Page 29 of Wraith

Bullshit.

The mirror reflected a version of me I didn’t recognize. The flawless mask of control, polished and smooth, hiding the cracksthat spiderwebbed beneath the surface. I flipped the coin again and shoved it into my pocket. Time to go.

The auditorium was packed. Rows of polished wood seats stretched to the back wall, filled with faces I barely registered. Most of them were students I didn’t know, some professors, a smattering of administrators who looked appropriately solemn. I slid into a chair near the back, keeping my head down.

The dean stepped to the podium, his voice steady and rehearsed. “Today, we come together to remember two members of our community—Ciaran Ashford and Lilith Voss…”

I tuned out after their names. My fingers wrapped around the coin in my pocket, the edge digging into my palm. When I glanced up again, the dean was talking about Ciaran’s academic achievements, his leadership, his promising future.

“He was a bright light among us,” the dean said, his tone thick with emotion. “A friend, a confidant, and a role model…”

The words blurred as I stared at the stage. Ciaran had been more than that. He wasn’t justbright.He was the kind of person who made you feel like you belonged, even when you didn’t. The glue that held us together. The one who listened. The one who made things better. And now he was gone. Not because he wasn’t loved. Not because he wasn’t wanted.

Because we didn’t see how much he was hurting.

My chest ached, the coin biting into my skin as I gripped it tighter.He reached out, and we ignored him. We failed him.

Applause broke me out of the spiral, and I realized the dean had stepped aside. A professor stepped up to the podiumafter the dean, their expression appropriately solemn. “We also remember Lilith,” they began, their voice soft but impersonal. “Her passing is a tragedy that reminds us of the fragility of life and the importance of community.”

That was it. No anecdotes, no personal touch—just generic platitudes that felt hollow. My chest tightened as I stared at the stage, my fingers curling around the coin in my pocket.Fragility of life?That was all they could say about her?

The professor moved on quickly, returning to the topic of loss and healing, but the words barely registered. They didn’t know her. None of them did. Lily wasn’t fragile. She wasn’t some poetic reminder of mortality. She was fire—sharp edges and passion, someone who burned too brightly to be ignored. But now, even in death, she was being overshadowed. Dismissed. Forgotten.

My jaw tightened, the polished mask I wore slipping as anger bubbled up beneath it. None of this was for her. None of this was for them. It was for everyone else. So they could feel good about their hollow gestures of grief. So they could pretend they cared.

I stared at the stage, my vision blurring. The coin in my pocket felt heavier, digging deeper into my skin. My leg bounced as I tried to hold myself together, but it was slipping. Everything was slipping.

After the ceremony, the group lingered near the doors, the tension between us suffocating. I leaned against the wall, arms crossed, trying to keep my face neutral. Lucian cleared his throat, stepping forward like he was about to deliver one of his speeches.

“I know this has been hard,” he began, his tone calm but authoritative. “But we need to?—”

“Don’t,” I cut in, my voice sharper than I intended. The others turned to look at me, but I didn’t care. “Don’t act like you’ve got all the answers, Lucian.”

He frowned, his calm demeanor cracking. “I’m not trying to?—”

“Yes, you are,” I said, stepping closer. “You’ve been trying to control everything since this started. Acting like you’re the glue holding us together.”

“I’m trying to keep us from falling apart,” he shot back, his voice rising.

“And how’s that working out for you?” My laugh was bitter, cutting. “Ciaran’s dead. Lily’s gone. We’re barely holding on, and you still think you can fix this?”

Lucian’s jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists. “What do you want me to do, Kael? Just give up?”

“Maybe,” I snapped. “Because everything you’ve done has made it worse.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Lucian stared at me, his expression a mix of anger and something else—something I couldn’t name. I didn’t give him the chance to respond. I turned on my heel and shoved my way through the crowd outside, the cold air biting against my skin.

The dorm was quiet when I got back. I slammed the door shut, the sound reverberating through the room. My chest heaved as I stood there, staring at the darkened space. My hands trembled, and the familiar weight of the coin in my pocket wasn’t enough to steady them.

I collapsed onto the bed, letting out a shaky breath. My shirt felt tight, sticking to my side. I tugged it up, my fingers brushing against raw skin. I froze.

Scratches. Jagged and deep, the marks ran along my ribs, fresh and red. The edges burned, the pain sharp and unrelenting.

When the hell did this happen?

I traced the lines, my mind racing. No fight. No fall. Nothing that explained the wounds now etched into my skin. They shouldn’t be there. But they were.

And I couldn’t shake the feeling that they meant something.

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