Roen didn’t even bother to acknowledge him; she continued through the hall, head down, eyes glazed with fatigue. The fact that he was walking stride for stride with her was an indication of how spent she was. Filch normally had to take an extra half step for every one she took, just to keep up with the long-legged girl.

“Look,” he continued, “I ain’t saying it’s a boon, so much as… like… it could be good for you in the long run.”

“I am not going to go thank Chayand for this,” she muttered, umbrage lending energy to her steps again. And there she goes…. He sighed. Her loping strides took her past the many doors and side-chambers of Preparation Hall, the heels of her bare feet striking the stone like they wanted to injure the floor. He shook his head, and sped up again, just to keep up.

“Sod Chayand three ways from Thirday, an’ hope she catches an arse-rotting pox at the end of it,” Filch declared. “She’s trash an’ trouble. She cheated. We all know it. But Ro, you should at least talk to her. She asked about you. It’s been more than two weeks.”

Roen hadn’t spoken to her since their fight in the trial ring. It wouldn’t do him any good to mention he had talked to Chayand twice this morning, either, since he’d only received a grudging agreement to hash things out after the second time. But he couldn’t let two of his staunchest allies (or at least two people he saw as… potential-ish, possible… allies) continue their silent war. They were two of the better fighters in the Blackstone! He wanted that kind of combat capability on his side. Just in case everything went to shite. Which he was relatively sure would happen, and probably sooner rather than later.

Roen’s only response was a continued glower, with a crease to her freckled brow that seemed semi-permanent. This girl doesn’t forget a slight, Filch silently groused. It wasn’t a quality he liked in other people, as Filch tended to slight others on a whim. He’d have to keep the slighting to a bare minimum here.

“I’m suggestin’ it because I’m your best friend, and not hers,” he added, just in case she was wondering. She probably wasn’t. She didn’t say anything.

He kept talking. “At least think about it. What could it hurt? I’m sure she’s really sorry.” He wasn’t sure of that at all, actually. Chay had seemed kind of miffed that Roen hadn’t asked about her first. But Filch wasn’t the sort to tell truths that might prevent him from getting what he wanted.

“Why is me breaking my hand a good thing?” Roen growled, forcibly veering the conversation back away from Chayand.

Sod it, fine. Filch sighed. “Well, this keeps you out of the trial ring for when they bring in the new kids. You can watch other idiots fight how they fight and learn from it without bein’ kicked upside the skull. Plus, you told me you wanted extra training. This gets you extra training, and lucky for you, lo and behold, you get to do it with me. You should be happy. Seeing you happy would warm my heart.”

She slowed mid-step, glancing at him sidelong, gray eyes narrowed in a suspicious squint—which reflexively caused him to veer slightly away from her. He wasn’t sure if she caught him in a lie. Portraying sincerity had never been one of his strong suits; Muff used to enjoy pointing out that people usually assumed he was lying, whether he was or not. And even though he knew Roen wasn’t mad at him (not directly), it didn’t mean she might not choose to take it out on him.

But Roen just shook her head and trudged on. Filch whistled, low and off-key, and followed in her loping wake.

It was also possible she was legitimately mad about being kept out of the trial ring. He didn’t know what that said about her, other than providing strong evidence that she really liked hitting things. Filch reined in his unrelenting desire to verbally prod her; “Poking the bear”, as Muff used to chide whenever Filch would provoke Angry Else or Violent Violet. Though poking the bear probably had different connotations where Roen came from. It probably involved an actual bear. That, or Roen would just turn into a bear, and eat his face, like in those creepy back-alley yarns they always told about northerners.

Really, he still didn’t know her at all. He thought she liked him, though it didn’t help that Roen was harder to read than most, being so grim all the time. With most girls, Filch could nearly always tell when they wanted to punch him. Not so much with her. While he was certain she could throttle him easily (should the inspiration to strike him ever strike her), she never seemed inclined to, even before the broken hand. And Roen probably could; she was bigger, stronger, and far more northern-er than he would ever be. Not only had she never tried to beat him up (a rather unique quality for any girl he knew longer than a week), but she tended to weather his customary snappy banter with an almost grudging amusement.

