THE ROAD THAT led to Silveron quickly changed from concrete to gravel, the grit crunching like snapped bones beneath the snow. Branches stretched overhead like black veins, pulsing memories into the twilight and bleeding through his mind. How often had this path haunted him? All the dreams of death and destruction, the final flight from this place. All the times he returned in his sleep, drifting like a ghost through the rooms of his past. And now, here he was, driving that very path. It didn’t feel any more real than the dreams.
They rounded the corner and there it was: Silveron spread out before them like an admissions photograph, everything snow-covered and pristine in the dying winter light. The buildings were the typical New England flair, everything wooden and white. Long two-story buildings for classrooms, a steepled clock tower jutting from the central library, wide swathes of open lawns dotted with benches and shrubs. Charming. Unassuming. As though looking like any small college was a part of its defense.
Before it all stood the great wrought-iron gates that barbed up like talons through the white. “Silveron Academy” wove itself through the top arch, gilded in chipped gold. He’d passed through those gates twice during his time as a student. Once, when his parents dropped him off, and last, when the school was evacuated mere hours after the Resurrection was televised.
His gut turned over as they passed under the arch.
He hated how much it felt like coming home. It just made the empty backseat seem emptier. He’d never considered coming back here with Jarrett, but coming back here without Jarrett felt like torture.
He bit his lip and tried to keep from breaking down.
Somehow, the school was still immaculate, as impressive and imposing as the first day he’d stepped foot there. The lawns were clean and blanketed with fluffy snow, the windows intact and the roofs perfectly dusted with frost. All that was missing was the warmth of inner fires and lights. But there was an emptiness to the place, too. A hunger. It drew them in and promised to never let go.
Devon parked just inside the gate and the three of them got out. Tenn stared up at the sky, a few stray flecks of snow falling on his face.
“I am sorry,” Dreya said. She stood beside him, so pale in this light that she could fade out against the snow.
He didn’t know what she was apologizing for. Whether over Jarrett or bringing him here, it didn’t really matter.
“Why can’t we just go to them?” Tenn asked. “The Witches. If they’re close, why do we have to stay here?”
“Because they might be dead,” Devon said. He walked over to them, snowflakes catching on the fibers of his scarf, making him look festive despite his words. “Witches keep to the wilderness, which means we have to go to the wilderness to find them. That means we would be in the open at night. It could be a trap.” He stepped closer, and Fire flickered in his chest, sending a small shiver through Tenn; just knowing Devon was under Fire’s spell made him nervous. “I am too drained to fight off Matthias. As is my sister. And you cannot control your own powers. So we will stay here. Where it is safe. Where we can rest. And when we are ready to move on, we will.”
Dreya didn’t seem to breathe. She stared at her brother with a slight part to her lips.
“I didn’t ask you to get involved,” Tenn said. It was barely a whisper—Devon’s words cut deeper than they should have. Devon was right: Tenn was a burden. If the two of them couldn’t fight, he had no chance. “I didn’t want anyone to die.”
“But they did,” Devon said. He looked Tenn right in the eyes when he said it. “Many people have died. Some to keep you safe, others as part of this unending war. If there is a chance—any chance—that you can end it, or make their lives worth something, you will see it out. To do anything less would be a disgrace.” He wrapped the scarf tighter around his neck. “Now. Lead on.”
Dreya looked from her brother to Tenn and shrugged.
Tenn thought she might come to his aid, but her silence said it all. Devon was right. Tenn had to keep moving forward. There was never time for weakness, and now least of all. He shoved his doubts down and led them toward the dorms. If they expected a vocal tour, they would be disappointed.
The only consolation Tenn could find as they made their way through the maze of sidewalks was that his classmates had all gotten out. There was no sign of battle here, no sign of bloodshed. There had never been any victims here to devour. But it also put him on edge: nowhere else in the world was a landscape so untouched, especially not one inhabited by humans. Why had the Howls—or, hell, the Church—avoided this place?
