson stepped inside.
He wasn't looking at the students filing past him. His gaze swept the room until it found Tomlinson at the podium, gathering his lecture notes.
"Professor Tomlinson." Twilson's voice carried—pitched to reach every corner, every ear. "I wanted to check in. Do you have any assignments that need... additional review? I did offer to personally ensure fairness in grading, given the circumstances."
The room went silent.
Every student still present—maybe a dozen of us—froze in place. I could feel their attention shifting, calculating, filing this moment away for later analysis.
Tomlinson's expression didn't change. "I appreciate the offer, Headmaster. But I believe my grading has always been quite fair."
"Of course, of course." Twilson smiled, benevolent and sharp. "I simply want to ensure there's no appearance of impropriety. You understand."
"I understand perfectly."
Tomlinson's tone was polite. His eyes were not.
Twilson nodded, satisfied with whatever point he'd made, and turned to leave. His gaze swept over the remaining students—
And stopped on me.
Just for a moment. Just long enough to make sure I knew he'd seen me watching. That he wanted me to know this performance had been for my benefit.
Then he was gone.
The silence broke. Conversations resumed, louder now, feeding on fresh material.
"—did you see that—"
"—basically accused Tomlinson of playing favorites—"
"—and she was right there—"
I walked out before I could hear more.
The bench behind the science building was occupied.
I stood at the edge of the pathway, staring at the two students who'd taken my hiding spot. They looked up, registered my expression, and quickly gathered their things.
"Sorry," one of them muttered. "We were just leaving."
They hurried off, and I sank onto the cold stone.
My hands were shaking again. Not from anger this time—from something worse. Something that felt like the ground shifting beneath my feet, every solid thing I'd built turning to sand.
I'd come to Frosthaven to learn. To prepare. To gather the skills I needed to climb Denali and save the wolf in my visions.
I hadn't planned on becoming a story.
But that's what I was now. The academy had taken my name, my history, my connections, and woven them into a narrative I couldn't control. Every whisper added another thread. Every sideways glance stitched me tighter into a shape I didn't recognize.
Orphan. Connected. Problem. Cheater.
The words formed a cage.
And the worst part? The worst part was knowing that nothing I did would change it. I could ace every assignment, excel in every class, prove myself a hundred times over—and they would still see what Twilson had told them to see.
Because that's how stories worked. Once they took hold, truth became irrelevant.
I pressed my palms against the cold stone and stared at the sky. Gray clouds were rolling in from the north, heavy with the promise of snow. Another storm coming. Another test of endurance.
Gregor's voice echoed in my memory: You can't control what people think. You can only control what you do.
But what was I supposed to do? Keep my head down and let them define me? Fight back and confirm every accusation they'd made? Leave, and prove that I couldn't handle it?
None of those options felt like winning.
The sound of footsteps made me tense, but it was just Ivy, picking her way across the frozen grass with two cups of coffee.
“Figured you’d be here.” She handed me one and sat beside me. “Or somewhere like this. You have a type.”
“A type?”
“Cold. Isolated. Broody.” She glanced up at the gray sky. “Honestly, very Edward Cullen. Are you secretly a vampire?”
I huffed a breath that might have been a laugh.
“I’m not brooding.”
“You are absolutely brooding. It’s fine. I’d brood too if the headmaster was running a quiet smear campaign and pretending it was about fairness.” She took a sip of her coffee. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you cheated.”
“Thanks.”
I wrapped my hands around the warm cup, letting the heat seep into my frozen fingers. "It doesn't matter what I did or didn't do. They've already decided."
"So change their minds."
"How?"
Ivy shrugged. "I don't know. But you're smart, and you're stubborn, and you've got that whole mysterious loner thing going for you. Use it."
"Use it for what?"
"For whatever you want." She bumped my shoulder with hers. "Look, I've known you for like a week, but I can already tell you're not the kind of person who gives up. So don't give up. Find another way."
I stared at the coffee in my hands. Steam curled up from the surface, dissipating into the cold air.
Find another way.
Easy to say. Harder to do.
But Ivy was right about one thing: I wasn't going to give up. I hadn't survived eighteen years as an orphan, raised by a man who taught me to fight and think and endure, just to crumble because some petty administrator decided to make me a target.
If Twilson wanted a villain, I'd disappoint him.
The academy wanted a story. I was already in the middle of my own, and I didn’t need any of them—
Well. I’d take Ivy. Maybe James. Rae and her mates, definitely. Alexandra. Probably Boone.
Shit.
When did I get a tribe?
That night, I lay in bed and listened to Ivy’s breathing even out into sleep.
The room was dark except for the faint glow of the emergency exit sign bleeding through our window. Outside, snow had started falling—soft flurries that would turn heavy by morning.
I’d heard my name a dozen times that day. In the dining hall. In class. In hallways and stairwells and conversations that went quiet when I passed.
Lumi Orlav. Two words that used to be mine. Two words that now belonged to everyone but me.
I thought about Darian’s story. The woman who walked between worlds, who didn’t fit anywhere but somehow made everywhere home. They’d told stories about her too. Called her dangerous. Called her an abomination.
They’d been wrong about her.
Maybe they were wrong about me too.
Or maybe it didn’t matter whether they were wrong or right. Maybe what mattered was what I did next.
The wolf was still waiting on the mountain. The vision still burned behind my eyes. I had a purpose that had nothing to do with whispers or gossip or administrative politics.
Twilson could watch me all he wanted. None of that changed the truth.
I knew who I was. I knew what I had to do. I closed my eyes and let the snow fall.
Tomorrow would bring more watching. More whispers. More careful steps. But tonight, in the dark, I made myself a promise.
They could tell whatever story they wanted.
I would be the one who decided how it ended.