Well, usually, he amended. Not today.

Today hadn’t been easy for either of them. In fact, they’d had exactly zero “easy” sessions since their arrival at the Blackstone eighteen days ago, which already felt like eighteen months. Every day had been excruciating, and not due to boredom, which was Filch’s normal adversary. Both he and Roen were left sweat-soaked and aching after each torturous day of testing, their muscles and minds stretched in ways he was sure weren’t natural. These “Enigma trials”, given by any number of sketchy tutors, were many and varied, each one stranger than the last. The earliest ones were the simplest: balance on a beam of wood? No problem. Balance on a seesawing beam of wood while trying to carry a heavy bag of sand on your back? Harder, yeah, but he was still able to do it. (Randol came the closest to beating him, which was to say the trollkisser lasted maybe thirty ticks before finally wobbling off.) Filch lasted a whole minute and never fell, so Shadowmaster Llandis finally called a cease, and then called Filch a bug. “Bug ought to be your new name,” Llandis had said with a derisive laugh.

“Spider’s already Spider,” Filch had complained, “you want two bugs?” He didn’t want a bug name. Llandis just looked at him like he was a shite-kissing dung fly and backhanded him across the top of his shaved head with a snap of his wrist. Llandis was no slouch at backhands. Muff would’ve loved to have him around to dispense order, he’d thought.

The fact that he actually missed Muff was telling. He wasn’t sure what that said about his experiences with adults as a whole.

Other tests weren’t so easy. Battlemaster Bauden put the children through different strength drills, each seemingly designed to wear out various body parts. Even Filch’s neck was sore. The latter parts of the day usually involved one-on-one combat, though thankfully not of the fight-until-someone-almost-dies variety. Just teaching hand-to-hand stuff, mostly; basic wrestling grips and throws, and then boxing with thick-padded gloves. Part of him was glad Ravage wasn’t in their Enigma group… though the other part kind of wanted a crack at the big, ugly bastard.

But for Roen, today had been the worst since breaking her hand, and by the end of it she had caught the most brutal part in the literal teeth. Thirty-two sandbag lifts, fifty kip-ups, thirty bell carries, ten rotations crouch-walking with the water bucket bar, not to mention being made to fight with only one arm…. The instructors didn’t want to risk re-injuring her broken hand, so they tied her arm behind her back, and she ate sand with every scrum. She wasn’t a very good boxer left-handed and one-armed, either (Filch figured if Roen wasn’t, nobody was), and she had the cheek-bruises and split lip to prove it. The ‘masters all seemed to be driving them purposefully toward exhaustion, playing Punch the Enigmas until they showed some form of gifting (or talenting, or whatever), or keeled over unconscious, whichever came first. Roen was so inept at fighting one-handed that Battlemaster Bauden finally gave up and had her run the perimeter of the Proving Hall in circles until she dropped from exhaustion.

Or rather, she ran until she passed out mid-stride, over an hour later. No one saw her veer into one of the Proving Hall’s stone pillars until they heard the meaty thwack that put Roen on her arse. Bauden woke her with a cold bucket of water and sharp words.

All because they’re trying to pummel power out of us. The “masters” didn’t deny it, because it was true. And Filch noted that, while they had no problem telling half-truths or giving non-answers, they were all very careful never to directly lie. He had a suspicion this was one of Malacai’s mandates; stark, unswerving, factual crot seemed like one of his things. Too bad for him I very much enjoy lying my arse off, Filch thought with grim cheer. Though all the good that did him here.

The Enigmas group had shrunk over the course of the past two weeks, and drastically so. One by one, each kid was pushed, prodded, beaten, or harassed until they learned some newly-discovered magical thing, which immediately got them shoved out of their group, and into whatever one the ‘masters felt was best. “Intuits” and “Lineals” were broken further into groups of “Soma” or “Magi”, or “Mystics” or “Divini”, whatever “paths” the instructors thought suited them best.

