Fury filled Callam at the slur.

  He’d already wanted to clobber Sebastian—to make him feel even a tenth of the pain Moose had suffered due to the noble’s betrayal. Now, only the presence of the professors kept Callam from swinging, and he couldn’t stop himself from clenching his fists.

  “Explain,” Olenid said, grabbing the noble’s arm. Though the man’s voice stayed quiet, the blond boy winced at the touch. “Quickly.”

  Sebastian glared at Callam. Behind them, the castle’s walls shrouded the whole of the outdoor garden in shadow. “That thief broke into my family’s manner not three cycles past. Father was intent on the old justice, but I begged forgiveness.”

  Begged what?

  “You wielded the sword meant for my throat!” Callam snarled. How dare Sebastian act the hero here? Surely he hadn’t forgotten trying to kill Callam after Scriptor Writ had passed judgement. Rain had pattered on the library ceiling, its gentle drumming a sharp contrast to the violence unfolding underneath.

  Sebastian scoffed. “I asked my manservant to tend to you first, didn’t I? Why would I do that, if I’d wanted you dead?”

  Huh?

  Angry as Callam was, it took a moment for the words to register. Once they had, they echoed inside his mind and made him question all he knew. The seething part of him—the part that knew Sebastian a traitor responsible for Moose pain—saw this for what it was. A ruse. A convenient excuse made to deflect blame. And yet…

  I never did hear what he said that night at the manor.

  The thought refused to quiet. Much as he’d like to play dumb, he did remember the boy pointing his way after he’d fallen to his knees in the study. Was it possible the act had been one of mercy, not violence?

  He didn’t know.

  Anger slowly drained at the realization, leaving exhaustion in its wake—truth was, he felt like a boy who’d been set upon by wolves, and now had no one to blame for the ambush. No one to rage at and hit. Instead, he seemed doomed to remain in the dark about who’d riled up the beasts.

  He hated that.

  “We cherish the enemy we know,” the stanzas claimed. Never had the saying rung so true.

  Olenid broke the silence. “The point remains that your team nearly died today, Sebastian.”

  “Died?” The boy’s frown made clear Rote had not yet caught him up.

  “A thousand beasts swarmed them,” Olenid said. “They needed your help.”

  The noble looked aghast, and for a moment Callam thought he might have the decency to be ashamed. Then the boy spoke, and his tone had enough venom to poison a man. “My grimoire specializes in healing. Not field spells. What could I have done had I been there? Fall in their stead?”

  Tension returned to Callam’s hands.

  “Men die,” Rote spat before Callam could speak up. “Boys hide behind their wetmaid’s skirts. Which are you? Proctor or coward?”

  “Peace, Rote,” said a voice to their left. Headmaster Vale approached from the castle’s arched entryway, his white shawls trailing the stone path. “The second-year has a point: even a team of proctors would have been carrion to those beasts, had you not stepped in.”

  Callam's nose flared at the excuse. So what if the odds were inevitable? Moose had not fled. Justifying cowardice only cheapened that sacrifice.

  “I’m sure you are all worn to the bone. Let us put this to rest for today,” Vale added, then turned to the professors. “I trust you two capable of investigating why we’ve a beast swarm on this floor? Poet willing it’s a one-off instance and not some rogue Quller upsetting the wildlif—”

  “Sebastian is our assigned proctor,” Lenora whispered, tone cold as ice. “And Moose suffered for it.”

  “That he is…” the headmaster replied, cocking his head as if seeing her for the first time. With Lenora’s glassy eyes and crossed arms, she looked like a statue trying to hold herself upright. “And that he did. What would you have me do? Strip Sebastian's title? Dock his pay?”

  “Yes.”

  The noble paled. “Heathen’s have you. I’ll not be punished because I had better things to do tha—“

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  “Enough.” Vale interrupted. “Sebastian, while you are right that your efforts would have been in vain, you are wrong to forget we are a country at war. Many standing armies would consider your actions desertion. I do not, because I know the foolishness of youth and believe it my duty to nurture all our talents, not just our four-star wielders. Yet I am not master of this Tower, so your fate will be put to vote. Understood?”

  Sebastion glowered, yet said nothing more.

