Ivy didn't hesitate.
The second Arlo stood and left the auditorium, she slid out from behind the broken podium and followed.
No one stopped her. No one even noticed. The rest of the school was too busy whispering about the girl on the screen, debating whether it was deepfake tech, a prank, or a weird psychology experiment.
But Ivy knew it wasn't a prank. She could feel the echo of that video under her skin like static.
Out in the hallway, everything was too quiet.
She caught a glimpse of Arlo's coat disappearing around the corner at the far end of the West Wing. His movements were sharp, purposeful. She broke into a jog.
"Arlo!"
He didn't stop.
He moved past the language hall, past the photography wing—into the old wing that had been closed off since freshman year after the roof leak. The door at the end was chained shut, padlocked with rusted iron and warning signs:
NO ENTRY. DANGEROUS STRUCTURE.
She caught up to him just as he raised a hand—
—and passed right through the door.
Ivy skidded to a stop.
"What the—?"
There was no time to think. She reached out, touched the wood—and it was solid. Still locked. Still rusted.
But her fingers tingled where they touched it. Not just numb. Not just cold.
Alive.
She closed her eyes.
And the door answered.
There was a soft click, not mechanical—more like a sigh. Then the padlock fell open. The chain slithered to the ground like a snake giving up.
She stepped inside.
---
It was darker than it should've been. The light overhead blinked once, then died completely.
She followed the sound of footsteps until they stopped abruptly.
And there he was.
Arlo Vane, standing in the center of an abandoned classroom that looked… wrong.
Not just old. Out of place.
There were sigils carved into the desk surfaces. Runes scratched into the floor tiles. Ivy felt them before she saw them—like someone had traced lightning across the room and left it humming.
"Where are we?" she asked softly.
Arlo turned.
His face looked different in this light—sharper. Less shadowed. There were lines beneath his eyes that hadn't been there before, not from age, but like someone had drawn sadness into his skin.
"This was our room," he said.
"What?"
"Yours. Mine. And the others. Back then."
"Back when?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, he knelt near a desk, reached beneath it, and pulled something from the wood.
A carved emblem. A symbol.
It matched the one Ivy had drawn in her notebook days ago. The one that came without thinking.
She took a step back. "That's not possible."
"You're not supposed to remember yet," Arlo said quietly. "You were protected. From all of this. Until the Veil thinned."
"What Veil?"
He looked up.
And Ivy suddenly noticed something—something that made her throat tighten.
Arlo wasn't breathing.
No rise or fall. No sound.
She stared at his chest.
It didn't move.
"Are you—are you real?"
He looked… hurt. Not wounded. Just disappointed.
"You drew me," he said again. "That makes me real enough."
"No," she whispered. "No, I mean—you knew what I was going to draw. That makes you—"
"I remember everything you forgot," he said. "That's why I'm still here."
The room trembled.
Not from an earthquake.
From memory.
Ivy stumbled back against the wall, blinking hard as flashes poured across her mind—
A fire in a hallway. Screaming. A blade of glass. A crown melting into her hands.
Arlo screaming her name.
Mirelen.
She fell to her knees.
The room stopped shaking.
Arlo was in front of her, kneeling, but not touching her.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"What was that?" she whispered, voice cracking.
"Your first waking. The first fracture."
She looked up at him. His eyes weren't silver anymore.
They were gold.
And they were glowing.
---
End of Chapter Four