But none of the instructors could pull a shred of power out of him, or out of Roen. As of this morning, the Enigmas were down to three kids, including trollkissing Randol. Everyone else had exhibited enough of a something that they were moved on, and had even finally garnered new names. Besides ornery Ravage, there was obviously Spider, named so because he could apparently climb walls like a bug. Chayand was of course “Crystal”, which was as obvious as the blue crystal nose on her blue crystal face; her boy-friend Vheret was called “Insight”, because he could feel people’s emotions. (As far as powers went, that was rather weak. Filch wasn’t even sure that was a power. Any good card player already had that ability.) The twins Varael and Vaille were “Glimpse” and “Hearken”, respectively, which… well, Filch had no idea why they were named that. Pug-nosed Gwynen was “Push”, because she could apparently move stuff around with her mind. The broad pik was “Gird”, because he could grow armor out of his body (a handy power to have); the other pik was “Burst”, because he could summon a quick burst of speed or strength, which was also pretty nifty. The girl who had tended to Roen’s hand, brown-haired Delena was called “Mirror” because she could make an illusory duplicate of herself… which Filch thought was a rather flappy power; second flappiest next to Vheret’s, really. Another kid was called “Trinket” but Filch had no idea why. Roen said is real name was Jander. Crybaby Wentin was “Phobia”, because he could apparently scare the crot out of people, even though, really, he was the one who was always scared the most. Filch had no idea what the tall, quiet, black-haired kid was called; Filch didn’t know his old name, much less his new one. Little Sunny wasn’t called anything to his knowledge either; she was still kept out of training, locked in her room, healing up from her horrifying first day. She probably doesn’t even want a new name.

The new names were stupid, really. If I piss a lot will they just call me Flow? Randol wanted a name badly, though.

Too bad for that! Prior to today, Randol had still been, to his dismay, an Enigma. He had spent the past week getting his arse kicked by Filch and then taking it out on one-armed Roen, though with each victory came the certainty that Ro would remember these dim days and would exact an exacting measure of revenge once she had healed. Filch quietly (and helpfully) reminded Randol of this factual doom daily. He enjoyed the curdled-milk color Randol’s face turned whenever the scum-sucker even thought about Roen having two healthy arms.

But even that small joy had been taken from him this afternoon, when Randol, in a fit of weird, exhausted panic, had channeled a small disc of shadow onto the wall. The disc hadn’t done anything other than wink out of existence two heartbeats later, but that seemed enough for whatever they were looking for, so away Randol was whisked, leaving only Filch and Roen remaining. Filch imagined the old Loremaster would take this news with one of his customary crazy, gleeful cackles, and immediately beset the trollkisser with a hundred inane questions. “Can you make the disc come again? Can you put it on the wall? Can you put in on the floor? How about up your nose. What about in my arse?”

Roen was eyeing him oddly again. Did I just say “in my arse” out loud? He had no idea. He played it off. “So. Chayand.”

“Fine,” she relented with an exhausted sigh. “We will talk. Just be silent about it.”

“I’m as silent as Spider’s farts,” he said with a grin. Spider’s farts were silent but potent. He hoped she got his meaning through the clever wordplay. It wasn’t on par with his Anglish puns, of course, but he was relatively sure no one else here spoke Anglish. Which was sad. Anglish puns were a vital part of his life.

Filch heard a squeak and a wooden clatter behind them. The service golem named Specimen One was wobbling its way toward them down the hall, its long arms doing their weird, flopping and clacking back-and-forth thing they always did when the bizarre-looking construct walked.

“Spec! Heyaa.” Filch stopped and gave an exaggerated bow, mostly so that Roen would also realize they were being followed. “How goes the wooden life, old friend?”

Specimen One paused and tilted its head, as if trying to comprehend either the “old” or the “friend” portion. It finally replied, “I have been sent to seek you out to ensure you both return to your rooms, as mandated by the Battlemaster. Please continue on through the hall.”

“I’m touched he cares to send the very best,” Filch said with a wink, though he was pretty sure the service golem didn’t comprehend winks or their varied nuances. Filch had seen golems a time or three before, brought through Mudtown and usually headed to or from the distant free city of Dhoma (the “Golem Capitol”, he supposed). Filch had found a broken, discarded one a few years back, its rusted innards stuffed with springs, wheels, and gears instead of guts. Most golems were either large, clunky things made to serve as bodyguards, or small boxy critters created to help lazy people get work done.

