The infirmary smelled like silver and rot. Wolves lined the room in uneven rows, their breathing shallow, their skin pale under the glow of the infirmary lights. The thin layer of sweat shimmered across their faces against the white glare.
Nurses moved like whispers through the haze, their gloves glinting as they mixed potions that no longer seemed to work.
Thorn stood at the threshold, bandaged arm crossed over her chest, Xavier steady beside her. They hadn't meant to stop and stare, but something about the stillness rooted them both in place.
The nurse unhooked Thorn's IV only an hour ago, pronouncing her "stable." The word didn't feel true. She still felt the ache under her ribs, the phantom burn of garlic, and the hum of magic that hadn't quite quieted in her blood. But they needed the room, and an allergic reaction was the least of their worries.
As they turned to leave, a wheelchair wheeled past them.
It was Danny.
He was barely conscious, body trembling under the blankets. His parents trailed behind, hollow-eyed. Their expressions were distant and resigned.
For a second, she didn't recognize him. Unable to believe that the boy in front of her was the very soul who used to toss paper balls at her during study hall, who laughed too loudly, and who made Pippa snort milk at breakfast with some terrible pun he always had locked and loaded.
His skin was colorless, stretched thin and pale over his trembling bones; his lips were cracked, and his breath was shallow. The antiseptic air did nothing to hide the sharp tang of silver rising off him like smoke.
"Danny?" she whispered, the name trembling on her tongue before she could stop it. The sound of it felt too fragile for the room, like glass about to splinter.
His eyes fluttered open. For a moment, he didn't see Thorn, even though she was only a few feet away. Then, he did.
Thorn's stomach dropped.
His eyes weren't his warm honey brown anymore. They were grey, metallic grey. Like steel polished to a mirror. Empty and reflective.
Danny had always been alive in that reckless way werewolves were, full of motion and mischief. Now, it was as if something had hollowed him out and left a ghost behind.
Everything about him was wrong.
"Thorn." The sound of her name rasped out of his throat, more breath than voice. His hand jerked weakly from beneath the blanket, reaching for her. She caught it before she could think better of it. His grip was frail, barely there, but his fingers clung like he was drowning.
"Make it stop…" he whispered.
The plea hit her like a blade, slicing through any wall that tried to stand.
Her own hand shook as she leaned in closer, ignoring any sense of self-preservation. "Danny, I—"
She wanted to tell him she would, that she'd find a way, that she'd fix it somehow.
But her throat locked. Because she was never really the type to fix anything. Only survive them.
The air between them shimmered. A cold mist escaped Danny's mouth with every breath, curling like frost-smoke.
Thorn gasped. The moment the mist brushed her skin, her pulse lurched and then faltered. Her veins lit up like threads of fire. The cold dug into her blood like claws, burning from the inside out. She stumbled back, clutching her chest.
"Thorn?" Xavier's voice broke through the static in her head. He caught her just as her knees gave out, her body already trembling with the shock of it.
"Don't—" she managed, voice rough and weak. "Don't touch me."
"Too late," he said, slipping an arm under her before she could collapse. Her gaze never left Danny's. Her lips parted, but nothing came. How could she promise she'd stop this when she couldn't even stand?
"You're freezing," Xavier muttered, his voice low, almost to himself.
Thorn didn't answer. She couldn't feel her pulse anymore. Only the burn that was crawling higher, threading light beneath her skin, and Danny's eyes. Pleading, fading, already gone somewhere she couldn't reach.
The hallway blurred around her as he carried her away, the sound of the infirmary doors slamming shut behind them.
Xavier's grip tightened around her waist as he steadied her, his touch firm but careful. "Come on," he mumbled under his breath, his jaw tight.
"Let's get you out of here before someone notices."
The hall outside the infirmary was colder than before. The lanterns along the wall flickered unevenly, their light bouncing off the old stone and casting moving shadows that made everything feel unsteady. Thorn's boots scuffed the tile, slow and uncoordinated, her balance off. She hated that he noticed, hated that she needed him to.
Neither of them spoke as they moved down the corridor, their footsteps echoing in a rhythm that didn't quite match their pace. The silence stretched over them, not awkward, but full of the things they didn't want to bring up.
When they reached the stairwell, the iron railing chilled her palm. Xavier adjusted his hold, looping her arm more securely around his shoulders to take some of her weight.
