“Your father didn’t seem to think so,” Abel shot back.

“Stop. Talking. About. Him.”

The other students—and some of the parents, even—had formed a circle around their group. Tadg’s admirers, in particular, cheered for him to unleash his Beast.

“Let’s see it!” they called.

“Don’t let him off easy!”

“Show us what it can do!”

Tadg, usually happy to oblige his fan club, went pale. Meanwhile, Abel dug his boots into the ground, preparing to lunge.

But before he could, Tadg shook his head. “You don’t know what you’re asking,” he murmured one last time. Then he turned around and walked away. The crowd booed, but they parted for him and let him pass.

“I didn’t think so,” Abel said smugly, sitting back down.

“You shouldn’t have said that, about his father,” Viola scolded him. “I don’t like Tadg either, but it was no wonder he got mad.”

Barclay agreed with her. Falk and his gang had made fun of his dead parents on more than one occasion, for no other reason than to make Barclay feel terrible.

But then he remembered Tadg’s name on the lecture list and how he’d registered for Soren’s, and he stopped feeling bad.

Abel leaned over and grabbed Barclay’s textbook. “Maybe I will study. Maybe I’ll study so I can beat him.”

For the rest of the afternoon, Viola took turns quizzing them. But whenever Barclay tried to focus, his thoughts kept drifting. To Soren’s slimy smile. To the rumors about Runa. And especially to Tadg’s words: There’s a difference between a companion and a monster.

Hours later, once night had fallen, Barclay returned to the grove where he had trained the day before, and he’d tried to knock over the pine cone more times than he could count. There were only five more nights until the second exam, and at this rate, he’d come in dead last.

He collapsed into the snow in frustration while the Lufthund watched behind him, snorting from time to time as though mocking him. A flurry of snowflakes swirled around Barclay, burying him. Barclay was almost miserable enough to let them.

“Viola must be wrong,” Barclay huffed. “I don’t think the wind can be controlled. It’s not light, like her Lore! It’s not precise. It’s… wild.”

The Lufthund nodded. Or perhaps Barclay imagined it.

“With Falk and Soren and Tadg, I managed it,” Barclay said. He yanked off his gloves, soaked from the snow, and examined his hands, as if trying to figure out the Lore they wielded. He frowned and picked at the dirt under his fingernails, then stopped when he remembered Master Pilzmann wasn’t here to scold him for it. “Why could I do the Lore right then but not now?”

The Lufthund padded over to him. Barclay tensed as it approached, and he froze altogether when it stood over him. But rather than attack, the Beast gently placed its paw on Barclay’s forehead, then it lifted it and pointed to itself. Like it was trying to tell him something.