Specimen One was neither; the service golem was seemingly made for no other reason than to be made. It was crafted of hastily-carved wood and old scraps of leather, cobbled together with iron screws and brass winches. At first glance it looked to be more useful as a scarecrow than anything else; all gangly limbs and joints that bent both ways. It was a little taller than the average man and walked with a funny gait that could only be described as a staggered lope. When its arms weren’t in use, they swung awkwardly, occasionally bumping things; Specimen One didn’t seem to notice that it occasionally knocked things over. It had two carved eye sockets placed weirdly close together, with what seemed two small chips of onyx set within. It had no mouth. Other than that, it’s perfectly normal-looking.

“Please continue on through the hall,” the golem repeated in its wooden voice.

“Fiiine,” Filch said with exaggerated pique. Roen was already moving anyway. Filch followed, Specimen One tottering in their wake. In truth, it was a little surprising that he and Roen had gotten this far down the hall without supervision of any sort. This was perhaps the advantage of being forced to train later in the day than any of the other students. Groups of kids were normally escorted by an instructor or, at minimum, a guard, during normal hours. Roen and Filch’s late training had taken them past the usual dinner hour, though the guards usually delivered food to their cells whether they were in them or not. My warm mush has probably become cold mush, Filch thought with a sigh. He wasn’t exactly in a rush to get back and eat.

Nine doors down, Roen paused. “Is this part of the same hall?” she asked. She was peering into one of the side-halls and looked as though she was already planning various ways to defend the keep. Bloody northerners….

“Well it’s still Preparation Hall,” Filch answered. “I’m gonna say yes. But my question is: Preparation for what?”

Roen shrugged, frowning. “For things most people would not want to have to prepare for, likely. But I was not asking you.” She turned quizzically to Specimen One. “Where do the side halls lead?” She pointed her good hand down a long side tunnel bearing multiple identical closed doors.

The service golem tilted its head, as though confused by the question, then said, after a moment, “I am not authorized to provide that answer. Please continue on through the hall.”

“You’re both such cheery companions.” Filch gave Specimen One a hearty slap on the shoulder. He wasn’t sure if the service golem could feel it at all but noted the wooden construct’s head turned to fully regard him.

“Continue on through the hall,” Specimen One said again, omitting “please”. Have I just irked an it? Filch wondered. That might be a sort of strange benchmark, as far as golems were concerned. He was weirdly kind of proud, if that was the case.

Preparation Hall with its classrooms turned left into Horror Hall with its monsters. A small guard room was tucked into the corner, just off the turn; any Blackstone guard who felt like being even halfway alert could just linger in the guard room doorway and watch both halls. Filch sort of assumed one was supposed to be doing just that, but he hadn’t seen any even pretend to when any of the instructors weren’t present. And none were, right now. Specimen One didn’t really count. And the service golem wasn’t bad company, comparatively. Its quiet insistence to continue moving was kind of near-constant, but at least it didn’t whack them with spear butts or slap them upside their heads like the guards did.

They strolled on, the golem wobbling along behind. The doors, most of which were much larger than the doors to their sleeping cells, were thick and kind of eerie-looking.

“So which room is yours, lanky?” Filch asked Specimen One.

The construct replied, “Specimen One’s designated chamber is chamber one.” The golem pointing far off into the darkness. Filch sniggered whenever Specimen One referred to itself in the third person, which seemed to happen at odd points in any conversation. In Mudtown only crazy people did that. Filch wasn’t entirely certain Specimen One didn’t qualify as crazy, though. They were probably all going to be crazy if they were forced to live here for too long, human, golem, or whatever.

They passed the larger specimen rooms, eventually coming to the smaller door Filch had climbed their first day through the hall—the one with the elf in it.

“I wanna look again.” Filch glanced left then right down Horror Hall before slipping to the door. He hopped up to the barred window again, scaling the door—quick and easy as a squirrel.

“Filch, I don’t think…” Roen began.

