Dearth

Nicholas woke to the hum of voices, the air in the room thick with anticipation. Light filtered weakly through the threadbare curtains, casting a gray pall over the gathered faces. The scent of stale bread hung heavy. He blinked, trying to make sense of the crowd pressing in around his bed.

“Morning, Sleeping Beauty,” Olaf's voice broke through the murmurs, sharp and cutting.

Nicholas frowned, his head pounding. He shifted slightly, the dull throb in his ankle reminding him of his predicament. “What’s going on?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

“Thought you’d like some company,” Olaf said with a smirk. “We wouldn’t want our star troublemaker getting lonely.”

The others chuckled, though their laughter lacked warmth. Nicholas’s gaze flickered across the group, searching for Emberline. She wasn’t among the faces closest to him, and a pang of disappointment settled in his chest.

“Where’s Professor Martin?” Nicholas asked, his voice steady despite the unease curling in his stomach.