"You’re a joke," Cormac spits.
"PICK A RESPONSE," a voice in my head says in all caps and zero bedside manners.
"Excuse me?" I say out loud, because muttering at audio hallucinations is apparently how you start a duel here.
Students are around us like sharks circling a slow fish. Silk sleeves brush the cobblestones. A flying mount bell chimes somewhere over the academy wall. Someone counts under their breath. I can see a faint pale bar above Cormac’s shoulder. A tiny number floats near his name like a bruise: -10.
"Let go," Cormac says. His voice is smooth and cold and practiced for courtrooms and coronations.
I’m holding his sleeve. I mean, I’m holding it like my life depends on it. He tries to remove his hand and I cling. He tries to pull his arm free and I yank back.
"Do you not understand personal space?" he asks.
"Do you not understand stubborn?" I say. "Are you trying to start a classical duel or just looking for someone to wipe your shoe on?"
Silence ripples. Someone nearby snickers. I hear the whisper—the name a student throws like a stone: Everly Rose. I don't live the name. I borrowed it like a coat and it itches.
Cormac’s jaw tightens. "This is a school," he says. "Not a—"
"Street," I finish. "Yeah, I know the difference. One has more mud and less backstabbing."
Students laugh. A tall girl kicks at a stray leaf. The