“Hey,” he said, softly, then “Hey,” again in a whisper. Horror Hall’s dim torchlight could only slant through a section of the window’s bars.

“Continue on through the hall,” Specimen One said for probably the ninth time.

Filch ignored the golem. The cell was dark as pitch, but he saw her soon enough. The girl took one slow, side-step into the dim lance of light. Her eyes met his—not shyly, but almost in challenge. She was—

Beautiful. But Filch immediately cursed himself for thinking it. Quit that. You ain’t no sop in no poofy petticoat poem.

But he had never seen anyone that looked anything like her at all. The girl’s hair was black as ink, straight and long, falling in a curtain of night to her pale shoulders. Her ears stood almost straight, twice as tall as any human’s and pointed at the tips. Her eyes were large, oval, and impossible shades of blue; otherworldly, and nearly metallic in the way they refracted the light, seeming to take what little light there was and scatter it back. Her skin was far fairer—and far cleaner—than any prisoner’s skin should appear.

So that’s a elf. The girl was not afforded even the simple tugos the students were given; she wore rags that were so ill-fitting and threadbare they fell off one narrow shoulder, yet she still—ridiculously—seemed more elegant than any prisoner had a right to be. She seemed to be only older than Filch by a few years, yet older by centuries. Elves were supposed to live for a long time, he remembered. Old Zilwand (of all people) once told him, “Take how old an elf looks, times it by ten, and well, their true age is closer to that.” He wondered if they aged real slow as infants. A two-year old-looking elf walking around with a twenty-year-old’s mind was… well, that was just kind of creepy.

“Continue on through the hall,” Specimen One droned.

“What’s your name?” Filch whispered through the bars.

“Eneruin,” the girl replied after only a half-heartbeat’s hesitation, her chin lifting on the second syllable, as though answering the question had been akin to answering a dare.

Roen swatted his leg but Filch waved her off. “That’s um, pretty,” he said, lacking anything else to say. “I mean, nice ta meetcha. I’m Filch.” He made a play at doffing an imaginary cap—partly to show off the fact that he was able to hold onto the window’s bars with only one hand without so much as a wobble.

(Elf or no, she was a girl. Feats of strength and agility were what you did to impress girls. Everyone knew that.)

“Filch,” Eneruin said, seeming to test the word on her lips. “Do you steal?” One of her ears twitched.

He blinked. “Hanh? Oh! The name!” He laughed nervously. “Funny story, I was actually given the name—”

“Continue on through the hall,” Specimen One repeated.

Eneruin stepped closer to the door, her strange blue eyes luminous. “Will you steal me from here?” she asked softly, then added, politely, “Please.”

“Sure,” he answered back coolly, dumbly, mostly because he felt like that’s what she wanted him to say.

“When?” she asked. Her eyes did not blink. Has she blinked at all? He couldn’t remember.

“I… can’t say yet.” He lowered his voice even more, glancing left and right. “They don’t really… open the doors when we’re being taken through the halls.”

“I am not for this place,” she said softly, sadly. “I am of the Aedri, Filch. We live under the sky.” Her voice cracked ever so slightly at that last word, and her shimmery blue eyes looked away.

She’s right. This is no place for anyone, but especially not her. He wanted to ask her a thousand other questions. “I’ll steal you from here,” he promised again.

Roen nudged him impatiently. “Filch…”

“Quiet,” Filch hissed at her. He had no idea what else he wanted to ask—he just knew he wanted to keep talking to Eneruin.

Roen, stubborn as an anvil, nudged him again. “We are being watched,” she muttered quietly.

Filch let go of the bars and dropped, expecting a guard… but he saw none. Specimen One was just staring off down the hall, occasionally repeating its “Continue on through the hall” mantra. Filch looked at Roen, annoyed. “What are you talking about?”

Roen pointed. One of the cells opposite Eneruin’s had a pair of small, grimy hands grasping at the bars on the door’s window, and a set of pale eyes peered out at them. Another girl. Is she a elf too?

“Hey there,” Filch said, affixing his best welcoming grin.

