The Girl Who Held Still

The library was Lis's sanctuary. Not because she loved books—though she did—but because the silence here felt like armor. No one stared at her hunched shoulders or freckled cheeks in the dim glow of the reading lamps. No one noticed how she traced the same paragraph three times without absorbing a word.

She sat at her usual table, tucked between a shelf of botany textbooks and a stained-glass window that cast prismatic shadows over her notes. Her quill scratched softly, copying a passage on healing salves. Comfrey root, distilled moonlight, a drop of—

"Excuse me."

Lis flinched. A boy loomed over her, his shadow swallowing her parchment. "You're in my seat."

She blinked. The chair opposite her was empty, as always. "I… I didn't—"

"Move."

Lis gathered her things, her hands trembling as ink splattered her cuffs. She fled to the astronomy section, where the tables were smaller and the light weaker. It's fine. It's fine. But her chest tightened anyway.

Dinner in the cafeteria was a ritual of avoidance. Lis hovered at the edge of the room, waiting for the crowd to thin before approaching the serving line. The witch behind the counter slid a roll and stew onto her tray without meeting her eyes.

"Thanks," Lis whispered.

The witch was already turned away.

She ate alone by the courtyard windows, her reflection ghostly in the glass. Outside, students laughed as they practiced levitation charms, their silhouettes blurring into streaks of color. Lis pressed her palm to the cold pane. What does it feel like to be so bright?

A group of third-years passed her table, their voices sharp. "—heard Kiria keeps her like a pet. Probably gets off on it."

Lis froze, stew turning to ash in her mouth.

"Who'd want her following them around? It's sad."

Their laughter faded. Lis stared at her stew, the grease congealing into islands. Sad. The word settled into her ribs, familiar as a bruise.

That night, Lis lingered in the bathhouse long after curfew. The steam curled around her, hiding her freckles, her too-thin arms, the scar on her knee from a childhood fall no one had witnessed. She sank until the water kissed her chin. If I disappeared, how long would it take for someone to notice?

A door creaked - dew distant voices alarmed her of someone sneaking in. Lis slipped out, dressing quickly in the damp, empty hall. Her wet hair clung to her neck as she hurried back to her dorm—and collided with someone in the shadowed corridor, cracks of electricity running painfully across her wet body.

"Freckles." Kiria's voice dripped with amusement, watching her twitching form "What's the hurry? Miss me already?"

Lis staggered back, the residual current still prickling across her damp skin like angry fire ants. First someone actually talked to me all day, she thought bitterly, and it's her. But even as her muscles twitched, something traitorous uncoiled in her chest—a pathetic gratitude that someone had acknowledged her existence.

Kiria leaned against the wall, rolling her shoulders with a series of audible cracks. "Relax." She grinned, flexing her fingers where faint sparks still danced. "I got my fill already. You're safe."

She stepped closer, closing the distance until Lis smelled burnt sugar and iron on her breath. "You look like a drowned kitten. Cute."

Lis hugged her towel tighter. Say something. Anything. But her throat tightened, years of swallowed words clotting like old ink. She gritted her teeth. Even if it's her, just talk. "Why are you… out here?"

Kiria's smirk vanished. "Taking out some trash."

Somewhere down the hall, a door slammed. Lis jumped, but Kiria didn't flinch.

"Run along," she said with a sigh. "Wouldn't want you catching a cold." Her grin returned, sharp as a blade, as her eyes raked over Lis. "I need you in top condition. It's no fun to play with broken toys."

Lis fled, Kiria's laughter trailing behind her.

The next morning, whispers slithered through the classroom before the bell.

"—blood all over the east corridor…"

"…burned, he won't be able to see for weeks…"

"…serves him right, always picking on first-years…"

Lis kept her eyes on her desk, her quill trembling as she copied notes. When she glanced up, Kiria was already staring at her from across the room—legs propped on an empty desk, wand twirling lazily between her fingers. Their eyes locked.

Kiria's grin widened, slow and deliberate, before she turned to whisper something that made her lackeys snort.