Chapter 1
The third chime of the Solaria clock tower hadn’t finished echoing through the canopy before Shiloh realized he was completely, utterly doomed.
He sprinted across the damp, moss-covered vine-bridge, boots sliding on the slick bark. The soles had gone nearly bald from months of running errands for the campus kitchens, but there was no time to worry about traction. Botany was on the far side of the eastern trunk, and Professor Vance did not tolerate tardiness.
Thump. Thump. Clack.
His heavy canvas bag slammed against his hip with every stride — a wooden pocketknife rattling against a jar of blue healing salve, graphite pencils rolling over a tangled ball of twine, a few sugar cubes wrapped in greaseproof paper, just in case he crossed paths with the wild, sky-dappled horses that sometimes wandered down from the peaks.
“Out of the way — sorry, so sorry!” he gasped, ducking beneath a cluster of glowing breeze-fans swaying from a merchant’s awning.
The morning wind cut through his faded, oversized cardigan. He reached for the collar out of habit, tugging the wool tighter — and his thumb caught on an empty, frayed loop.
No button.
He’d snipped it off yesterday to fasten the torn cloak of a terrified first-year, moments before the opening ceremony. A loose green thread still dangled from the collar, a small reminder of Toby’s relieved smile. Shiloh let his hand fall, surrendering his fingers to the cold. They were stained violet — midnight berry ink, from three evenings spent rewriting botany diagrams for a classmate with a sprained wrist.
His lungs burned as the glass-domed greenhouse of the Botany Wing finally came into view, gleaming like a giant bubble nestled between two enormous branches. Relief flooded through him. He might actually make it.
“Shiloh! Thank goodness!”
His heart sank before he even turned around.
Garrick stood squarely in his path, blocking the narrow bridge, a towering stack of grease-stained brass gears wobbling in his arms. He flashed Shiloh a sheepish grin.
“Professor Vance needs these in the workshop before third chime,” he groaned, shifting the weight for effect. “But my wrist is killing me—”
Before Shiloh could get a word out, Garrick had already sighed with relief and dumped the gears straight into his arms. Cold, oil-slicked iron pressed into his forearms as he staggered to keep the stack from toppling.
His eyes flicked toward the clock tower. If he carried these to the workshop, there was no chance he’d make it to the exam. His fingers tightened around the brass. He looked back at Garrick — whose shoulders had already begun to relax, the worry melting off his face, as if simply handing this off had solved everything.
Shiloh couldn’t bring himself to ruin that.
“No problem, Garrick,” he said. “I’ll take them.”
Garrick was already thumbing at his enchanted slate. “Thanks, mate — you’re a lifesaver.” He didn’t wait for a reply. He didn’t look back.
Shiloh stood alone on the bridge, arms trembling under the weight of the gears. Then a sharp pinch bloomed in the center of his chest.
It wasn’t pain. Not exactly. A cold, hollow feeling spread beneath his ribs, as if someone had cracked a tiny window open inside him and let the winter in. He caught his breath as something warm slipped past his sleeve — a single golden spark, drifting free through the weave of his shirt. It hovered for a heartbeat, casting a soft glow over the grease-stained brass cradled in his arms, then vanished into the gray morning mist below.
Shiloh blinked. Shifted the gears against one hip, rubbed absently at his chest. The load felt heavier than it had a moment ago, and his steps slowed.
By the time he reached the workshop, each breath came shorter than the last. He shouldered the heavy oak door open.
The workshop was empty.
He stumbled in, arms shaking, and let the gears down onto the nearest bench with a metallic clang that rang through the empty room. Normally he’d have taken the time to stack them neatly — he always did.
Today he didn’t.
They lay scattered in a crooked, oil-slicked heap. He stared down at his grease-darkened hands, violet ink still clinging to the creases of his fingers.
He was late. Very late.
By the time he reached the Botany Wing, each breath scraped against his lungs. He leaned against the glass doors to steady himself. Inside, thirty students bent over long wooden tables, pencils racing across parchment. At the front, Professor Vance stood with his arms folded over a crisp dark-green coat.
