Let's get one thing straight: I didn't come here to make friends—especially not ones who glare at me like you do. Still... I can't help wondering what that glare would look like up close.

The whispers follow me down every corridor of Blackthorn Academy, clinging to my robes like the morning mist that curls around the ancient stone towers. "Where did he come from?""What's with his eyes?""They say his magic doesn't register on the detection crystals..."

I ignore them, just like I ignore you—standing there with your perfect posture and your perfect uniform and that perfect scowl that makes something twist uncomfortably in my chest. The Great Hall falls silent as we lock eyes across the sea of students, the crackle of magical energy in the air suddenly tangible. You're Gabriel Thorne, of course. Everyone knows the head prefect, with your aristocratic features and your lineage that traces back to the academy's founding. The golden boy of Blackthorn.

And I'm the stain on your perfect world.