I stood in the empty hallway, staring at the space where Sophie had disappeared. Her words echoed in my mind like a twisted refrain—You're the killer. The note still crumpled in my fist felt like it was burning through my skin, each syllable etched into my thoughts.
Kill her? No. That would be exactly what she wanted. Proof. If I laid a single finger on her again, I'd just be proving everything she accused me of. But I couldn't let her wander freely either. If she told the wrong people… if she planted more seeds of doubt... I'd be finished.
I leaned against the wall, running a hand through my hair, my chest tightening with each breath. Who the hell was I?
It's true—I couldn't remember everything. There were nights that felt foggy, blank slates filled only with the aftermath. Blood. Silence. People missing. Faces I might've known. Faces I might've harmed.
But the parole officer… that one, I remembered with clarity. It was necessity. Survival. No one would understand that, not unless they were in my position. But Rose? Cassius? Marienne?
No. I had to know. Not just assume. Not just accept. If I didn't do it, then who did? If I did… then I needed to see it for myself.
I took a deep breath and stood upright. There was only one thing that made sense now—go back. Return to the scenes. Find the cracks. The bloodstains. The remnants of truth buried under the lies.
I wasn't the monster Sophie believed I was. I'd prove it. To her. To myself.
One step at a time.
However, there was a bigger problem at hand.
It wasn't just Sophie breathing down my neck anymore—Stella's request still hung in the air like a noose. Professor Hern Vale. She wanted me to investigate him of all people, the man whose lectures could make even a sharp mind blur, someone who practically slept through his tenure at Dicarthen yet never once stepped out of line—at least publicly.
And if that wasn't enough, midterms were just around the corner. The kind of exams you couldn't fake your way through. I had to maintain top performance, be the student everyone expected me to be, maybe even better than that. Because now every pair of eyes felt suspicious, and none more so than Sophie's.
She would be watching. Studying me. Probably keeping a tally of every off-handed glance, every second I hesitated to speak. One slip-up and she'd scream it from the rooftops—I could almost hear her: He's the killer. I told you.
So, I had to play my part. Smile where appropriate. Speak just enough to not seem distant. Keep my hands clean and my schedule tight. Meanwhile, somewhere between pretending I was fine and answering obscure magical theory questions, I'd have to sneak off and investigate Hern Vale... and maybe, just maybe, dig through the bloodstained cracks of my own unraveling mind.
It was like living two lives—no, three. The student. The spy. The potential killer.
And I wasn't sure which one I was anymore.
I decided the library would be the best place to lose myself—both in textbooks and in silence. The moment I stepped in, though, I could feel it. Glances. A flick of the eyes here, a quick whisper behind someone's book there. My name was being passed around like poison.
I kept my head down, made my way to the far side of the library near the tall, vine-wrapped windows. There was a spot that always had just the right balance of light and quiet. Someone was already there, though—an unfamiliar face. A very handsome young man with neatly combed dark hair and a jawline that could've been sculpted from marble. He glanced up from his open book and offered me a soft, easygoing smile.
"Mind if I sit?" I asked, gesturing toward the seat across from him.
He nodded, eyes sharp but calm. "Not at all. Castor Whitmore, right?"
I tensed just a little. "Yeah."
"I've heard about you," he said, flipping a page. "But don't worry—I don't believe every rumor I hear."
Something about his tone was too smooth, too knowing. I forced a polite smile. "Glad to hear it."
"I'm Lysander," he said, extending a hand. "Third-year. Alchemy."
I shook it. Firm grip. His eyes studied me for a moment too long.
"Busy week?" he asked.
I gave a half-laugh. "You could say that."
He smirked, leaned back in his chair, and nodded toward my unopened book. "Studying for midterms? Or just pretending like the rest of us?"
"Bit of both."
His presence was oddly comforting, yet strangely tense at the same time. I couldn't tell whether Lysander was just being friendly... or scouting something. Either way, I decided to play it cool—for now.
He raised an eyebrow, amused. "Trouble finds you often?"
"Let's just say Dicarthen doesn't let people rest for long."
He chuckled. "True enough. It's a strange place, isn't it? For a place that claims to shape the future of the world, it certainly buries a lot of its past."
I tilted my head, intrigued. "That's an interesting way to put it."
"I mean, look around," he continued, glancing up at the grand ceiling. "All the old noble houses still calling the shots, smiling at the commoners like they're pets. No one questions it. Everyone just plays their roles."
"You don't sound like someone who fits in with them."
He smiled. "That's because I don't. My family's noble, but they earned it. We weren't born into it. Old money looks down on us, but I'm not here for their approval. I'm here to learn… and to see what Dicarthen's really hiding."
That made me pause. "You think it's hiding something?"
He leaned forward, lowering his voice a little. "Don't you?"
I didn't answer. I just gave him a look. The kind that said, Go on.
He took the bait.
"Students don't just disappear without a trace. The school doesn't just forget people like Cassius Veldane or that parole officer last month. Accidents, they say. But how many 'accidents' does it take before it stops being a coincidence?"
I exhaled through my nose, slowly. "Most people don't say any of that out loud."
"Most people are stupid," he said plainly. "Or afraid. I'm not."
