Eli woke to the shrill cry of his alarm, the sound slicing through the fog of restless sleep. His eyes burned. The book—Moonblood—was still clutched to his chest, spine bent, pages creased where his fingers had tightened in the night.
He sat up slowly, the memory of the figure outside flickering behind his eyes. Had it been real? A dream? He couldn't tell. But the hum—that low, rhythmic pulse—still lingered faintly in his chest, like an echo that refused to fade.
Downstairs, the scent of toasted bread and fried eggs drifted up the staircase. He dressed in the crisp white shirt and black slacks of his new uniform, Asterlow's silver-stitched crest pressed over his heart. It felt too formal, too clean. Like armor for a war he didn't understand.
In the kitchen, his mother stood at the stove, hair pulled back in a loose bun, humming softly. The radio played something old and gentle in the background. She turned when she heard him, her face lighting with a smile that warmed the room.
"You're up," she said, setting a plate on the table. "I thought I'd make something special for your first day."
Eli nodded, sliding into the chair. "Thanks."
She poured him tea and sat beside him, watching him eat with quiet tenderness. After a moment, she brushed a strand of hair from his forehead.
"You didn't sleep well," she murmured.
He hesitated. "…Just nerves, I guess."
She kissed his forehead, simple and grounding. "You'll be okay. You always are."
It was such a small thing, but it anchored him—her warmth, her belief—even if she didn't know what he'd seen. Even if he couldn't explain the way the night had shifted around him.
The walk to school was quiet. Morning light filtered through the trees, dappled and gold. His shoes clicked softly against the stone path. The town was slow to wake, but the forest that lined the road felt… alert.
Asterlow Academy rose ahead, its gothic arches and ivy-covered walls looking like they belonged in Moonblood. The wrought-iron gates loomed, cold to the touch when he pushed them open. The instant he stepped inside, he caught it—a faint trace of the same scent from the night before. Damp earth… and something metallic.
It was gone before he could place it.
Students moved across the courtyard in small clusters. Conversations dipped as heads turned toward him—not hostile, just curious. A group of girls near the fountain smiled politely; one boy gave him a quick nod and a simple, "Welcome."
Inside, the halls smelled of polished wood and old paper. The floors creaked underfoot. A few students glanced his way, eyes sliding toward the unfamiliar. Their stares weren't sharp, but some held a strange, measuring quality—like they were trying to place him, decide if he belonged.
In his classroom, light spilled across the desks in warm stripes. The teacher greeted him with a nod and handed over a printed schedule. "We're glad to have you, Eli," she said.
But the hum in his chest was back. Very faint, but steady.
Roll call began. His gaze wandered to the window, where the forest stretched in green shadows. A bird startled from a branch, wings flashing silver in the light. The hum grew stronger.
"Riven Hale," the teacher called.
Eli turned without thinking.
The boy who answered was already looking at him.
Amber eyes. Steady. Unblinking. And for the briefest second, Eli swore the hum matched the rhythm of his heartbeat.
Riven didn't look away.
The sounds of the classroom seemed to fade, as if the walls had thickened, sealing them in a quiet space that belonged only to that moment. There was no expression on Riven's face, not exactly—but there was a sharpness in his gaze, like recognition. Like he was listening to something beneath Eli's skin.
Eli shifted in his seat, suddenly aware of every inch of his body. His fingers tightened around the edge of his desk. The hum was no longer faint—it pulsed through him in sync with Riven's slow blink, as if some invisible thread had been tugged taut between them.
The teacher's voice cut back in, shattering the silence. "Mr. Hale?"
Riven blinked once, slowly, before answering, "Here." His voice was quiet, but it carried—low and certain, like it belonged to the earth itself.
Eli exhaled, not realizing he'd been holding his breath. When he glanced back, Riven was no longer looking at him.
But the hum remained.
And for the rest of the morning, it refused to let go.