Behind the beautiful facade of normal buildings were the true structures that set Silveron apart. He led them toward his dorm, past the field of stones used for Earth practice, around a tall stone tower that had been reserved for Air. The Fire bunker was farther down the path, near the lake where he’d spent the vast majority of his time. Tenn nearly jumped when something shifted on one of the benches. Then the light caught, and he realized it was just a fox, ribs pronounced and eyes wide.
“She watches,” Dreya whispered.
Tenn’s heart leaped into his chest.
“Who?”
The fox stared at them, its eyes seemingly too intelligent.
“The Violet Sage,” she whispered.
“Who?” Tenn repeated.
But Dreya shook her head, and he knew that he would get no more from her. The dorm, one of only four on campus, housed the underclassmen. It was stone and wood and two stories tall, flanked by massive oaks that had long since lost their leaves. Like the other buildings, the windows here were intact. The glass front door was closed and whole, the lawn in front devoid of the clutter and chaos he’d grown so used to seeing. He gripped his staff tighter and walked up the front steps. A twist of Earth and the lock broke. The door creaked open, the noise far too loud in the otherwise-silent air. More chills curled down his spine. Everything about this place felt haunted, and it wasn’t just the memories warring behind his thoughts.
Ghosts of history swirled inside the lobby. He saw the vending machine that had saved him on more than one early morning of skipped breakfast and sleeping in. Over there, the wooden cubbies that had served as their mailboxes. And in front of them, the front desk he’d lingered by more nights than not, hoping to catch sight of Jarrett on his way back to his room. Tenn nearly dropped to his knees as the full weight of his past slugged him in the stomach.
If not for this place, he never would have learned magic. He never would have met Jarrett. He probably wouldn’t have survived the first few days of the Resurrection.
He owed this place everything.
Yet he also felt like this place had taken everything away. And here it was again.
“This was my dorm,” he said. His words echoed in the lobby. “The last time I was here...”
The last time I was here, my friends were running out the door with their bags half-packed because the monsters had been set loose. The last time I was here, I thought the end had come. The last time I was here, Jarrett and I were just kids. Now one of us is dead.
Why couldn’t it have been me?
He glanced around, surveying the empty lobby, trying to keep his thoughts or Water from getting the upper hand.
“If you want to rest for the night, we can stay here.”
Dreya nodded. Neither she nor Devon moved. He didn’t want to take command, but it was becoming clear they expected as much. At least in here.
A part of him wanted to take them to the opposite wing, to some random stranger’s room so he wouldn’t have to feel like he was stepping into his old life, but there was another part, a masochistic part, that wanted to see his old bed. He’d dreamed of this place more often than he could count. He wanted to lay those nightmares to rest, one way or another.
Besides, Jarrett had lived in the opposite hall. He wasn’t as masochistic as that.
So he led them upstairs and down the hall, toward a room near the fire escape in case they needed a quick getaway. All the doors along the hall were closed but unlocked, their faux wood surfaces glinting in Devon’s light. A few still had the construction paper signs the RA had made before they arrived. The rest of the signs littered the floor like faded leaves. It felt like being in a crypt, like every one of those closed doors and fallen signs was a testament to a life unlived. He pushed open a door—the one across from his own—and held it for them.
“This work?”
He knew he shouldn’t be short with them, but he couldn’t find room for eloquence.
Dreya peered inside. Thin light filtered through the curtains, but Devon opened to Fire and sent more lights through. When he stepped inside, Dreya shrugged again.
“It will do.”
But she didn’t head inside. She stood there in the entry and stared at Tenn.
“You should eat something,” she said finally. “You will need your strength.”
She had a bag slung on her back she’d pulled out of the SUV. Apparently, they hadn’t been lying about planning ahead. It made Tenn feel even worse. His stomach rumbled with the thought of food: even the small amounts of Earth he’d been using had drained him.
“Maybe later. I...I think I need to sleep.”
Clearly, Dreya knew he was lying. He’d never been good at that. But she didn’t question. She probably figured he’d already been through enough.
Tenn glanced over her shoulder to Devon, who sat on the bed and stared out the window.
“Why?” Tenn asked.
“Why?” she repeated.
He looked to her. It was so hard to keep his voice from shaking, to keep himself standing.
“Why did you come after me? The three of you. Why?”
“The Prophets,” she said.
