The chapel was off-limits after dusk.
Which, of course, made it the perfect place to hide something you weren't supposed to find.
Petra had whispered about a concert—unofficial, unsanctioned, for "a very particular kind of student." No flyers, no announcement, no staff. Just word of mouth passed in half-sentences and nods.
I shouldn't have gone.
But curiosity is a kind of hunger. And I'd been starving since the letter in the library.
---
I slipped through the side doors just as the last of the light vanished from the sky.
The chapel was candlelit—hundreds of them. They floated in the air like fireflies caught mid-prayer, casting golden shadows across the stained glass and stone floor. The pews were half-filled with Roswen and Corvin students, all hushed and watchful, their uniforms loosened, eyes sharper than usual.
A girl in violet silk played the violin at the altar. The music wasn't soft. It cut.
Behind her, standing like a statue at the edge of the dais, was him.
Not the artist.
The other one.
The one who wasn't supposed to be watching me the way he was.
Our eyes met across the pews.
And something in his expression shifted.
---
I tried to ignore the way the music curled inside my chest. I tried to sit still.
But when he moved—stepping off the altar, descending the stone steps in silence—I followed with my eyes, like gravity had chosen him and dragged my will with it.
He sat two pews ahead of me, back straight, jaw tight. But not looking forward.
Looking sideways.
Toward another boy already seated in the shadows.
The artist.
---
They didn't speak.
They didn't need to.
The tension between them was louder than the music. Not angry, not quite jealous—something worse.
Like they recognized a war starting, and neither one had the first move.
And I was in the middle.
Unarmed.
Unaware.
Still watching both.
---
After the last song faded, applause echoed beneath the high rafters. Candles began to flicker out one by one. I stood to leave—heart too fast, skin too warm—and saw that neither boy had moved.
The golden one left first. Silent. Composed. A boy with a secret crown and splinters beneath it.
The artist stayed behind. I passed him on my way out, and he spoke without looking at me.
"You're dancing on edges," he said.
I stopped. "What does that mean?"
He turned then, eyes darker than the candlelight could catch. "Just make sure you know who's holding the blade."
---
Outside, the cold hit hard. Ravencroft always felt colder after beauty.
I didn't go back to my room. Not right away. I wandered the edges of the east courtyard, then toward the rear of the dining hall where old stone paths led to nowhere. That's when I saw it:
A figure. Standing alone beneath the weeping birch. Blazer off. Sleeves rolled.
Him.
He turned before I spoke. As if he already knew I'd followed.
"Did you enjoy the show?" he asked.
"You looked like you didn't."
His eyes didn't waver. "I don't like performances."
"Says the best performer I've ever seen."
That earned me the ghost of a smile. Barely there. But enough.
"You shouldn't be out here," he said, walking toward me.
"I could say the same."
He stopped a foot away. Close enough to see that his knuckles were red again. Like he'd hit something. Or someone.
"You saw him," he said.
My pulse stuttered. "At the concert?"
"Don't play dumb. You saw how he looked at you."
I folded my arms. "He warned me. That's all."
He stepped closer.
"No," he said. "He marked you."
The words hit harder than I expected.
"I'm not a thing," I said, voice low. "I don't belong to either of you."
His jaw tightened. "That's not how this place works."
"And what about you?" I asked. "What are you doing if not marking me too?"
Silence.
He didn't answer.
But he didn't step back, either.
---
Something passed between us again—this time sharper. Hungrier. Like whatever had been slow-burning had finally caught a spark.
His voice softened. "He ruins what he touches. You don't know what he's capable of."
"And you do?"
"I know what it cost him to stay."
---
He was about to say more when a loud crack echoed from behind the walls. Not thunder. Not stone.
Glass.
We turned at the same time.
The lights in the nearest hallway flickered and died.
And a second later, the Velvet Order's crest—a raven drawn in ash and wax—lit up across the pavement at our feet. Just for a moment.
Then vanished.
---
We stared at the spot where it had been.
Neither of us breathed.
Finally, he spoke. "They're warning you."
I looked up. "Why?"
"Because you're not supposed to be touched."
"By who?"
"By anyone," he said.
And then:
"Especially not by someone like me."
---
We didn't speak again that night.
I returned to my room with my head full of smoke and strings and boys who weren't supposed to want what they were reaching for.
Petra was asleep, her curtain drawn. But something was waiting on my pillow.
Not a note. Not a coin.
A single black feather. Soft as breath.