There was a strange comfort in his boldness. A sort of strange, intellectual arrogance I found both irritating and familiar. I liked him for it.
"The school keeps its reputation airtight," I murmured. "It has to. No one questions the nobles because they have the power to rewrite the narrative."
"And no one questions the commoners either," Lysander added. "Because they're too grateful to be here."
"Or too scared to be thrown out."
We sat in silence for a beat. The air between us was loaded. He was trying to read me—I could tell.
Then I asked, slowly, watching his expression, "Hypothetically… if you were in a story. One where a twisted killer was murdering people, but didn't even know he was the killer… what would you do?"
Lysander didn't flinch. He processed that, thoughtful. His eyes narrowed slightly—not out of suspicion, but curiosity.
"I'd ask who was telling the story," he said eventually. "And whether the killer was being manipulated... or if he was just lying to himself."
I looked away for a second, forcing a neutral expression. That answer hit too close to home.
"And if he wasn't lying?" I asked. "If he really didn't know?"
"Then I'd say he needs to stop chasing the truth outside himself and start looking inward," Lysander said calmly. "The scariest monsters aren't the ones hiding in closets. They're the ones wearing our skin."
I gave a small, hollow laugh. "You read too many thrillers."
He smiled faintly. "I've lived enough of one."
That quiet returned, thicker now. I could feel his eyes on me again.
"You okay, Whitmore?"
I didn't answer. I didn't know how to. So I just smiled a little and opened my textbook, pretending the words didn't blur together.
Lysander didn't press. He just returned to his own reading.
But I could feel it—something between us had shifted.
It wasn't long before we had our books spread across the table, exchanging notes and explanations as if we'd known each other for longer than an hour. Lysander was sharp—he had this calm, unbothered way of explaining things that actually made me understand the subjects I'd been struggling with. For the first time in what felt like ages, I didn't feel like I was clawing through chaos just to stay afloat.
Honestly, it felt… nice. Safe. Like maybe I had another real friend now besides Ethan.
During a break between study topics, Lysander leaned back and stretched, a half-smile playing on his lips. "You know, after midterms, we'll probably get a whole month off before the Grand Gala starts."
I blinked. "Grand Gala?"
He raised an eyebrow, almost mockingly. "You really haven't been paying attention, have you?"
"Let's just say I've had… other things on my mind."
He nodded knowingly, then explained, "It's the biggest event of the year here. Every student, especially the nobles, gets involved. There are auctions, projects, performances—it's a showcase of power and prestige. And then there's the masquerade and banquet to top it all off. Everyone attends, even the Emperor himself."
That made me pause.
The Emperor…?
My mind raced, connecting lines I didn't know could connect. So many powerful families would be present. The heads of the houses. The same ones who might've had something to do with Marienne's disappearance. The same ones who once whispered about exterminating the Whitmore bloodline like we were vermin.
I swallowed, suddenly cold despite the sunlit room.
The Grand Gala wasn't just an event. It was an opportunity. The opportunity. If there was any truth behind those whispered plots against my family, if the disappearance of Marienne was more than a tragedy—this was my best shot to dig deeper. To finally find out what they were hiding. Why the name "Whitmore" made their voices go quiet.
And if someone there did have answers, I'd be ready this time.
I glanced over at Lysander, who had gone back to reading quietly.
"Thanks," I said, almost absentmindedly.
He looked up. "For what?"
"For this. Studying. Talking. It… helps."
Lysander smiled lightly. "Anytime, Whitmore. We all need allies in this place."
Yeah, I thought. We do.
But some of us need answers more.
I stepped out of the library, my mind still buzzing with everything Lysander and I had discussed—from noble corruption to the potential of the Grand Gala revealing deeper truths. I wasn't even three steps out when someone grabbed my wrist.
"Castor!"
I flinched.
Silver hair. Pale eyes. That ever-so-slight manic glint. It was Snowflake.
I tried to pull my hand free, but she tightened her grip like she knew I would. "What do you want?" I asked, tone flat, cautious.
She grinned like she had been waiting to see me all day. "You and me. Tonight. In the city. A date."
I stared at her. "What?"
"You heard me," she said, tilting her head. "We'll get food, explore a bit, maybe trespass somewhere exciting. Just like old times." Her voice lowered, almost sing-song. "Unless you're scared of a little fun."
I blinked, trying to gauge her angle. She wasn't exactly someone I could trust. Especially not now, not with everything on edge. But saying no might raise suspicion. She already knew more than she let on.
"I'm not scared," I muttered.
"Then it's a yes?"
"…I guess."
She beamed. "Perfect. I'll come get you at eight."
Then she skipped away, humming to herself, as if she hadn't just imposed herself into the growing madness of my life. I sighed and rubbed my face.
Why the hell did it have to be her?
Unironically, my first date with a pretty girl as the likes of Snowflake Everhart.
If we don't account her terrible personality that only I know of, an innocent boy would kill for an opportunity like this.
However—I'm using it as a means to escape this penetrating feeling, as if I'm being suffocated in an ocean, those glares...
It might be a good chance to tell everything to Snowflake as well. If there's anyone who knows my dark side in Dicarthen, it's her.