He shook his head in agitation. The urgings of the Prophets had saved more than one outpost Tenn had been stationed in. But that didn’t mean he trusted them. Anyone who used Maya was a wild card. It was the one element you couldn’t just attune to, the only one that was supposed to be mildly sentient.
Maya was the godsphere, the power of spirit. It chose you.
“But why you three?” he asked. “Anyone could have come. Why did it have to be you?”
He wanted to say him. He could tell from the look in her eyes that Dreya knew it, too.
“We were chosen by name,” Dreya said. Her words were small. Clearly, she didn’t like being singled out by the Prophets, either. “We had no choice. ‘Find the boy that Water weeps for. His words will shape the world.’”
Cold settled in Tenn’s chest.
“What does it mean?” he asked.
She shrugged. “We have no way of asking them. And I hear the Prophets don’t interpret, only relay what Maya whispers.” She looked back to her brother. There was no way he wasn’t hearing this, but he ignored them entirely. “We can only hope that the Witches will know something of this.”
“And if they don’t?”
She hesitated.
“Then we find someone who does.”
He nodded. He knew it was a lie—if the Witches didn’t know, who would? It’s not like they had any hope of finding the Prophets.
“Tomorrow, then,” he whispered.
She reached out and patted him on the shoulder. “Tomorrow.”
The moment their door was closed, he felt the emptiness around and within him contract. He pressed his forehead to his old door, squeezed his eyes tight. He felt the dorm breathe around him, felt the throb of blood in his ears as Water roiled with memory—his classmates, dragging a mattress into the hall and jumping around after sign-in; him, carrying his first care package from his parents back to his room, opening it while listening to music and dreaming of family; the day of the Resurrection, when they were dragged from their rooms and told they would need to return to their homes and defend their loved ones.
And Jarrett. The night they’d studied together, when Jarrett led him back to his room.
Tenn had wanted so badly to invite Jarrett over to watch a movie. He’d planned on it.
He’d never gotten the nerve, and never got the chance. How different would his life have been if he’d made a move back then? If they’d fallen for each other? If they’d spent this whole time fighting at each other’s side?
They were thoughts he shouldn’t have allowed himself to have. But there, it was impossible to keep them down. They were living, breathing things. They had teeth.
He pressed his hand to the cold doorknob. Then, before he could tell himself this was a horrible idea, he opened the door.
History washed over him in a waft of dust and desertion. The faintest light filtered through the window opposite him, casting heavy shadows on everything within. He didn’t need light or magic to see. His body knew every corner of this place—the cinder-block walls, the wooden shelves, the desk with his computer still sitting on it. He stepped slowly inside and felt the bile rise in his throat. Moonlight shone in from a space in the clouds. Photos still lined his wall—him and his few friends making sand castles by the lake or eating lunch at the mall; his family at Thanksgiving; the tree outside his old bedroom window.
He collapsed to his knees.
His heart was on fire, every fiber of that muscle tearing itself apart. He gripped his head in his hands and sobbed on the floor, tears pooling in the dust. Memories ripped through him, but it wasn’t Water at work. The Sphere didn’t need to do anything. The real wounds were all there—the pain, the history. This is where he’d lain awake for hours, wondering if Jarrett actually liked him. Wondering if anyone would like him. So much time wasted to worry. He would never get it back.
He curled in on himself, wishing death would take him. The fire from before, the burning desire for revenge, snuffed out. What point was revenge if there was no one to come home to? What was the point of pushing forward when everything he loved, everything he worked for, was continually ripped away from him? He couldn’t find any answers, and he couldn’t find any drive. All that was here was the dust of his past. The memory of what wouldn’t be.
He forced himself to kneeling and stared at his hands as they pressed into the linoleum. His hands were worn. Long, thin fingers, crossed with scars. They didn’t fit into this place. Neither did he.
He pushed himself up, grabbing the chair for support. He was about to make his way to bed when he stopped; something caught his eye.
The dust on his desk was lit up by the moon, a pale sheen of uniform gray. Save for one small patch.
Words had been written in the dust, a fingertip’s scrawl.
Three words, in a script he didn’t recognize.
Welcome home, Jeremy