The classroom smelled faintly of chalk and old paper.
Dust drifted through the slanted gold of late afternoon light, turning the air hazy, almost gentle, which felt ironic considering the way Xavier stood across from me like a man about to confess to murder.
He didn't look at me at first.
He looked at the floor.
"I had a dream," he said.
I didn't interrupt.
I leaned back against one of the desks stacked near the wall, folding my arms loosely, trying to look casual even though something in his voice had already tightened my chest.
He told me everything.
The castle. The collar. The scrubbing. The sounds behind the door. The jealousy. The curiosity. The punishment.
As he spoke, his tone didn't dramatize it. If anything, it was restrained. Too restrained. Like he was trying to present evidence rather than emotion.
I listened.
When he finished describing the execution, he finally looked at me.
