The hallway stretched longer than it should have.
Each step echoed too loudly, and the stale light buzzed against her skull in thin, needling lines. Evelyn Harrow walked with her hands deep in her pockets, thumbs pressed hard into the fabric, as if to pin herself together.
The Night Wing loomed ahead—just a door, no plaque, no marker. Just dark wood and the cold scent of ammonia leaking from the vents. She could feel it already, like stepping toward the deep end of a pool.
Above her, somewhere, the old rafters groaned.
She thought, briefly, of Dommie.
Of the way his face looked in Thatcher's office. That stiff, confused hurt. That tightening of the jaw he didn't know how to hide.
"I'm sorry, Dominic," she had said.
And maybe she had meant it. In the way you meant an apology to someone you hadn't planned on hurting.
But the ritual... the ritual had shown disturbance was needed. A tremor.
And Dommie—bless him—had been standing too close to the thread.
The image of the red ball flickered behind her eyes.
Would the girl she once was—the girl who believed in knights and miracles—have dropped that stone into the water?
Maybe.
Maybe with her eyes squeezed shut.
She shifted the weight of her satchel across her shoulder, feeling the familiar, stubborn press of a book against her hip.
A reassurance.
A curse.
Somewhere far back in her memory, her father smiled from a crumbling armchair. "Nothing worth chasing is ever safe, little bird."
He'd clung to religion like a man sinking in mud, after her mother's death. And she—
She had outgrown prayers.
The Reach didn't reward faith. It rewarded teeth.
A flicker of pain started at the base of her skull. She welcomed it.
Lionel Thatcher's voice passed through her mind, weary and clipped:
"You're valuable, Evelyn. But not untouchable."
She hadn't argued. Not really.
The Night Wing would be her new territory, as she had known it would.
Penance.
Opportunity.
Maybe both.
The door at the end of the hall loomed larger now. Dark, unblinking. Waiting.
Beyond it, the Dragoness.
Beyond it, the next step she could no longer turn from.
Evelyn tightened her grip on the satchel's strap.
The journal shifted slightly against her side, like a second heartbeat.
She ignored it.
Lifted her hand.
The door to the Night Director's office stood like a waiting mouth, heavy wood swallowing the dim light of the corridor.
Evelyn hesitated. Her knuckles hovered near the grain.
Before she could knock, the door snapped open.
A nurse stumbled out, face red, eyes wet and furious in equal measure. She kept her head down as she passed, her breath hitching like a child just scolded beyond reason.
Evelyn turned to watch her—only for a crisp voice to cut through the air:
"Come in."
Not a suggestion. A command.
Evelyn entered.
The office was cleaner than she expected. Spartan but not cold—like a museum exhibit on order and restraint. No wasted space. No framed photographs. Just heavy dark furniture, file cabinets with numbered locks, and books stacked with surgical precision.
Behind the desk stood a woman.
High cheekbones. Dark, dramatic makeup sharpened her eyes into polished obsidian. Her hair was slicked back so tightly it seemed to pull at the edges of her forehead. She wore a forest-green suit, cut sharp at the shoulders, giving her the look of a general who had traded the battlefield for corridors of power.
The only softness was in her eyes—and even that softness was... wrong. It was the calm of someone who could break you and call it mercy.
"Dr. Harrow," she said, gesturing to the chair across from her desk.
"Please, take a seat. I have received word from Lionel that you'll be joining us for a more... focused form of work. I must say—"
She smiled. It didn't touch her eyes.
"—I look forward to unraveling your mind."
She said Lionel—not Director Thatcher—as if stripping him of his title by omission.
The accent laced through her words was unmistakable.
Not native Reach.
Not even Vundoran.
A clipped, precise melody that Evelyn's instincts tagged immediately: Gravic the native tongue of Reichwald.
Evelyn sat stiffly.
Helena Kraus rounded the desk. Her movements were fluid, feline. She came to stand behind Evelyn's chair—so close Evelyn could smell her perfume: something sharp, sterile, almost metallic.
Then, softly, almost kindly:
"I heard about what you did this morning."
The chair creaked faintly under Helena's hand as she leaned closer, voice dropping.
"Let me make myself clear: there will be no such antics under my watch. You will find I can be... difficult when crossed."
There was no anger in the words. Only fact.
Helena straightened and moved back to the front of the desk, regarding Evelyn now like a jeweler appraising a rare stone.
"Still," she continued, tone light again, "it was impressive."
She laced her fingers together and leaned forward.
"To reduce a Reach-born guard—trained under Deepwell's standards—to unconsciousness with nothing but theater... remarkable. Tell me, Dr. Harrow..."
Her smile grew wider, teeth too sharp for comfort.
"What techniques did you employ? What methods did you tap into to rattle a man so?"
The room felt smaller suddenly.
Evelyn fought the instinct to recoil. She summoned the practiced, cool voice she'd built from years of deflection:
"What happened this morning was unprecedented. I'll take that lesson to heart, Director Kraus."
Helena chuckled—soft, delighted. Like a cat amused by a mouse who remembered to bow before dying.
"Good."
She sat back in her chair.
"But do not mistake me, Dr. Harrow. I'm not here to discipline talent. I'm here to refine it.
If your mind is willing, we can achieve extraordinary things."
The old ache stirred at the back of Evelyn's throat.
The journal in her coat pocket pressed against her ribs—the weight of old promises, old dreams.
She steadied herself.
There was no turning back now.