It's normal now—walking a corridor lined with mounted fae wings that glisten like shattered dreams, the air heavy with the sickly-sweet scent of fruit and something faintly metallic. Normal, if I pretend it is.
Killion's world has its own rhythm, and I've learned to walk it like a tightrope. The problem is the constant balancing act—never tipping too far into disgust, too far into interest, or too far into… whatever this is.
If I close my eyes, it's almost like I'm back in Highspire.
Back there, I'd still be writing at a desk, trailing behind my mother at events, or tutoring Xavier in numbers he'd refuse to understand. The semester would be starting soon, and Iza—my perfect, feral double—would dye her hair black, wear my uniform, and stomp through my lectures like the world owed her an apology. She'd swear under her breath in the voice of someone who hasn't spent enough time being polite.