The girl looked as though she’d stepped out of an ink-wash rendering—the sort you’d see on a Wanted post, all shades of gray. She had no color to her whatsoever, the skin of her face and knuckles washed gray and streaked with colorless grime. She had lank gray hair and large, white eyes that lacked any kind of irises or pupils. Realizing she’d been seen, she gave a small gasp and immediately ducked out of sight.

“This happens to me a lot,” Filch said sidelong to Roen.

“They are called specimens, but they are just young girls, like we are,” Roen murmured, brow furrowed.

“I feel like you’re throwing “girl” around a bit too loosely,” Filch said in protest.

“I did not mean you.”

“Well that’s not how it sounded—”

“Continue on through the hall,” Specimen One put in.

“We do not have time for this,” Roen growled.

“Nah,” Filch agreed, and leapt up to the new window to peer in at the cell’s strange resident. “Hullooo! Occupant! We know you’re home!” He rapped on the bar lightly.

But the girl had disappeared. Her cell was as silent as a tomb.

“Huh. I wonder wh—”

She was suddenly there again, quick as a cat, pale hands grasping the bars just above his. Her face was pressed close, nose almost touching his nose, milk-white eyes wide and unblinking. Filch almost let go but didn’t. Roen dropped to a defensive crouch, even though there was a solid barred door between them and the strange girl.

“I am Voe,” the ghostly girl said without prompt. Her voice was low and strangely fragile-sounding. “You are a Filch.” She said it almost wonderingly.

“Not a Filch,” he corrected. “The Filch. There’s only one, and that’s me.”

Voe just nodded, as though this sort of hanging-on-a-door-while-getting-to-know-you was part of any normal conversation. “I understand,” she said quietly. She didn’t appear to be blind but seemed to need to turn her head in order to glance in any one direction. Her head twitched to Roen, then back to Filch. “Is she yours?”

“Is she my what?”

“No,” Roen said, sounding indignant.

“Continue on through the hall,” Specimen One intoned.

“She’s my slave,” Filch said with a blithe smile. Roen rolled her eyes.

Voe was apparently just as unamused by his quip as Roen had been. She said nothing more and simply dropped, quietly, out of sight.

“That was a… joke…” Filch knew his protest sounded weak. Roen punched him hard on the hip. “Ow.”

Filch dropped back to the floor. “Continue on through the hall,” Specimen One said again, though in truth, the golem still seemed in no actual hurry. Filch ignored it.

“She’s not my slave,” Filch assured the odd girl through the door. “We’re friends. All of us are.” Which wasn’t entirely true. Roen and Chay were still kind of in the will-they, won’t-they stage, and Randol would never be his friend.

“Stay…” He heard Voe whisper that one word through the door. It sounded almost desperate.

Aw. “Can’t stay. Not right now. I’ll come back, we’ll visit,” he promised her. Voe said nothing more.

“Continue on through the h—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Filch shot the golem a look, which, well… he had no idea if looks even registered with the construct. Probably not.

But they continued on through the hall anyway.

“Moved? Why was I moved?!”

Filch had returned to his room to discover it was no longer his room at all. One of the twins (Vaille, the one who hated his guts, not the friendly, colorful, chirpy one) was occupying it, arms crossed and huffy as usual. Vaille didn’t answer his question—merely turned her back on him. Her eyes were puffy and red, however.

A black-bearded guard lounging nearby strode up and smacked Filch on the head with an iron key, telling him to move to the next open cell. Filch did so, grumbling and rubbing his head. It still felt weird shaved, even eighteen days in.

The new room was the only one open. Not much choice at all, Filch groused. It was further down the hall, so Filch went, assisted by a shove from Bear Beard.

His new cell was tucked between two rooms occupied by two of the later additions. He also discovered he’d been given two windows—unlike his last room which had none. What’d I do to deserve a merit? He wondered if being really charming counted.

Well, he thought, rubbing his hands together, time to meet the new neigh—nnnnnot that one. One peek told him the first cell’s occupant was brutal Ravage, who was sitting on the floor of his cell sniffing his waste-bucket.

Should’ve known by the smell. I’ll have some words for that goon later, he promised himself. He instead went to peer through the other window.

