“Don’t you think Barclay looks less like an Elsie now?” Ethel asked her brother.

But thankfully, saving Barclay from more scrutiny, Abel wasn’t paying attention. He shuffled through his deck of champion cards.

“Do you think someone would trade with me for a Runa Rasgar card? I’d like a Sanjit Varma card. Or maybe Aoife Kearney…”

“You’d trade your Runa card?” Ethel asked. “But she’s our top choice for a Master!”

“Yeah, but I have almost ten of them,” Abel muttered.

“Runa was a, um, Dooling person?” Barclay asked, looking up from the textbook Ethel had lent him.

Abel gaped at him. “It’s called a Dooler. And Runa was champion six times.”

“She has two Mythic class Beasts,” Ethel said dreamily. “I’d love to see them in person and draw them. Mythic Beasts are so rare—you’re so lucky, Barclay.”

If Barclay was “lucky,” he’d still be in Dullshire right now. Or he’d find a way to make what had happened during the first exam blow over. You’d think he’d cheated from the way the other students still glared at him, not the other way around.

“I’d love to see Runa’s Beasts fight,” Abel gushed.

Viola rolled her eyes. “Dooling isn’t that respectable. It’s a sport. If you’re going to rave about Runa, at least rave about her real accomplishments. She’s also a world-famous Guardian Keeper.”

“You just think that because your family is noble,” Abel told her.

“We’re not noble,” Viola retorted.

“Wasn’t the Grand Keeper before your father his mother? And her father before her?” Ethel asked.

“Yes,” Viola replied.

Abel smirked. “Yeah, that’s called noble.”

Suddenly Abel fumbled, as though smacked on the hand, and his deck fell to the ground. He hurriedly scooped it up out of the snow.

“Stop doing that,” he grumbled, at what seemed like no one.

Barclay wondered again if his friends were a little bit strange.

He wanted to focus on studying so that he could prepare for the practical, but it was hard, surrounded by so many students and Beasts. His eyes roamed over the crowds. Some of the kids sat in clusters, others with their parents who’d traveled with them for the Exhibition. The Beasts roamed freely, playing in the sparse patches of snow. Their magic—their Lore, Barclay corrected himself—made their paw prints harden to ice, or weeds sprout up in the frost, or colors bleed into the white.

Watching them, Barclay’s Mark began to prickle. It didn’t sting, like it did when danger was nearby. It felt more like an itch. And when Barclay stretched down his collar to examine it, the Lufthund padded across his skin, his tail wagging.

“Do your Beasts ever try to tell you something, when they’re in their Marks?” Barclay asked the others.

Viola nodded. “Your Beast can communicate with you a little bit when they’re in the Mark, like you can sense each other. My Mark tends to tickle when I walk past something shiny. It gets Mitzi excited.”

“I think mine warns me when there’s danger. Or when…”