Chapter 1
The stone was cold under Evander’s knees, and the boot in front of him hadn’t gotten any cleaner in the last ten minutes no matter how hard he scrubbed.
“You missed a spot,” said Renn, a third-year from House Aldric who’d never once earned his own rank the honest way, nudged the toe of his boot forward, smearing fresh mud across the leather Evander had just cleaned. “There. Now go at it again.”
Evander didn’t look up. He’d learned a long time ago that looking up only gave them something to laugh at. At the end of the day, these lot were all a bunch of snobbish kids that knew no better than to chastise those below them
“Yes, my lord.”
The words tasted like rust in his mouth, same as they had every morning for the last two years. He dipped the rag back into the bucket and kept working while the small crowd of nobles behind Renn snickered into their sleeves.
Somewhere above them, the Academy’s bell tower cast a long shadow across the courtyard, cutting Evander in half at the waist.
Fitting. That was about how much of himself he had left these days.
He almost didn’t notice when the courtyard went quiet, though it wasn’t a natural quiet. It was the kind that happened when everyone straightened their spines at once, when conversations died mid-sentence because something more interesting had just walked through the gate.
Something more... dramatic and intimidating.
Evander knew that particular silence all to well, he didn't even need to look up to know who caused it.
But nevertheless, he did just that.
Draven Valerius crossed the courtyard like he owned every stone in it, which, in every way that mattered, he did. Three of his usual entourage flanked him, all polished boots and pressed collars, and even from here Evander could see the way people parted for him without being asked.
Nobody made Draven ask for anything. That had always been true, even back when they were kids sneaking out of etiquette lessons to throw rocks into the lake behind the east wing, Draven did whatever he saw fit.
No questions asked, but permission was always granted.
Evander lowered his eyes and went back to the boot, and yeah for a moment he almost made it without grabbing his attention, but then a shadow fell across him, and then a boot came down on his hand, pinning it flat against the floor.
It was not hard enough to break anything, that much was sure, but it was just hard enough to make a point.
“Careful,” Draven said, and his voice hadn’t changed either, still that same bored, cutting drawl he’d used since he was twelve years old and already better than everyone around him. “Wouldn’t want you to embarrass yourself further, would we.”
The crowd laughed, loud and obnoxious. Of
Evander stayed bent low, his hand trapped under Draven’s boot, and said nothing for exactly as long as his pride could stand it, which turned out to be about three seconds.
“You know,” he said, “I used to think you’d grow out of this.”
Something flickered across Draven’s face.
“Out of what.”
“Being cruel just because. It's pathetic Draven."
The pressure on his hand increased for one sharp second before Draven pulled his foot back like Evander’s skin had burned him. He straightened, tugging at his collar, and for a moment the two of them just looked at each other over the heads of a dozen nobles who had no idea they were watching something that used to be a friendship.
“Watch your mouth,” Draven said, quieter now. Quiet enough that only Evander heard it. “You’re not who you used to be. Try to remember that.”
“Neither are you,” Evander said. “Try to remember that.”
Draven’s jaw tightened. For a breath, Evander thought he might actually say something real, something that wasn’t performance for the crowd behind him. Instead he turned on his heel and walked away, his entourage falling into step around him, already laughing about something else, already moving on to whatever came next in a day that cost Evander nothing and everything all at once.
That was when Evander saw it.
Just above the line of Draven’s collar, where his cloak had shifted during the exchange, a thread of ash-gray veins curled up the side of his neck like something had cracked underneath his skin and was leaking through. It was there and gone in a blink, covered again the second Draven adjusted his collar, but Evander had spent his whole childhood memorizing every detail of that face. He knew what he’d seen.
He just didn’t know what it meant yet.
The stables were dark by the time Evander finished his chores, and he was grateful for it. Now that everyone was back in their own rooms, he could finally have some peace and quiet all to himself.
He’d just pulled the blanket over the last horse and was reaching for the lantern when a hand closed over his mouth from behind and something cold and sharp pressed against his throat.
He went still immediately.
“Say a word,” a voice breathed against his ear shakily, “and I'll rip your throat wide open.”
Evander knew that voice. Even wrecked and unsteady like this, even stripped down to something raw and frightened underneath all that noble polish, he could tell who owned that snobbish pitch.
“Draven,” he said carefully, around the hand still pressed to his mouth.
The grip loosened, just slightly. Enough for Evander to turn around slowly, hands raised high in the air and get his first real look at him.
Draven was pale, like ghostly pale. Sweat clung to his hairline, and his hand, the one holding the blade, trembled hard enough that the metal caught the light in unsteady flashes. The collar of his shirt had come undone, and there, spreading up his throat in thin gray lines, was the same rot Evander had glimpsed in the courtyard. Except now it wasn’t hiding, it was clear as day how that thing had begun eaten at him.
“You saw it back then didn't you,” Draven asked, though technically it wasn't a question since he was so sure. “In the courtyard. I know you saw it.”
“Well I did see something.”
“Then you know what happens to me if anyone else sees it too.”
Evander held his gaze steady, even with a blade an inch from his throat and a boy in front of him who used to be his best friend before he became someone who ridiculed him for sport.
“You could’ve just asked me not to say anything,” Evander said. “You didn’t need to do all this.”
Draven’s hand shook harder. “I don’t trust you.”
“You don’t have a reason to,” Evander said. “But you’re the one who came to find me. So which is it, Draven. Are you here to kill me, or are you here because you need my help.”
For a long moment, Draven said nothing at all. The blade stayed where it was, but his eyes, wide and wrecked in the dark, gave him away completely.
