The dormitory door closed behind Amber with a groan like an old throat clearing. The corridor she stood in was narrow, lined with doors identical to her own—each numbered in iron, each scarred by scratches that looked too deliberate to be accidents. A faint draft whispered through the hall, carrying with it the scent of damp stone and candle smoke. Somewhere distant, a piano note hung in the air, sharp and discordant, then vanished before she could tell if it was real.
Her room waited at the end of the passage. Number 37. She unlocked it with the brass key Mrs. Whitmore had pressed into her hand and pushed it open.
The chamber was small, but not barren. A narrow bed stood against the wall, its quilt the color of ash. The wooden desk bore faint carvings—names etched into its surface by restless hands. One name had been gouged so deep it split the wood grain, letters half-lost but still legible: Mara.
Amber traced it with her fingertip, the grooves catching at her skin. A forgotten ribbon dangled from the iron bedpost, frayed and brittle with age. She tugged at it gently. It snapped, breaking apart as though it had waited years to give up.
She set her trunk at the foot of the bed but did not unpack. Instead, she walked to the window, brushing away the layer of dust that clouded the glass. Outside, the courtyard lay in solemn silence. The rain had stopped, leaving the stones slick and black. In the corner, the old woman with the broom was gone, but Amber felt certain the memory of those eyes had not been imagined.
A bell tolled, low and sonorous. Its vibration seemed to ripple through the very stones. The sound called her downward, to the refectory for supper. She hesitated only a moment before obeying.
---
The refectory was a cavern of oak beams and smoke-darkened walls. A long table stretched the length of the hall, its surface polished but scarred, flanked by benches that groaned under the weight of students. Tall candles flickered in wrought-iron holders, their flames shuddering against unseen drafts.
Amber slipped into a seat at the far end, careful not to draw eyes. The murmur of voices filled the space—low, secretive, as if the students feared the walls themselves might be listening. She kept her hands folded in her lap, gaze steady but unobtrusive, drinking everything in.
It was then she noticed them.
At the opposite end of the hall, five figures clustered together like shadows cut from the same cloth. They did not blend with the others, though the others pretended not to stare. Their presence bent the room around them, a gravity Amber felt even from afar.
Jonas Whitlock sat at the edge, quiet as a stone in water. His posture was composed, his dark eyes fixed not on his plate but on the space beyond, as if he alone heard a rhythm no one else could. Beside him, Clara Duskbourne leaned with feline ease, her red lips curved into a smirk that promised both secrets and danger. She tapped one long finger against the rim of her glass, leaving the faintest smear of crimson.
Across from her sat Elias Moreau, sharp angles and sharper eyes. His fork traced idle patterns against the wood, like a man drawing battle lines invisible to the rest. The flicker of candlelight made his features severe, almost sculpted.
Ivy Ravenshaw was the only one who laughed—soft, melodic, but never careless. She whispered something to Clara, and the two shared a glance sharp enough to cut glass. Her hair fell like shadow around her shoulders, and Amber saw how other students leaned closer when she passed, as if Ivy drew them without effort.
And then Noah Blackwell. His presence was quieter, yet heavier than the rest. He wore silence not as a flaw, but as a shield. The faint gleam of metal caught Amber's eye—his prosthetic arm resting against the table, fingers curled with natural precision. He looked like a man both broken and made whole again, scars pressed into steel.
They did not notice her. Not yet. But Amber noticed everything—the way their shoulders aligned, the silent language in their glances, the unspoken truth that they were not merely friends. They were something more—something formed and bound in secrecy.
The food arrived: bread, broth, meat gone tough from long hours in the pot. Amber chewed mechanically, though her eyes never left the five. The room swirled with chatter, yet she sat as the quiet sentinel, watching the patterns no one else dared to name.
---
After supper, the students were dismissed with strict efficiency. Amber lingered, waiting for the five to rise before she moved. They did not glance her way, yet she followed the trail of their presence out of the refectory and into the labyrinthine halls.
The academy's corridors seemed alive at night. Shadows clung too closely to the corners, and the portraits seemed to shift when she passed. One painting showed a woman with silver hair and hollow eyes, her hand raised as if to warn. Another depicted a man whose face had been slashed through, paint torn away in furious strokes.
Her steps quickened. At the turn of the east corridor, she stopped.
The five were there, gathered in a hush by a grand staircase. She could not hear their words, but their posture told enough: Clara leaned close, whispering into Elias's ear; Jonas watched the shadows above, unmoving; Ivy's eyes glinted with amusement, while Noah's hand flexed against his journal as though holding something unsaid.
Amber's heart pounded. She should turn away. She should return to her room. But her feet betrayed her, carrying her closer, each step as quiet as she could make it. She reached the corner, breath held, just as Elias looked up—his gaze slicing through the air like a blade.
Amber froze. For a heartbeat, she thought he had seen her. But his eyes swept past, sharp but distracted, and she let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
Then, as if rehearsed, the five dispersed. One by one, they melted into different corridors, leaving only echoes behind.
Amber remained alone.
---
That night, the dormitory refused her sleep. The bed was too rigid, the silence too heavy. She tossed beneath the quilt, staring at the ceiling where cracks spiderwebbed like veins.
Somewhere deep in the academy, a violin played. Low, mournful, almost broken. The melody twisted through the stones, carrying sorrow so sharp it cut. Amber sat upright, her chest tight.
She stepped to the window, pushing it open to the night air. The courtyard lay drowned in moonlight, silver and cold. No one stood with a broom this time. But she swore she saw movement—a figure drifting between the hedges, cloak trailing like mist.
The violin ceased.
And in the silence that followed, Amber heard it: a whisper, faint but distinct, rising from the floor beneath her bed. Words she could not understand, but that carried the weight of age, of grief, of warning.
She pressed her ear to the boards, breath shallow. The voice was gone.
Amber lay back in bed, heart refusing rest. She had come to Grimrose as a girl her parents thought too silent. But tonight proved one thing beyond doubt.
Her silence would not last.
Not here.
Not in Grimrose.