Waiting.
Shiloh pushed the door open and stepped inside. The soft chime above the entrance rang out — impossibly loud.
Thirty heads lifted at once.
“Ah, Mr. Shiloh.” Professor Vance’s voice cut cleanly through the warm, soil-scented air. “How generous of you to join us. The exam began fifteen minutes ago.”
In the past, Shiloh would have lowered his head before the sentence even finished. I’m so sorry, Professor. I got caught helping someone. He’d have smiled, fidgeted with his sleeve, promised it wouldn’t happen again.
He didn’t.
He simply looked at Professor Vance. “I had to carry Garrick’s gears to the workshop.”
The words left him quietly. Plainly. Almost weightlessly.
Silence dropped over the greenhouse. Garrick’s pencil froze a hair above the parchment. Slowly, he turned to stare.
For the first time since Shiloh had enrolled at Solaria, the apology never came.
A faint crease appeared between the professor’s brows. “That is not your responsibility, Mr. Shiloh.” His voice stayed calm, though noticeably firmer. “Your responsibility was to be in this classroom at third chime. I do not tolerate excuses. You will have exactly twenty minutes to complete a forty-minute examination.” He gestured to the empty desk. “Take your seat.”
Once, Shiloh would have hurried down the aisle with his head bowed, murmuring a quiet thank you before disappearing into his chair.
Today, he just walked. He didn’t glance at Garrick. He didn’t return the sympathetic look another student offered him. He dropped into his seat, pulled a pencil from his satchel, and reached for the exam.
Glowing breeze-fans. Midnight berries. Moon-root anatomy.
Usually the names came as naturally as breathing. Today they were only words.
The classroom faded into the scratch of graphite on parchment. His hand moved steadily, precisely, never pausing to admire the illustrations, never frowning over a hard label, never checking an answer twice. Botany had always felt like a conversation — the old Latin names rolling through his thoughts like a familiar song, carrying the scent of damp earth and green leaves. Today they were only answers.
When the clock tower’s sharp chime rang out, he simply set down his pencil.
“Pencils down,” Professor Vance said. “Pass your papers forward.”
Shiloh rose, laid his exam on the growing stack, and slung his satchel over one shoulder. As he passed the podium, Vance watched him in silence, brow faintly furrowed — as if waiting for Shiloh to stop. To apologize. To ask if there was anything else that needed doing before he left.
He walked past without slowing.
The hallway beyond felt cool against his skin, but the hollow chill under his ribs stayed exactly where it was. He’d barely made it ten yards before a hand closed around his shoulder.
“Shiloh — hey, wait up!”
Garrick caught him halfway across the bridge, cheeks flushed, eyes darting through the crowd of passing students. He steered Shiloh into a quiet alcove beside one of the great oak pillars without waiting for permission.
“Mate, what was that?” he hissed. “You actually told Vance those were my gears?”
Once, Shiloh would already have been apologizing — stumbling over his words, insisting he hadn’t meant to get Garrick in trouble, finding some way to make it his own fault.
Instead, he just looked at him. “Yes.”
Garrick stared. “Vance gave me a week of workshop detention! He said if I fake an injury again, he’ll suspend me from the cohort! Why would you tell him that? We’re friends!”
Shiloh was quiet a moment. “You weren’t hurt,” he said finally. “You just didn’t want to carry them.”
The words weren’t sharp. Weren’t angry. Just true.
Garrick’s mouth fell open, searching Shiloh’s face as if trying to find the friend he’d spoken to an hour earlier. “You’re... being a real jerk today.”
Shiloh blinked once. “Maybe.”
He turned and kept walking, his footsteps fading into the creak of old wood. Garrick didn’t call after him.
He ducked into an abandoned, moss-covered stairwell spiraling down the side of the eastern trunk, far below the student pathways. Down there, the valley mist hung thick and damp. Shiloh leaned back against the rough bark, breath coming in shallow, cold puffs, and let his heavy canvas bag drop to the floor with a dull thud.