Inhabiting the other cell was the tall black-haired boy. Has he ever said a single word? Filch wondered if he was foreign.

“Heyyy, neighbor!” Filch tossed over a double-pinkie point, which was the height of flair in Mudtown. The tall boy merely glanced his way once, one eyebrow lifted. He seemed perhaps a year or two older than Filch. His posture was very straight.

No such answering gesture seemed forthcoming. “Filch,” Filch added by way of introduction. He stuck his arm through the window for a handshake.

The boy still only stared at him with an expression that was essentially unreadable. Well that’s a little unnerving.

“Right, then!” Filch switched it to a single-pinkie jam. Paused. Went double again. Bam! By now, most people would register something. Amusement. Disgust. Something!

The boy just stared. His eyes were so dark they seemed as black as his hair, and they just… didn’t… blink. Today will live in infamy as the day that no one blinked at me, Filch thought darkly. He wondered if he had somehow, just now, earned the boy’s secret enmity. Now I’m kinda glad the windows are too small to crawl through.

“Have it your way,” Filch muttered. He gave a clumsy half-salute and turned away.

“Domiév,” the boy said quietly, voice low and slightly accented. Filch blinked and glanced back, but the tall boy had moved beyond sight.

Filch wondered if he hadn’t just imagined the whole thing. What’s a Domiév? Filch couldn’t be sure whether the boy had just introduced himself or called him something unsavory.

His fitful sleep was interrupted by the distant clang of the northern door. It was followed by barked orders—guards demanding an orderly procession.

Are they rousting us? What for? Filch had barely laid down and gotten a wink of sleep.

He learned the answer almost immediately from the sound of shuffled, nervous feet, and quickened, terrified breaths.

More kids! Filch scrambled up his door to the barred window. It was closed and locked, but as usual he had no problem picking it open. The Blackstone goons had never located his pick-wire, even though Hadrien had insisted there had to be one.

The new children were being paraded past, delivered to the cells further down Hollow Hall. There were ten of them… No, eleven. Twelve! And this group was made up of kids of all colors, shapes, and sizes. One of the first he saw was a grim, broad-shouldered boy with skin darker than Chayand’s, black hair hewn close to his skull. Another was a girl taller than any girl he had ever seen—well over six-and-a-half paces in height—with lank brown hair and pimples. Another boy had skin of a russet hue, his black hair pulled back in a long ponytail, his dark eyes fierce. And more kids passed his cell, and more…

These kids ain’t from Mudtown. Or Melanois. Or Burgun-Dach, or from anywhere that resembled any place within the Ten Kings. Some didn’t even seem to be of this world. One girl, feral and furious at her capture, had skin the color of dark ash, with blood-red hair and crazy-looking orange eyes. She had to be thrown into her cell bodily, the door slammed in her face as she scrambled for an attempted escape. Filch heard her shoulders (or her head) slamming up against the door, over and over again.

Another more placid girl, sleight of stature, had a bob of light sea-blue hair and eyes the color of Mertha Doun’s favorite Tivili dress, pale turquoise; she walked by as though in a trance. A third girl bore a waterfall of waist-length tresses that seemed night-black at first, but gleamed dark green when she passed by a torch. More girls than boys, Filch realized.

The last girl had skin and hair as white as new-fallen snow and had to be carried in; she appeared to have fainted, though the guard lugging her did not do it with any kindness or care. As usual.

The rooms were all filling up. Some of the new children fought back fiercely, seemingly more terrified of the dark cells than of anything the guards could do. But in they went, nonetheless.

One guard noticed Filch’s window had been opened, and slammed it shut with a glower and latched it.

But Filch had seen all he needed to see. He sat back down on his cot, bewildered.

What’s the difference between them—between us—and someone like Eneruin? Why’s she a specimen? Why are we students? He couldn’t get the elf out of his mind, could hardly fathom their differences. Some of the new kids looked stranger than Eneruin—stranger even than Voe.

Guess we’ll find out. He knew he’d have to learn all there was to learn here—the hows and the whys were going to be important for when he decided would be the right time to bust out.

And I’ll be takin’ ’em all with me, Filch silently promised himself. Kids and specs alike.