We're allowed to claim our own rooms from the empty ones along a circular hallway, each with a single window view of the world beyond. Each has two beds, so Mireen and I naturally pair up, taking one of the first open ones we find. It's sparse, with nothing but the beds, a washbasin, and a view pointed toward the academy grounds—though our view is filtered through a flowing stream of water that surrounds the tower, making the scene look like a shifting watercolor painting.

After the day we've had, I'm too tired to care about the accommodations. My body aches everywhere, and I can already feel bruises blooming beneath my skin in the shape of Raith's hands.

"Rest while you can," an older student warns as he passes our room. "Classes and more training begin at first light tomorrow. You likely won't have this much time to recover again, so make use of it."

Mireen collapses onto her bed with a groan that seems to come from her very soul. "I'm going to die here, aren't I?"

I should reassure her. I should find some words of comfort or encouragement to offer. Instead, I find myself staring at my disguised mark and wondering what the hell I am.

"We'll find a way," I say, my voice lacking real conviction even to my own ears.

A few quiet moments pass before she speaks again, thoughts apparently shifted to less morbid topics.

"What happened with that guy? The hot one with the scars?" Mireen asks suddenly, her voice hushed as if afraid he might somehow hear us even here. "I saw him talking to you quite a bit. Did he say why he challenged you?”

I open my mouth to deflect, but my mind is still full of his words. Full of the way it felt to have his hands around my neck. Full of the strange fire that came when I most needed it—and the fear that flashed across his face.

Part of me wants to tell Mireen everything, to share the burden of whatever the hell is happening to me. But another part suspects my secrets could have deadly consequences. Sharing them with Mireen would only put her in danger, and I won't take that risk.

"He didn’t say much," I say finally, staring at the ceiling where water-light dances in rippling patterns. "But I think he's trouble."

Mireen sighs as she adjusts herself in the small bed, wincing as she finds a particularly tender spot. "I saw the way he was… mounting you. Maybe he just wanted an excuse to put his hands on you."

I can still feel the places where he touched me, like burning shadows branded into my skin. I know I'll bear marks from that touch tomorrow once the bruises form fully. "Somehow, I doubt that," I say.