"My dorm's closer," he said quietly. "We'll go there."
"No, we won't," Thorn rasped, breathless. "Walk me up to mine."
He gave her a look that wasn't unkind, just impossible to argue with. "It's either my dorm or we go back to the infirmary."
She glared at him, even through the exhaustion.
"You're terrible at taking no for an answer."
"Yeah, well, you're terrible at pretending you're fine," he shot back.
Her lips parted to argue, but the next step made her stumble, her body lurching toward him. Xavier caught her before she fell, the movement instinctive.
"Fine," she muttered. "Your dorm. But only because I'd rather die than listen to another nurse tell me to 'rest and hydrate.'"
Xavier huffed something that might've been a laugh, though it came out tight. "Noted."
He guided her up the next flight, their steps slower now; the only sounds were the quiet drag of her breath and the creak of old stairs beneath them.
By the time they reached the second floor, Thorn's head had started to spin. The faint hum of resonance still lingered under her skin. It crawled just beneath the surface like a second pulse.
Xavier fished his key from his pocket and pushed open the door to his dorm with his shoulder.
Soft light seeped in through the narrow window, as it sliced through streaks of charcoal along his walls. The air smelled faintly of paint and iron and something earthy, like rain that hadn't quite fallen.
He eased her toward the bed, careful not to jostle her. "Sit," he said simply.
She sat. Barely. Her legs trembled.
"Where's Malrick?" She asked.
"Probably getting high behind the greenhouse."
She nodded faintly. "Lucky him."
Xavier moved to the small desk near the window. He gathered stray brushes and paint jars into some semblance of order, in need of something to do with his hands.
When he spoke again, his voice was quiet, as if it were a confession. "I keep seeing it. The song."
Her eyes opened fully. "In your head?"
"In my dreams," he said, not looking at her. "Sometimes it's just sound. Sometimes it's people. A crowd in the woods. Singing." He swallowed hard, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the wall. "And every time, I wake up before it ends. Before I see who's leading it."
Thorn shifted slightly against the pillow, her voice still rough. "And you think doing nothing is going to make it stop?"
He glanced over, tired but firm. "I think we're both too wrecked to play heroes right now."
She gave a short, humorless laugh. "We can't just sit here, Xavier… you know that."
"Maybe not," he said quietly, dragging a hand through his hair, "but you're not exactly in a position to go chasing mysteries either."
"But Danny—"
"Danny is going home with his family. Resting and getting better. The same thing you should be doing."
As Xavier set down the last paintbrush into the glass jar on his desk, his phone rang. The vibration in his pocket grabbed his attention almost immediately.
He pulled his phone out and glanced down at the name.
Victor Thorpe.
Xavier felt his heart go down six feet to the ground, his blood running cold at the thought of what his father wanted to talk to him about; he knew what his father wanted to talk about. Principal Maren probably called him about the incident in Mrs. Weaver's classroom.
"Give me one sec," Xavier muttered under his breath, walking towards the bathroom in the corner of his room. Thorn didn't even have a chance to say anything before Xavier locked himself behind the thick wooden door.
Xavier leaned back against the door, his phone vibrating once more in his hand before he finally answered.
"Father."
The word came out flatter than he meant it to.
"Don't sound so overjoyed, Xavier." Victor Thorpe's voice drawled, sharp and precise even through the static. "I assume you've heard the news. Or rather... been a part of it."
Xavier pinched the bridge of his nose. "If this is about Mrs. Weaver—"
"It's about Reichenbach," Victor cut in. "And how I sent my son off to Switzerland to rehabilitate his reputation, only to find that he is in the middle of another scandal."
Xavier's jaw tightened. "I wasn't involved."
"According to Principal Maren," his father continued smoothly, "you were adjacent. Which, in your case, is the same thing."
He could hear papers shifting on the other end, the sound of his father's multitasking even as he reprimanded him. Always efficient. Always detached.
"I told you, I didn't do anything wrong," Xavier said quietly, his voice rougher now. "I was just trying to help someone."
There was a beat of silence. Then Victor sighed. "That's precisely the problem, Xavier. You always think you're helping. You get pulled into every broken thing and call it compassion."
Xavier's pulse thudded in his ears. "You make it sound like that's a bad thing."
