Pine Hollow had never been quiet.

  Even at night, someone was always laughing, arguing, or playing music badly.

  But for two days, it had been quieter.

  Too quiet, to be exact.

  Francis knocked once on the door of Room 3B, then opened it before anyone answered.

  Blake's room looked exactly like he expected: a battlefield of half-folded laundry, snack wrappers, and an abandoned longsword leaning against a chair.

  He stood at the threshold, arms crossed— the very image of disapproval.

  Blake glanced up from the floor, where he was half-doing push-ups, half-looking annoyed about it. "If this is an inspection, I surrender."

  "Not an inspection," Francis said calmly, stepping inside like a man entering a contamination zone. "A house call."

  "I didn't call a soul."

  "It's my call to call," Francis replied, deadpan. "You don't get to decide."

  Blake frowned. "That's not how calling works."

  "It is now."

  "Sure," Blake said, pushing himself upright. "What's this about— my fake shoulder injury?"

  "So you were faking it."

  "Don't remember saying that." Blake blinked, trying hard to look innocent.

  Francis ignored that. "You've missed your last check-up, your sleep schedule is nonexistent, and this room could qualify as a biohazard."

  Blake wiped sweat off his forehead. "You're lying. You came because your room's too quiet without that megamouth around."

  "That's absurd." Francis picked up a cup from the floor, inspected it, sighed, and set it on the desk. "I came because the pest population might double if I don't."

  "Uh-huh." Blake smirked. "And you're checking on my nonexistent injury so you can pretend to talk to someone other than your wall."

  "I talked to Reid," Francis said.

  "About Trey."

  "That's... coincidental."

  Before Blake could retort, the door banged open.

  "Can someone tell me why my tea jar was replaced with pickled eggs?"

  Reid stood in the doorway— red hair tied back— an aura of fury and jasmine. She spotted Francis immediately. "You."

  Francis blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

  "You and Trey were the last people near my cabinet. I know one of you did it."

  Francis exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Reid, Trey's been gone for days."

  "Huh, I forgot." She paused, considering. "That explains the silence. Then you must've done it to frame him."

  Blake lost it, wheezing with laughter.

  Francis looked skyward, mumbling something about patience.

  Reid marched in, plopped herself on Finian's desk, and crossed her legs like a judge taking her seat. "Fine. I'll forgive you if you brew me a replacement."

  Francis muttered something inaudible but went to fetch the kettle anyway. Before leaving, he turned to Blake and ordered,

  "No heavy lifting for a week."

  "On what shoulder?" Blake said, exasperated.

  Francis's lips twitched. "Exactly."

  As the door clicked shut behind him, the oddly comforting herbal scent of his existence still lingered. Blake glanced at the small tin left on the desk— labeled in that familiar scribble.

  He'd seen it too many times that the word was carved into his brain, no translation needed: muscle pain.

  He grinned.

  "House call, my ass."

  For the first time in weeks, Luna thought she'd get a few peaceful days to herself.

  No Trey kicking chairs, no spontaneous "training exercises" that involved near-death experiences, no noise.

  Just quiet.

  She lasted three hours before the quiet started talking back.

  The memory of him leaving kept replaying in her mind—uninvited, persistent.

  That morning at the gate had been crisp and bright. Trey stood there with his usual grin, pack slung over one shoulder, waving like he was heading on vacation instead of official leave.

  "Aw, look at that. You're all seeing me off," he said, beaming.

  Reid gave him a flat look. "Don't make it sound sentimental."

  Francis, beside her, was the only one who didn't roll his eyes. His voice came out steady, but quiet. "Be back soon."

  Trey's grin widened. "Say you'll miss me, and I might."

  "I won't," Francis said dryly. "Luna will."

  "What now?" she arched an eyebrow.

  Trey laughed, bright and unbothered. "Knew it. My number one fan could never deny me."

  "Don't push it," she muttered, folding her arms. She was still upset he'd left her out of whatever this "family business" was—but as he started toward the gates, that tiny flare of irritation hollowed into something else.