  “Good. Lenora, Callam, I trust you’ll treat our decision as final. In the meantime, I hope you find your beds comfortable. Rest. We will have food sent up.”

  ~~~

  Callam awoke to the sound of bookbags being unpacked and boys clambering up bunks. Dying light from the small window spoke to it being late evening, as did the lanterns flickering on the far side of the room. A bowl of oceanstrider soup lay on the bedside table, smelling of onion and roast potato. He rested the tray on his knees, and ate quickly, dunking chunks of malen bread into the liquid to soak up the spiced broth.

  Questions began flowing in as soon as he’d finished. “A beast wave, is it true?” asked a dark-skinned tomebound named Augusto, who slept in the cot across the room.

  “Think the beasts caused the thunder?” said a chubby boy with an eager face as he peered down from the bunk above. “I’ve heard vegetation in the Western Isles can draw in lightning. Prairieplights are mostly roots, aren’t they…?”

  “Not sure.” Callam was too tired for a lengthy talk, yet begging for rest did little to discourage the boys, so he turned on his side and pulled up his blanket amid grumbled complaints.

  His bruised hips joined in on the discord.

  They protested every dip in his mattress, every knot in the wooden frame below. Another turn had him lying flat on his back. This time, all he achieved was making his legs twitch—they’d not stop moving. Had he been more superstitious, he’d have thought them running from the day to come.

  He ignored the warning. Shifting his pillow into the crook of his neck, he groaned and tried to fall back asleep. Tomorrow, he’d test his theory about the prairieplights, and for that he’d need his energy.

  Facing them alone is stupid.

  That little voice in the back of his head was louder than a drop of water on stone, and it repeated itself over and over again until he’d no choice but to listen. Who was he to think he’d found a solution to the beasts that the professors had missed? And was he a poor friend for even thinking of putting himself back in danger after Moose’s act of bravery?

  He was, wasn’t he?

  Guilt roiled in his stomach, churning the broth that had settled there. What was he to do? Beasts were intent on toppling humanity. They were the creatures of the night. They attacked ships, destroyed crops, and smote the very lighthouses Scriptors sought to protect. He’d always known that to be the case, and that conviction had only solidified when the Chapelward had burned.

  And when little Orian had died in the flames.

  Callam’s chest tightened, a feeling of powerlessness creeping in again. His four-post bunkbed was no longer a sanctuary, but a tinderbox. The smell of ash filled his nose. In his mind’s eye, he watched as the wood above him caved in. Screaming rang in his ears. So much of his recent sense of purpose came from needing to protect those he loved and wanting to exact revenge on the beasts. Those impulses dominated even now, and he had to stop him from pulling out his grimoire and practicing his spellwork.

  So what will I do if they’re not all all soulless predators?

  The question felt so sacrilegious, gross, and disrespectful to Orian’s past and Moose’s current suffering that Callam nearly buried it.

  Nearly.

  I have to know.

  Right or wrong, his mind was made up. It was as Siela said, “Riches unread made starving men.” Ignorance only served the blind.

  Sleep, when it came again, was restless. Creatures haunted the edges of his dreams. They were the ghosts in the mirror, the legions of the Far Away, snatching and pulling at his consciousness until he was but a specter floating above his own form. There, he watched in concert with the beasts as they crept underground, stalking a young boy dressed in rags who tended to a small campfire. Thousands of root-like appendages rose from the earth and converged on the child in an effort to swallow him whole.

  The boy's silhouette flickered. He screamed in surprise.

  It was a tortured sound, ending only when the child looked up; Callam saw he had no face, just matted brown hair and pools of ink for eyes. A line stretched across his mouth where the lips should be—a line that, instead of tensing in fear, curved open to reveal rows and rows of white insects with paper wings. They swarmed out like hungry locusts in search of seeds.

  “Take the second, add the fourth,” the boy sang in a foreign tongue as the constructs buzzed overhead. Each clashed with a root. “Take the second, add the fourth!” The child’s chanting grew louder and more frantic. Ink ran down his cheeks. His arms began waving in a hypnotic dance. They lengthened to dark points. Coals burned under his feet. “Pollen taken is pollen found. Turn the bee upside dow—”

  “Mornin’!”

  A tap on the forehead shattered Callam’s nightmare. His eyes flew open as he shot upwards into a sitting position. Sweat clung to his back. His heart would not stop racing.

  “Sorry to wake you,” Augusto said, standing next to him. The tomebound had already dressed in blue linens and a corded sash. “Figured our local celebrity wouldn’t want to sleep through Conditioning. Irem doesn’t seem the type to excuse the famous.”

  What?

  Callam rubbed his eyes and tried to wake up; his face must have shown his confusion, for the boy laughed. “Wishtales of your battle have already lit the campus on fire. The stories say you, Moose, and Lenora were of the Prophets and the Poet, fighting as one against the beasts. Some are even calling for the plights to be purged in the thousands. For historical accuracy, you know?”

  A groan escaped Callam’s lips at the news; the last thing he needed was more attention right now. He fell back on his bed, only to wince at the wet sheets. Had he really dreamt of a dancing boy? He pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to recall. Poet’s hand, he had, hadn’t he? Or maybe not. Already, the remnants of his nightmare were fading.

  So why did they feel so important?

  “Coming?”

  “… yeah. Thanks for rousing me.” Callam shifted until his feet met the cold ground, then stood up and dressed. For all his teasing, Augusto was right: the teachers were unlikely to see the near assassination as worthy of a break.