Silas. That was his name.
She learned it from a classmate who whispered it like a warning. "Silas Vale. Don't talk to him. He's expelled three times and still shows up like he owns the place."
The name didn't surprise her. It suited the way he moved—reckless, like the world owed him.
They spoke again in the library.
"You pray in that closet by the janitor's wing," he said, dropping into the chair across from her.
She looked up, startled. "How do you know that?"
He grinned. "I watch things. That's my thing."
"That's stalking."
"No," he said. "It's curiosity with teeth."
She closed her book. "Whatever you're looking for, you won't find it here."
Silas tilted his head. "I already did."
For days after, she avoided the library. But her thoughts didn't avoid him. Neither did the dreams. Vague, shadow-laced, unsettling.
Lucien, meanwhile, remained distant. A whisper, not yet a voice.
At home, her parents grew colder.
The suitor was coming. The veil of control began to tighten around her neck.
And something inside Aaliyah—the part that had been obedient for too long—began to stir.
Not with rebellion.
But
with fire.
---