  He turned back once, sunlight catching his grin. "Try not to miss me too much!"

  "Not a problem," she called, but her voice came out thinner than she meant.

  And when the gates closed behind him, something in her chest went oddly quiet.

  The school library wasn't like Ermin's in-house library. It was wider, colder, and smelled faintly of dust and old leather. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, striping the floor in pale gold.

  Luna had claimed a corner table stacked with every book she could find on Quanta mediums and resonance patterns.

  At first, she felt productive—methodical, even. But after the tenth passage about "material harmonics," her focus began to dissolve.

  She leaned her chin on her palm and muttered, "If you'd just said what counts as a pattern, this would be easier."

  Then, as if her mind refused to grant her peace, she could almost hear him again—his voice, smug and far too clear:

  That's because scholars get paid to sound complicated. If they wrote it clearly, they'd have to get real jobs.

  Her lips twitched. "You're not even here, and you're still talking."

  She flipped to another page. "Universal mediums are materials capable of harmonizing with all types of Quanta..."

  And again, his voice popped in her head:

  So basically, the Quanta equivalent of everyone's favorite drinking cup.

  She groaned softly, dragging a hand down her face. "I take it back. I miss the noise, but not that much."

  She tried History of Vein Theory. Nothing.

  Catalog of Known Mediums. Nothing.

  The only pattern she'd found so far was the growing urge to dropkick a textbook.

  By dusk, she slumped over the table, cheek pressed to Resonance Through Conductive Surfaces (Vol. II), unconsciously humming Trey's favorite theme song.

  "Peaceful," she mumbled, "was an overrated lie."

  A passing librarian shushed her.

  She straightened instantly. "Sorry."

  When she finally packed up for the night, she found herself glancing toward the empty seat beside her—where Trey would've been if he were here, probably making snide commentary about her handwriting or trying to invent a new way to research.

  She told herself it was just quieter this way.

  That was all.

  Just quieter.

  The next morning, Luna decided she'd had enough of quiet.

  Ermin's advice echoed in her head: "Try the Spear Club, east wing—good mentors, less risk of decapitation."

  That last part had been directed squarely at Trey, but Luna figured it still applied.

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  So after breakfast, she made her way to the training grounds behind the east wing.

  The spear field stretched wide under the late-morning sun, a scattering of straw dummies lined in rows. The air rang with the sound of practice—wood striking, feet shifting, laughter, the dull thunk of missed hits.

  Compared to the library's stillness, it felt alive— loud enough to smother an imaginary ghost.

  She lingered at the edge, unsure whether to step in. Most of the students were from other houses—older, stronger, their moves confident and practiced. Her stomach twisted.

  Then a voice called from nearby. "You lost, or just thinking about charging in blind?"

  She turned. A tall boy with dark, messy hair and a crooked grin leaned on his spear, his Willow Shade initials catching the light.

  "I'm Luna Atkins," she said, straightening. "New to this."

  "Sergio," he grinned. "Don't worry, we only stab the dummies. Usually."

  "Comforting,"

  He laughed. "Come on. I'll show you where to stand before the captain yells at us both."

  He led her to an open spot and handed her a practice spear. She took it, fingers adjusting around the smooth wood.

  "Done this before?" He asked.

  "Never."

  "Alright," Sergio nodded, stepping to adjust her grip. "Rule one—don't hold it like a broom. Hands apart, shoulder-width. Your front hand near the middle, back hand for balance."

  She copied him.

  "Good," he said. "Now, you don't swing it—thrust it. Think of the point as an extension of your arm, not something you're trying to throw."

  She tried a careful jab. The spear tip wobbled midair.

  "Not bad. Try again. Straight line. Step with your lead foot—left if you're right-handed."

  She adjusted and jabbed again—cleaner, but too high.

  "Better. Keep your weight centered," he said, shifting her elbow slightly. "Spear work's about rhythm, not brute strength."

  She jabbed again, the point striking the dummy's shoulder with a satisfying thud.