"It's naïve," Victor snapped. "And dangerous. For you. For our name. You don't seem to understand that every time you attach yourself to another disaster, you drag the Thorpe family down with you."
Xavier stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, dark circles under his eyes, charcoal smudged across his knuckles. "Maybe the Thorpe family could use a little dragging," he muttered.
"What was that?"
"Nothing," Xavier said quickly.
His father exhaled sharply through his nose. "I'm giving you one warning, Xavier. Keep your head down. Stay out of trouble. And stay away from that girl."
Xavier's chest tightened. "Thorn?"
"I don't care what her name is," Victor said, voice cool as glass. "She's trouble. The kind that follows you into headlines and courtrooms. Do not make the same mistake twice."
The line went dead before Xavier could respond.
He stood there for a moment, the dial tone echoing in his ear, before he slowly lowered the phone. His reflection looked worse now, somehow. Tired, hollow, and angry in a quiet way that scared even him.
Xavier turned on the faucet, splashed cold water on his face, and let the sound of it drown out the noise in his head.
When he finally stepped back into the room, Thorn was sitting at his desk.
Her back was to him, head tilted slightly as she studied the artwork taped to the wall above. Her fingers traced the edges of a few sketches, careful not to smudge the graphite. The faint lamplight painted her in amber and shadow, softening the sharp lines of exhaustion still etched into her face.
She turned when she heard the door click shut. Her eyes met his, steady and unreadable. For a heartbeat, neither of them said anything.
"You look like you just got scolded," she said finally, voice dry.
"Something like that." Xavier crossed the room and stopped beside her, his gaze following hers to the sketches on the wall. Each one was older. Nevermore, his old art shed, faces he'd stopped drawing months ago. All ghosts now.
"They're good," Thorn said after a pause, tapping one of the corners with her nail. "Too good for this place."
He huffed, not quite a laugh. "Yeah, well, Reichenbach doesn't exactly inspire creativity. Just paranoia."
She gave a faint sound that could've been agreement. He watched her for a second longer before shifting the subject. "You hungry? We could go down for lunch."
Her eyes flicked toward him, cautious. "You offering out of pity or obligation?"
"Neither," he said, picking up a stray pencil and setting it back down again. "Just figured you might want to eat something before you pass out again."
That earned him the smallest hint of a smirk. "You're terrible at subtlety, you know that?"
"Yeah," he said, tone dry. "I've heard."
Thorn sighed, glancing once more at the wall before pushing away from the desk. "Fine, but only because the weekend menu is better than the weekday one."
When they stepped out into the corridor together, the silence between them wasn't quite so heavy anymore. Just a cautious kind of quiet, it was the type that meant maybe they didn't entirely hate the company.
The campus had gone eerily quiet. The non-infected wolves had been moved to isolation as a preventive measure. The rest of the students walked like they were trying not to breathe too loudly. Fangs were looked at sideways, as if everyone had expected them to be affected next.
Thorn and Xavier tried to pretend that things were normal. They grabbed their trays and lunch, keeping conversation small, but everyone's eyes followed them.
Thorn's eyes swept the tables ahead. Empty trays, scattered notebooks, no Pippa.
"Shit." The word came out under her breath.
"What?" Xavier asked, looking up.
"She should've been here by now." Thorn's gaze darted toward the North Wing, her pulse starting to climb.
"Thorn—"
But she was already moving. Her boots struck the stone floor in quick, uneven rhythm, the sound echoing up the hall. Xavier called after her, something about taking it easy, but she didn't hear him, or didn't want to.
By the time she reached the stairwell, her breath had gone shallow. Six flights felt like sixty, every step heavier than the last. Her muscles still ached from the infirmary, but the thought of Pippa alone, crying, maybe blaming herself...
That kept her moving.
The dorm hall was quiet when she pushed through the heavy door, the air thick with the scent of laundry detergent and the faint scent of candle wax. She stopped outside her room and knocked once, softly.
"Pippa?"
No answer. Just the muffled sound of breathing. Too fast, too uneven to be from sleep. Thorn hesitated, fingers brushing over the brass key in her pocket before sliding it into the lock. She turned it slowly, careful not to startle whoever was on the other side.
The door creaked open with a soft, reluctant sound. Pippa lay curled on her side, knees drawn to her chest. Her long, blonde hair, usually immaculate and braided or pinned, had come loose, with frizzy waves falling across her face. Her pink glasses rested on the nightstand next to her. The blankets were tangled around her, wound tight like a cocoon, as if she could disappear inside it and wait for the world to quiet down a little.
