The concrete steps leading up to the female residential hall were still slick with the morning mist, then came Ryan hauled Clara through the front entrance.
Her feet dragged against the polished tile, her head lolloping softly against his shoulder like a pendulum. He pushed through the heavy glass doors, the sharp scent of floral floor cleaner and damp wool hitting him as he navigated the foyer toward the administrative counter.
Behind the wide oak desk sat Mrs. Gable, the senior dorm matron, her rimmed glasses resting precariously on the bridge of her nose as she typed up the morning sign-in logs. She looked up at the sound of dragging footsteps, her brow instantly furrowing into a tight, severe row of wrinkles.
"What is the meaning of this?" Mrs. Gable demanded, sliding her chair back with a sharp scrape. "Students coming in staggering at eight in the morning?"
"She's sick, Mrs. Gable," Ryan said smoothly, his voice into a practiced, measured cadence he used whenever he needed to defuse campus authority. He carefully guided Clara into the cushioned armchair beside the counter, holding her wrist until her weight settled.
"I found her staggering near the lower commercial district. She's completely disoriented. I think her sugar dropped, or she had a bad reaction to something down on the strip."
Mrs. Gable's stern expression softened slightly as she leaned over the desk, pressing the back of her hand against Clara's forehead.
"She's freezing cold and pale as ash. Goodness... alright, hand her over to me, son. I'll call the campus nurse to bring up a rehydration pack and keep her in the recovery suite until her roomie comes down."
"Thank you, Mrs. Gable," Ryan nodded, carefully unlooping Clara's arm from around his neck and transferring her grip to the matron's arm.
It was only as Mrs. Gable led the semi-conscious girl down the carpeted hallway that Ryan stood frozen in the center of the foyer, staring at the empty armchair. His eyes narrowed as the name finally connected in his brain. "Clara".
The fog in his mind cleared, sparking a sharp, sudden memory from three nights ago. He remembered sitting in the booth at the low-lit bar near the transit terminal, listening to Fiona rumble endlessly over her cider about two second-year humanities girls—Clara and her quiet roommate—who had been lingering near the edge of the campus perimeter.
Fiona had mentioned a bad aura surrounding them, never would he have thought that it was something real until now.
Ryan swore quietly under his breath. "That" was why Damon's call had been so frantic.
It wasn't just a random student getting dizzy in a shop; it was the exact girl who had been marked on early.
Pulling his phone from his coat pocket, Ryan bypassed the group chat and dialed Damon's direct line.
The call picked up on the second ring, the background noise of splashing water and echoing footsteps indicating Damon was still lingering near the edge of the aquatic facility.
"Is it done?" Damon's voice came through, crisp and sharp.
"She's safe," Ryan said, walking back out through the double glass doors onto the concrete porch. "I dropped Clara off directly at the dorm matron's desk. Mrs. Gable took her in and called the medical staff to check her over. She was out of it, Damon—completely dazed, like she had been drugged."
On the other end, Damon let out a long exhale. "Good. You moved fast enough before the shop door locked. I'm passing the confirmation to the girls right now."
"Understood, but you're still at the swimming grounds right?" Ryan murmured, but the call had ended leaving him without an answer.
Damon didn't hesitate. Sliding his thumb across the screen, he instantly relayed the update to Lira via an encrypted text: Clara is with the matron. Need not be bothered.
Down on the lower walkway connecting the residential blocks to the dining commons, Ryan walked aimlessly, his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. His head was pounding with a dull, persistent ache. The news of Oscar's execution from Elder Kael was still sitting in his chest like a slab of cold iron, heavy and suffocating. His old-world pride felt bruised, his mind spiraling through endless possibilities of who could have caused Oscar's demise.
"Hey! Ryan!"
A voice cut through his thoughts putting his steps to a halt. He turning to see Holly jogging down the brick path toward him. She had a thick scarf wrapped around her neck, her cheeks flush from the morning cold.
As she reached his side, her observant eyes scanned his pose—the low brim of his cap, the rigid line of his jaw, the complete absence of his usual humor was no where seen.
"You look like you just walked off a dung hill under the cold," Holly noted, stepping in front of him to block his path. "Or like someone stole your burgers. What's wrong with you?"
Ryan offered a weak, dismissive shrug. "Just tired, Holly. It's been a long night."
"Right. And I'm the chancellor," she countered, shaking her head.
"You're out of space, boy, it's not like you're feeling sad for the fellows at the local clinic are you?." She grabbed his sleeve, tugging him firmly toward the warm, yellow glow of the corner diner down the block.
"You're getting a hot coffee and some toast before you collapse on the walk. I'm not hauling your heavy ass to the infirmary."
Ryan hesitated for a second, but looking at her determined face, he didn't have the energy to argue. He allowed her to pull him through the glass door of the diner, the bell above ringing softly as the heat and the smell of fried bacon wrapped around them.
Meanwhile, up in the third-floor dorm room, the atmosphere underwent a dramatic shift the exact moment Damon's text registered on Lira's phone.
Lira looked up from her screen, her dark eyes locking onto Fiona, who was still leaning against the heavy timber desk.
"Ryan dropped Clara off at the matron's desk," Lira announced, her voice breaking the silent room. "She's safe."
The moment the words left Lira's mouth, Fiona gasped sharply, her hands slowly dropping away from her temples. The agonizing, blinding headache that had been tearing through her skull instantly ceased, vanishing as if it never even happened. She took a deep, shuddering breath, her color returning as she pressed her spine flat against the wooden wall.
"It's gone..." Fiona panted, wiping a thin sheen of cold sweat from her forehead.
Rein, who was still sitting quietly on her bed bunk, looked up with wide, anxious eyes. "Are you sure she's okay?"
"She's alive," Fiona said, her tone turning grave as she stepped into the center of the room, looking at the neatly arranged linoleum where the chalk circle had been scrubbed away hours before. "But Bill... that man isn't a surgeon or a tailor. Someone with a mind as twisted as that is vile existence."
Lira leaned against the desk, her bandaged right hand cradling her elbow. "So what is his motive? Why is a licensed assistant doctor hunting students in the brush with syringes, and why was he luring Clara into his shop?"
"It's not just about hunting," Fiona murmured, she tried recalling the fragments of the psychic vision that had flooded her mind during the attack. "When the headache hit me, it wasn't just a view of the tailor shop. I saw somethings mixed in between, a basement... cold, stone walls dripping with drops of water. Heavy iron chains bolted into the damp concrete floor."
She looked directly at Claire, her expression darkening. "There was a girl chained in that cellar, Lira. Her wrists were raw, her spirit almost entirely drained. And when I think about that image—a helpless, dying vessel locked away in the dark beneath the stone—it connects directly with the words the witch left on your hand."
Lira's breath hitched. She raised her bandaged right hand, staring at the hidden outline of the black scales etched into her skin. The dying lamb trapped in the pit.
"The witch wasn't talking in abstract metaphors," Reality settled in lira's stomach.
"She was giving us an exact location. The 'pit' isn't just a limestone quarry on the ridge... it's Bill's cellar. The girl chained in his basement is the lamb we have to pull out."
"And if we don't?" Rein asked from the corner, her voice trembling slightly as she looked at Lira's bandaged palm.
"If we don't, the scales tip," Lira said flatly, her eyes burning with a dangerous, dark resolve. "And I go completely blind in less than fifteen days."