  "Nice! Now pull back—

  smooth—don't jerk it. Control's half the battle."

  Luna exhaled, eyes narrowed in focus. "Like this?"

  "Perfect. Well—perfect if your goal was to terrify me."

  "I did?"

  "A little. But in a promising way."

  "You make a terrible trainer."

  "Exactly. Why do you think I have so much free time?"

  Despite herself, she laughed—and for a brief moment, the ache in her chest lightened.

  Then she heard him — not really, but real enough:

  Your grip's too tight, genius. Relax before you accidentally choke the weapon.

  She blinked, scowling at nothing. "I'm imagining things now."

  "What?" Sergio asked.

  "Nothing."

  She adjusted her stance and jabbed again—better this time, the strike sharp and clean.

  "Nice! You're catching on fast," he said. "You sure you're new?"

  "Completely," she said, smiling faintly.

  Sergio laughed. "Well, if you keep this up, you'll be spearing circles around me in no time."

  She rolled her eyes but smiled anyway. "You're not exactly making a strong case for your pride."

  "Oh, I've got plenty of pride. I can give you this one."

  Luna laughed—really laughed—and it startled her how natural it felt.

  The sound carried across the training yard, bright and alive. For the first time in days, it didn't echo.

  The corridors of Pine Hollow were abnormally dim and hushed that night, the kind of silence that made every creak sound guilty.

  Luna hesitated outside the door of 3F, then knocked lightly before pushing it open.

  Francis looked up from his desk, pen paused mid-note.

  "Luna? Is something wrong?"

  "I—"

  "Something's bugging you?" he asked before she could finish, tone calm but perceptive.

  "Kind of..." she admitted, strode toward Trey's bed.

  Francis leaned back in his chair, folding his arms.

  "Is it Trey's voice? Because I've been hearing it for quite a while myself."

  That caught her off guard. "What?"

  He gestured vaguely at the empty space above Trey's desk.

  "Echoes of idiocy. Linger long after the source departs."

  Luna laughed. "That's... surprisingly accurate."

  Francis allowed a small smile. "So. What's really bothering you?"

  Luna hesitated, glancing at the stacks of notes on his table.

  "I was just wondering..." She took a breath. "...Someone named Mira."

  The name seemed to still the air for a moment. Francis's pen, which he'd been absently spinning between his fingers, stopped.

  "Where did you get that from?" He asked quietly.

  "We met Trey's brother on the mission. He thought I was her."

  Francis didn't look angry—just thoughtful. He rose and started tidying the shelf beside him, giving himself a few quiet seconds before answering.

  "Mira's a fellow housemate," he said finally. "Some time ago."

  "From Pine Hollow?"

  "Yes."

  "Where is she now? Transferred?"

  He shook his head. "She's not in the school anymore." His tone was measured, too even. "And it's not my story to tell. Let's just say she's... an old wound Trey keeps reopening."

  Luna frowned slightly. "He doesn't talk about her."

  Francis gave a soft, humorless laugh. "He doesn't talk about a lot of things. Despite talking a lot."

  There was a pause. Luna bit her lip, thinking. "Is this... family business thing about her, too?"

  Francis froze mid-movement, blinking once. "...What?"

  "I mean—he looked so serious when he said it. I thought maybe—"

  He exhaled through his nose, half amused, half resigned. "You're connecting the wrong dots, Luna."

  Her eyes widened. "Oh."

  He sighed, setting the bottle he was holding back on the shelf. "And no. It's completely unrelated."

  A pause, then softer: "But it is also a big deal to him."

  Something in his voice made her look up.

  He didn't elaborate—but there was a knowing look in his eyes. "He'll come around," Francis said finally, returning to his seat. "When he's ready."

  There was warmth in his tone, but also fatigue—the kind that came from watching people carry things they refused to put down.

  Luna nodded, realizing she wouldn't get more, and turned toward the door.

  "Luna," Francis said before she could leave.

  She glanced back.

  "It's good to have someone who asks."

  Her chest tightened. She nodded again and slipped out into the hallway.

  The air outside felt cooler.

