Of course, it wasn’t like I actually got any peace to draw. Athina wouldn’t shut up—her voice a constant stream of nagging, reminding me that I still hadn’t apologized to Liam. I tried tuning her out, pouring myself into the rough lines of my sketchbook, but ignoring her only made her push harder. She shifted from pestering to lecturing, going on and on about the proper way to apologize, how to use tone, words, and even posture. Ten minutes into her ghostly lecture, I was on the verge of snapping when, surprisingly, Liam did it for me.

“Can you shut up that ghost of yours? Her constant talking is giving me a headache.”

The words were aimed at me, but his attention was locked on Athina. His pale eyes—those eerie, white-tinged irises—glared straight at her.

I blinked. “Wait, you can see and hear her? But she’s—”

“A ghost,” he cut in smoothly, voice flat, like he was already tired of explaining himself. “Necromancers aren’t the only ones with that ability. My people obtain it differently.”

That snagged my interest. “How?”

He studied me for a moment, like he wasn’t sure if I was genuinely curious or just poking at him. Whatever he saw in my face must have convinced him, because he actually answered.

“Well, there are two ways. The first way—how my ancestor did it—is by selling your soul to evil spirits. You do their bidding until you die, and then they own your soul. After the original contractor dies, though, his descendants inherit the powers without the leash. The spirits can’t touch us anymore, but that doesn’t erase the stain. The ridicule sticks.” His jaw tightened, and for a second, I caught the edge of something raw beneath his control.

He went on. “The second way is if a higher being grants it, a god or whatever you worship. It’s cleaner, less powerful, but not taboo. Still, no one really chooses it anymore.”

My curiosity slipped out before I could stop myself. “Is that why your eyes are like that? Do you… see differently?”

His gaze sharpened, but instead of snapping at me, he leaned back against his pillow, resigned. “Yeah. I see things differently. Auras and spirits. Everything else is just blackness.”

My breath caught. “Auras? What’s that?”

“A living imprint of someone’s soul. People produce them naturally. If you know how to read one, it tells you everything you’d ever want to know about a person. More than they’d tell themselves.”

The thought thrilled and unsettled me. “Really? Then… what does mine say?”

He stared at me for a long moment, eyes unreadable. Then he shook his head. “You’ve built too many walls. Years’ worth. All I see is what you want me to. If I tried to guess anything deeper, I’d be lying.”

The words hit like a stone in my gut. Too close. Too accurate. He didn’t know me, but he saw me anyway, and I hated that. It reminded me I owed him something.

I swallowed. “Well… one thing that’s true is I’m sorry. About what I said earlier in the nurse’s office. I shouldn’t have.”

“All right.” That was all he said before rolling onto his side, turning his back on me.

My jaw clenched. It took everything I had not to snap at him for brushing me off. He had every right not to accept my apology, but damn, he could’ve at least acknowledged it. Choosing not to dwell, I dragged my notebook back onto my lap and refocused on drawing.

At least Athina didn’t pick at me while I sketched. The silence lasted ten, maybe fifteen minutes, long enough for me to lose myself in the paper, to get most of what I wanted down in the lines.

“We should be careful what we say around the boy,” Athina murmured, shattering the calm. “Since he can hear me.”

I snorted under my breath. “Maybe you shouldn’t say that while he’s still in the room.”

“Well, he isn’t anymore. Left about five minutes ago. You were so buried in your notebook that you didn’t notice. What exactly are you drawing in there?”

I snapped the notebook shut before she could glimpse the page, then shoved it under my mattress, my usual hiding spot. Putting it with my clothes or bag was too risky. Someone always snooped.

Athina arched a brow, unimpressed, but she didn’t press. Instead, she dropped the next bomb. “My sister is hiding something. You need to find out what. That means sneaking into her office.”

I frowned, crossing my arms. “You want me to break into the headmaster’s office? Before I’ve even survived my first day here?”

Athina’s lips curved in that sly, ghostly way of hers. “No, of course not. We need to plan it so you don’t get caught. I might have known this school like the back of my hand once upon a time, but that probably isn’t true anymore. The halls shift, teachers put up new wards, secrets multiply. You need someone who knows the school better than they know themselves.”

I opened my mouth to ask how she expected me to find someone like that, but the question never left me. The door to the dorm swung open, and my eyes landed on Liam. My breath caught. He looked like someone had tried to tar and feather him—only instead of feathers, strips of trash clung to him, damp and smelling worse than the tar itself. Bits of soggy paper clung to his pale skin, and his brown hair was matted down with grime. Athina went completely silent, and I wasn’t sure if it was because he could hear her… or because his appearance left her just as shocked as me.

Dragging a water basin behind him, Liam looked like he’d done this before, like washing humiliation off his body was part of his nightly routine.

“What the hell happened to you?” I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.

He didn’t even glance up. “Nothing that hasn’t happened before.”

The casual way he said it—like this wasn’t cruelty, but inevitability—sent a flare of guilt through me so sharp it made my throat ache. Before I could stop myself, the words slipped out.

“Can I… help?”

That got his attention. His eyes snapped to mine, a strange mix of disbelief and raw distrust flashing there, like he couldn’t decide if I was mocking him or sincere.

I smirked over my shoulder. “Just… wrap something around yourself down there. I don’t need to see that.” The joke came out light, but my ears burned anyway.

The only answer I got was the rustle of fabric. I didn’t turn until the noise stopped. When I finally looked back, Liam had a towel slung low around his hips, water dripping down his chest. He sat on the right side of the basin as if it was the most natural thing in the world, his posture taut, controlled. I lowered myself to the other side, heart beating a little too fast for my liking.

“Lean back. I’ll wash your hair,” I murmured.

He obeyed without a word, tilting his head back until his long, tangled hair fell toward the water. Carefully, I cupped water in my hands and let it trickle over the strands. The black substance—tar, I’d thought at first—coated every bead and bone woven into his hair. It clung thickly, ugly against the pale shine of the beads, so I gently worked each one free, cleaning them until they gleamed again.

I set the little pieces on the floor beside me in a neat pile, trying not to notice how close my knees brushed against his arm as I leaned in. The strange black residue washed off easier than I expected. Definitely not tar. Too smooth, too quick to dissolve under water. My curiosity gnawed at me, but I forced it down. He was already letting me into his space far more than he probably allowed anyone. Questions could wait.

Piece by piece, I cleaned his hair until the water dripped clear from my hands. When I finally glanced into the basin, the water itself was still clean—untouched, as if it hadn’t absorbed a single trace of what I’d just scrubbed away. My brows pulled together, but I shook it off and kept going. I picked out the last bits of trash tangled in his hair, dropping them into the small bin by his bed.

“Sit up,” I instructed softly. He did, droplets rolling down his neck. I gathered his heavy, damp hair in my hands and twisted it carefully, squeezing out the excess water. Once it was no longer dripping, I began braiding. My fingers moved with practiced ease, weaving the freshly cleaned beads and bones back into place. The braid came together smooth and tight, better than the messy weave he’d had before.

He started to protest almost immediately. “You don’t have to do that. I can do it myself.”

“Maybe,” I said, fingers working faster, “but I’m better at it.”