The next morning starts the same way every morning starts: with dirt under my nails and a faint sense of impending doom that I've learned to ignore.
I wake before dawn, splash water on my face, pull on the same white shirt (now with a fresh honey stain on the sleeve from last night's pastry), and step out into the gray light. The academy is still asleep—only the earliest birds and the occasional patrol light moving along the outer walls.
The spirits are awake, though.
They always are.
A thin tendril of ivy has already wrapped itself around the shack's door handle like it's waiting to escort me. I untangle it gently. It lets go with a reluctant shiver.
"Easy," I mutter. "I'm going."
Today's list is short: check the mana vein under the north path (it's been flickering), prune the aggressive thornwall before it eats another bench, and harvest the last of the starwort before it bolts. Routine. Safe. Invisible.
I almost make it through the first hour without incident.
Almost.
I'm on my knees in the north path's verge, fingers pressed to the soil, feeling for the weak pulse of the vein beneath. It's there—thready, like a heartbeat after too much coffee—but stable enough. I coax a little spirit water from a nearby root cluster, letting it seep down. The ground sighs in thanks; a faint green glow ripples outward, then fades.
That's when I hear the footsteps.
Heavy. Purposeful. Not Liora's light tread.
I don't look up right away. Instead I keep my head down, pretending to inspect a weed.
The footsteps stop a few paces away.
A shadow falls over me.
"Oi. Groundskeeper."
Voice: male, young, edged with the kind of arrogance that only comes from being born with a sword and a surname worth more than my entire contract.
I recognize it instantly.
Finnian Reed.
Dueling prodigy. Wind-blade specialist. One of Darius's louder hangers-on. In the novel, he's the classic rival-turned-ally: cocky, talented, secretly insecure about living in the shadow of the "true" chosen one.
Right now, he's just a pain in my ass.
I sit back on my heels slowly, rake resting across my knees like a barrier. "Yeah?"
He's standing with arms crossed, training jacket open over a fitted shirt, blond hair artfully tousled like he rolled out of bed looking heroic. Behind him, two other first-years I don't recognize—lackeys, probably—hover like backup dancers.
Finnian jerks his chin toward the path. "This section's a mess. Cracked stones, overgrown roots. You planning to fix it, or do we have to report you for slacking?"
I glance at the path. It's not perfect—there are a few bulges from spirit roots pushing up—but it's walkable. And I fixed the worst of it last week.
"It's on the schedule," I say evenly. "Tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" He snorts. "Some noble kid tripped here yesterday. Twisted an ankle. Faculty's already grumbling about maintenance. You want that on your record?"
I meet his eyes for the first time. They're blue, sharp, the kind that expect people to flinch.
I don't.
"Faculty knows where to find me if they care," I say. "They usually don't."
One of the lackeys laughs—short, mean. Finnian's smirk widens.
"You've got a mouth for a janitor."
"Groundskeeper," I correct quietly.
"Same difference." He steps closer, boots deliberately scuffing the dirt I just smoothed. "Maybe I should help you remember your place."
The vines along the verge twitch.
I feel the shift in the air—the spirits waking up, alert, protective.
I keep my voice level. "I'd rather you didn't."
Finnian laughs again, louder. "Or what? You gonna rake me to death?"
The ground beneath his feet ripples—just a tiny tremor. Enough to make him shift his weight, frown.
His lackeys don't notice.
I do.
The spirits are not amused.
I stand slowly, rake in hand—not threatening, just ready. "Look. I'll fix the path. Today. Just… walk somewhere else for now."
Finnian studies me for a long second. Something flickers in his expression—curiosity, maybe, or annoyance that I'm not cowering.
Then he shrugs. "Whatever. Don't say I didn't warn you."
He turns, gestures to his friends. They saunter off, laughing about something I don't catch.
The moment they're out of sight, the vines settle.
I exhale.
Too close. Again.
I drop back to my knees, press my palm to the soil, and mutter: "Thanks. But don't escalate next time. We're trying to stay low-key."
The ground pulses once—warm, almost sulky.
I shake my head.
Kids.
…
I spend the next hour actually fixing the path: prying up cracked stones, smoothing dirt, coaxing roots to lie flat. By the time I'm done, it looks better than it has in months.
The spirits help—subtly. A root nudges a stone back into place. A faint breeze sweeps loose gravel away.
I don't thank them out loud.
They know.
By late morning I'm hauling clippings to the compost heap behind the old ruins when I hear her again.
Softer footsteps this time.
I don't turn.
She stops at the edge of the heap, basket in hand again—smaller today.
"You're early," I say without looking.
"I… finished morning prayers faster than usual." A pause. "I brought tea this time. Herbal. It's supposed to help with fatigue."
I finally glance over.
She's holding a small thermos and two tin cups. Her silver-blonde hair is tied back simply today, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She looks almost ordinary—like any student sneaking away from class.
Almost.
I wipe my hands on my trousers. "You're going to get caught one of these days."
"Maybe." She sets the thermos down on a flat stone. "But not today."
I hesitate.
Then I walk over.
She pours two cups. The tea smells like chamomile and something earthier—valerian root, maybe. Calming. Exactly the kind of thing I'd brew for myself after a long day.
I take the cup. Our fingers brush for half a second.
She doesn't flinch.
Neither do I.
We sit on opposite sides of the stone. Drink in silence.
The tea is perfect.
After a while she speaks, voice quiet: "You're not like the other staff."
"You keep saying things like that," I reply. "What do you mean?"
"You don't bow. Or simper. Or look at me like I'm… fragile glass."
I shrug. "You're not glass. You're just a person."
She looks down at her cup. "Most people forget that."
Another silence.
Then: "Do the spirits… talk back? When you speak to them?"
I consider lying.
Then I consider how pointless that would be.
"Sometimes," I admit. "Not words. More like… feelings. Impressions. They're old. Patient. They remember everything."
She nods slowly. "I think they like you."
"They tolerate me," I correct. "I feed them. Water them. Keep the idiots from trampling them. That's enough."
She smiles—small, secret. "That's more than most people do."
I don't answer.
We finish the tea.
She stands. "I should go. Lecture soon."
I nod.
She pauses at the edge of the clearing. "Tomorrow?"
I should say no.
I don't.
"Only if you bring more tea."
Her eyes brighten. "Deal."
The ivy parts for her.
She's gone.
I sit there a while longer, empty cup in hand.
The spirits are quiet now—content.
I set the cup down.
Two years.
Just two more years.
But the grove is starting to feel less like my hiding place…
…and more like someone else's sanctuary.
I stand, shoulders heavy.
The story is moving.
And I'm still standing right in the middle of the damn page.