Waxillium backed away. “Forch! It’s all right. I just want to talk.” He winced as his back hit the wall. “You don’t have to—”

Forch came at him swinging. Waxillium yelped and ducked into the hallway. “Help!” he shouted as Forch followed him. “Help!”

Waxillium had meant to scramble toward the stairs, but he’d gotten turned around. Instead he was running away from them. He slammed his shoulder against the door at the end of the hallway. That would lead to the upper meeting room, if the dormitory here had the same layout as his own. And maybe another set of steps?

Waxillium pushed through the door and into a brighter room. Old tables stacked atop one another surrounded an open space at the center, like an audience and a stage.

There, in the middle and lit by a dozen candles, a young boy of maybe five lay tied to a wooden plank that stretched between two tables. His shirt had been cut off and lay on the floor. His cries were muffled by a gag, and he struggled weakly against his bonds.

Waxillium stumbled to a halt, taking in the boy, the line of gleaming knives set out on a table nearby, the trails of blood from cuts on the boy’s chest.

“Oh, hell,” Waxillium whispered.

Forch entered behind him, then closed the door with a click.

“Oh, hell,” Waxillium said, turning, wide-eyed. “Forch, what is wrong with you?”

“Don’t know,” the young man said softly. “I’ve just got to see what’s inside. You know?”

“You went with the girls,” Waxillium said, “so you’d have an alibi. If your room is found empty, you’ll say you were with them. A lesser infraction to hide your true crime. Rusts! My sister and the others don’t know that you slipped back, do they? They’re out there drunk, and they won’t even remember that you were gone. They’ll swear you were—”

Waxillium cut off as Forch looked up, eyes reflecting candlelight, face expressionless. He held up a handful of nails.

That’s right. Forch is a—

Waxillium shouted, throwing himself toward a pile of furniture as nails zipped from Forch’s hand, Pushed by his Allomancy. They hit like hail, snapping against wooden tables, chair legs, and the floor. A sudden pain struck Wax in the arm as he scuttled backward.

He cried out, grabbing his arm as he got behind cover. One of the nails had ripped off a chunk of his flesh near the elbow.

Metal. He needed metal.

It had been months since he’d burned steel. Grandmother wanted him to embrace his Terris side. He raised his arms, and found them bare. His bracers…

In your room, idiot, Waxillium thought. He fished in his trouser pocket. He always used to keep…

A pouch of metal flakes. He dug it out as he scrambled away from Forch, who threw aside tables and chairs to get to him. In the background, the captive child whimpered.

Waxillium’s fingers trembled as he tried to get the packet of metal flakes open, but it suddenly leaped from his fingers and shot across the room. He spun on Forch, desperate, just in time to see the man slide a metal bar off a table and toss it.