  And even though she still didn't understand half of what was going on, she knew one thing for certain—

  she'd stop trying to guess what Trey was hiding and just be there when he needed her.

  The door clicked softly behind Luna.

  Francis sat in the quiet for a moment, the lamplight flickering against glass jars and shelves. Her footsteps faded down the hall.

  Only then did his expression shift— the calm dissolving into something heavier.

  His mind slid back to that night Trey came in from the Postal Department with a huge box.

  The smell of ink. Damp paper. Smoke.

  Trey sat at his desk, shoulders hunched, surrounded by stacks of reports — witness statements, guard records, scraps of testimony from a place that should never have existed.

  Francis remembered leaning against the desk, arms folded, watching him read.

  Trey hadn't spoken for a full hour. Then he turned another page, knuckles whitening.

  "This one's from the tailor across the street," he muttered. "'Said he'd see the kids lined up at dawn. No breakfast. Punishment duty before classes.'"

  Francis's jaw had clenched. "Go on."

  "Next one—" Trey's voice tightened. "An old neighbor says the youngest kids cried too loud once, so the caretaker locked them in the shed. For two days."

  He shut the folder, exhaling through his teeth.

  Francis hadn't moved. "You should take a break."

  But Trey didn't listen. He flipped to another page, eyes catching on a line near the bottom — small, faded handwriting.

  The eldest girl took the blame for the younger ones. She did not cry. Not once.

  Trey stared at it until the words blurred. Then, softly: "She didn't cry. Just stood there like she'd stopped expecting anyone to care."

  Francis had looked away, voice low. "You can't change what's happened."

  "Maybe not," Trey said, closing the file. The sound cracked through the silence. "But I can stop it from ever happening again."

  Francis had straightened, tension sharp in his shoulders. "Trey—just think before you—"

  Trey had cut him off, grey-blue eyes pale and cold in the lamplight. "I've thought enough."

  He rose. His voice dropped lower, steady but hard.

  "No one should get to walk away from this."

  Francis remembered the echo of his own words, strained and half-resigned.

  "Ermin's going to kill you."

  Trey's reply had come quiet, almost detached:

  "I'll need a sick leave anyway."

  The memory faded, leaving the faint scratch of the pen between Francis's fingers.

  He rubbed his temple, sighing under his breath. "Idiot. Try not to get yourself killed before she finds out what you've done."

  The lamp guttered once, then steadied again.

  By the time Trey reached the familiar sight of Pine Hollow, the wind had changed.

  He'd been gone five days, and the world still smelled faintly of ash to him—though there hadn't been any smoke. Not here, at least.

  The trial wasn't finished; the paperwork was still crawling through hands that liked to count more than act, the nobles were still trading statements and bribes. But like Clyde said, his part was done.

  It was done.

  She'd never have to see that place again.

  The thought should've lifted something off his chest.

  It didn't.

  He tightened his grip on the folder under his arm—the last of the statements he decided to keep—and forced his shoulders to relax. By the time he reached the front door, the tired frown had already folded itself back into a grin.

  He was home.

  And more importantly—he'd get to see her.

  He could already picture her face when she saw him: rolling her eyes, pretending not to care, probably calling him an idiot within the first ten seconds.

  Good.

  He needed that.

  He needed to see her again—to shake the sadness out of her with a few terrible jokes, the way he always did.

  He swung the door open, expecting to hear her voice—only to find someone else entirely.

  Reid was leaning against the banister, book in hand, her ruby hair tied back. Her expression froze halfway between suspicion and relief.

  "Well, well. The prodigal nuisance returns."

  Trey pressed a hand over his heart. "You missed me."

  Reid sniffed. "Maybe a little."

  Trey blinked. "Wait, you? Missed me?"

  "I said maybe," she said, though her lips twitched. "Things were too quiet without you yelling at everything. Luna's been holed up researching or training—I've barely seen her. You should check the Spear Club; she's probably there."

  He felt a flicker of warmth under his ribs. "Perfect. I'll go ruin her focus."