"Pip…" Thorn's voice came out softer than she meant it to, almost uncertain. She stepped closer and lowered herself to sit on the edge of the bed, the movement sending a dull ache through her ribs. "Hey. I was looking for you."
Pippa didn't respond right away. Her voice, when it came, was hoarse and small. "They wouldn't let me say goodbye."
Thorn froze. The words landed heavy, sharp in the still air. She swallowed hard, flashes of the infirmary rising uninvited. The grey in Danny's eyes, the frost in his breath, the cold that still lingered in her veins. Maybe it was better that Pippa hadn't seen him like that. It would've broken her completely.
"He's only going home until he's better," Thorn said quietly. The lie slid off her tongue too easily. "It'll be okay."
Pippa turned her face toward her at that, her eyes raw and red-rimmed.
"He was fine last week," she whispered. "He was laughing. He was him. And now he—" Her voice cracked mid-sentence, dissolving into a sob she tried to swallow down.
Thorn hesitated before reaching out. Comfort wasn't exactly her strong suit, but the sight of Pippa shaking under the weight of it all made doing nothing impossible. She placed a careful hand on her shoulder. It was awkward, unsure, but steady.
"I could have seen him if it wasn't for this stupid thing!" Pippa flung her arm out and smacked the silver cuff on her wrist against the bed frame.
The cuff clanged sharply against the metal frame, the sound too loud in the small room. Thorn flinched despite herself. Pippa jerked her arm back, cradling it as if the bracelet had bitten her.
Reichenbach had tools to keep everyone's powers in line, even for a shapeshifter like Pippa.
The silver band gleamed dully in the lamplight, its surface etched with thin runic filaments. It wasn't bulky or dramatic. Reichenbach never made their restraints look like restraints. The cruelty was always in the subtlety.
A slender hinge locked it snug around Pippa's wrist, seamless enough that it looked welded to her skin. No amount of tugging or twisting would make it budge; the mechanism responded only to faculty keys.
But the worst part wasn't the clasp.
It was the core.
A small sigil burned faintly on the underside of the cuff, pressed directly against her pulse point. Thorn had seen enough spellwork to know what it was meant to do. It was meant to track the rhythm of Pippa's body, the chemical shifts that happen when her shapeshifting instincts kick in.
Any spike of magic, any shift of bone, tissue, or energy, and the bracelet flared. It would alert every faculty member at Reichenbach.
"This isn't your fault, Pip," Thorn said softly. "None of it is. He's just… a little sick. He'll be back before you know it."
Pippa sniffed, the corner of her mouth trembling in a sad half-smile. "He was really excited about the dance."
Thorn blinked. "What dance?"
"The Masquerade," Pippa said, her voice thin but wistful. "You skip it every year, remember? Danny said he was gonna make you go this time. Said no one should get away with ignoring free food and bad music."
Thorn's lips twitched faintly, though her chest felt too tight to laugh. "Sounds like him."
"Yeah." Pippa wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve, a small, broken laugh escaping her. "He even picked his mask already. Said it made him look mysterious."
Thorn looked down, her hand still resting on Pippa's shoulder, thumb absently tracing the edge of the blanket. Her voice came quietly, but steady in the dim light.
"Then we'll go," she said. "For Danny."
Pippa's head lifted, eyes wide and glistening. "You'd actually go?"
Thorn gave a slight shrug, the kind that tried to look casual but didn't quite land. "Someone's gotta take you on his behalf," she murmured.
That earned her a real laugh. It was fragile, watery, but alive. The sound cracked through the silence like sunlight through stained glass, soft and human. For a brief moment, the air in the dorm didn't feel so heavy.
When the quiet returned, it was gentler. Pippa stared at her hands, twisting the corner of the blanket between her fingers. "Do you actually think he'll be okay?" she asked, her voice small, childlike.
Thorn hesitated; the truth ached on her tongue. I don't know. But she swallowed it down, forcing her voice to stay calm.
"I do," she said at last, and if it was a lie, it was a beautiful one.
Pippa nodded slowly, eyes glimmering as she sank back into the pillow.
Thorn stayed where she was, listening to the quiet between heartbeats.
Wishing she believed it herself.