After a few hours of darkness and the muffled beating of her own blood in her ears, Elysia drifted back into half-consciousness.

When she finally opened her eyes, night had already fallen.

The dormitory lights were dim; the hallways were empty.

Pain wrapped itself around her like a wet cloth — a slow, throbbing ache that crawled from her shoulder down into her ribs and legs.

She pushed herself up on trembling arms and tasted iron.

The corner of her mouth was sticky with dried blood.

For a moment she only looked at the ceiling, letting the wave of dizziness pass.

Then she forced herself to sit up. The room swam around her; shadows tilted and swayed.

Elysia slid off and stood unsteadily.

Each movement sent hot knives through her body.

Her limbs felt like they belonged to someone else—heavy, slow, reluctant.

She stumbled toward the door and checked the corridor through the crack: empty. Good. No footsteps, no muffled voices.

She limped down two flights of stairs, the stone cold beneath her bare feet.

Her hand kept going to the wound along her side; fingers came away wet.

At Ground Zero — the block of sinks and tab-water where boarders rinsed after training — a faint light glowed.

The taps clinked politely in the silence of the night.

Elysia crouched at the tab, cupping water in both hands.

The water was freezing. She brought it to her face and scrubbed.

Blood and grit smeared across her palms. She forced herself to keep scrubbing until the water ran red and then pale.

When she stopped, her skin stung.

A group of scholars walked past the entrance of Ground Zero, their lanterns casting small circles of warmth through the dark.

Two voices drifted near the wall where she crouched.

"...did you hear about the inter-house drills tomorrow?" one asked.

"No, I was on call in the infirmary. What’s left of the juniors might be mangled by morning," the other replied, laughing softly.

Elysia froze. The light of a passing lantern carved a bright line across the floor and nearly caught the shadow of her shoulders.

She knew if anyone saw her like this — torn sleeves, bruised face — rumors would spread faster than wildfire.

She had to move before they turned away to look.

She flattened herself against the cold stone, heart banging so loud it threatened to drown out everything else.

When the footsteps drew nearer she slipped into the black, folding small and silent like a shadow being swallowed by greater shadows.

The scholars passed without seeing her.

She breathed again only when they were gone.

Her lips trembled. She looked up at the dormitory arch and whispered, "I need to leave. If I go through the gate, the gatekeeper will see me like this, and they won’t let this go."

She knew the gossip chains: one sighting, one whisper, and the story would travel.

If Ethan’s group had done this in a private room, then they could claim whatever version of the truth suited them.

Elysia glanced around the yard.

The main gate stood patrolled; the lantern by the gatekeeper’s hut cast a steady circle of light.

A direct route would be impossible without questions.

She scanned the outer wall and the library building opposite the gathering ground.

A narrow path ran behind the library, where shadows pooled deeper and fewer students passed at night.

She moved toward it, each step careful.

Pain flared with every pace; her breath came short.

She kept her head down, her cloak wrapped tightly to hide as much as possible.

Behind the library, the stone fence rose three meters high.

It was high enough to be a test for the nimblest first-year; for someone wounded it would be a risk.

But risk was what she had left.

Elysia set her palm on the cold stones and pushed.

She found a gap where the mortar had crumbled. The climb was slow, teeth clenched, legs burning.

Midway, she slipped and caught herself with a raw sob.

A twinge of fear shot up her spine — if she fell now, she’d be caught.

She gritted her teeth and hauled her body over the top, then dropped to the other side with a sharp pain in her ribs.

Below, the third-year dormitories glowed faintly.

From an upper window came the soft light of candlelit rooms.

Elysia kept low until she reached the edge of the grounds and then sprinted, limp and awkward, toward her home.

A window on the second floor was cracked open. She paused at the foot of the wall, listening for any sound from within.

Somewhere above, the whispers of boarders drifted through the night.

"Huh... was that someone or was it my imagination?" a voice said softly from one of the third-year rooms.

"Probably the night breeze," another answered, lazy with sleep.

"Stop trying to be a ghost. You’ll make yourself crazy."

Elysia’s stomach clenched.

Her breath hitching, she climbed lightly up the outside wall to the window ledge and slipped silently inside while the two upperclassmen argued and laughed over minor sorrows.

The housemaid had long since gone to her quarters; her parents would be asleep in the servants’ rooms beyond the kitchen.

She imagined them all asleep and safe, distant from whatever cruelty had occurred that night.

She closed the window and lowered herself into the familiar dimness of her room.

The familiar smell of lavender soap and old paper provided a small, cruel comfort.

She locked the latch with shaking hands.

For a moment she stood in the center of the room, pale and shivering, the night pressing at the curtains.

Elysia did not bother with the candle. She moved straight to her wardrobe and pulled out a basin, a clean cloth, and fresh clothes.

She peeled off the bloodied tunic carefully.

Each sleeve came away with a hiss of pain.

Then she looked at the mirror, necked.

Looking down at herself in the lantern’s weak glow was like reading a litany of hurt.

Bruises radiated across her shoulders in purple and green maps.

A long welt traced diagonally from her collarbone to her ribs.

Her left forearm, marked with deep red lines, ached when she flexed her fingers.

A small cut on her temple leaked slowly when she moved.

Her hair was matted with blood in one place where someone’s palm had hammered into her scalp. The sight of all of it made her stagger.

She sank down on the small stool by the washbasin, and the water in the basin trembled.

She washed again — gently this time — clearing away the last of the dried blood.