  Reid smirked. "Be my guest. And for what it's worth..." She paused. "I'm glad you're back."

  Trey smiled—genuine, soft for a heartbeat. "You mean that?"

  "Don't make it weird."

  "Wouldn't dream of it," he said solemnly. Then his grin turned wicked. "So you're not mad I switched your tea jar for pickles, right?"

  Her entire expression went blank. "...What?"

  "Gotta run!"

  He was halfway across the yard before she could throw the book at him, her cursing chasing him, and for the first time in days, he laughed for real.

  The training field shimmered under the late sun, students spread across the dirt. Spears struck the air in clean, rhythmic sweeps—sharp, practiced, almost musical.

  Trey slowed at the shrubs lining the edge, scanning the rows automatically— then he saw her.

  She was in the center, sleeves rolled up, hair messily braided, eyes bright with focus.

  She was there, happy and everything.

  Something in his chest was unclenched.

  But she hadn't noticed him at all.

  Her attention was fixed on the tall boy standing right beside her—some idiot, tall, bright-eyed, and very much not him.

  Trey's jaw ticked.

  You've got to be kidding me.

  The guy—Sergio, if he remembered right—was demonstrating a spin technique, his voice loud enough to carry.

  "Good," Sergio said, stepping behind her to adjust her grip. "Keep your left foot forward—yeah, like that. Better reach that way."

  Luna thrust. The spear cut clean.

  "Nice! At this rate, you'll be skewering apples out of the sky by next week."

  She laughed—bright, caught-off-guard.

  The sound hit Trey right under his ribs.

  For a heartbeat, he just stood there, stupidly frozen.

  She laughed again. Loudly. Freely.

  And something in him—something that had been coiled tight for days—snapped.

  That laugh was supposed to be his. His.

  He'd been gone five days tearing down monsters in human skin, and she was here handing that laugh to some guy who corrected her elbow, like the world was spotless.

  He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply.

  Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.

  He sauntered toward them with his usual swagger, voice carrying before his brain could stop him.

  "Well, well. Looks like someone's been having such a great time with her new favorite weapon."

  Both heads turned.

  Luna blinked, surprise flickering across her face, then melting into something halfway between disbelief and relief. "Trey?"

  "The one and only," he said, flashing his signature grin. "Miss me?"

  Her lips twitched. "Maybe a little."

  Sergio offered a hand. "Ah—you must be Trey Lancaster. Luna mentioned you."

  Trey's smile sharpened. "Did she now? Hope it was all flattering."

  "I did not—"

  "I know it was." Trey said quickly, waving it off. "So, how's training?"

  Luna gestured to the dummy. "Productive. Sergio's been showing me the basics."

  "Basics, huh?" Trey raised an eyebrow, folding his arms. "Mind if I judge?"

  "By all means," she said, dry as dust. "Since you're clearly an expert."

  "I am," he said solemnly. "Ask anyone—I'm an expert at everything except punctuality."

  Sergio laughed. "She's learning fast. Good focus."

  "Oh, I know," Trey said, eyes still fixed on her. "She's got stubborn written all over her."

  Luna rolled her eyes, but she was smiling now. For a moment, it felt almost normal again—banter, laughter, the easy rhythm he'd missed.

  Almost.

  Then Sergio, polite as ever, gave them both a nod. "I'll leave you two to catch up."

  Trey watched him go with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Nice guy."

  "Very," Luna said simply.

  He turned back to her, grin tilting. "So, did you miss me, or did this guy keep you too busy for that?"

  "Jealous?"

  "Curious," he said. "Professionally."

  "Uh-huh."

  "Fine," he sighed, half-grinning. "Maybe a little jealous. You're not supposed to laugh at anyone else's jokes. It's in the contract."

  "What contract?"

  "The number-one-fan contract," he said, dead serious. "Section Two: all laughter must be Trey-approved."

  She shook her head, but the corners of her mouth twitched. "You're unbelievable."

  And somehow, just hearing that—just seeing her smile again—untied the knot in his chest a little.