Chapter Eight – A Collision of Chaos

Sierra’s POV

The bell had only just rung, but the hallway was already heaving. Bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, boots scuffing against stone floors polished smooth by centuries of footsteps. The air was thick with chatter and the faint metallic tang of spell residue. Sierra kept her head down, eyes locked on the scuffed tiles beneath her boots, hoping to dissolve into the tide of students.

Lunch. Just get to lunch. Avoid Elara. Avoid attention. Avoid—

“Oi, freak! Where do you think you’re slithering off to?”

Too late.

Elara’s voice slid down the hallway like a blade dipped in honey, sharp enough to cut even before it struck. Sierra’s spine locked mid-step, her chest tight. She didn’t turn. Didn’t give them the satisfaction. She just walked faster, shoulders curled in, trying to disappear.

But predators didn’t let prey walk away.

“I said stop!”

“Gonna ignore us, bitch?” Patricia’s tone was mocking sing-song, her laugh snapping too loud.

Sierra gritted her teeth. Her pulse roared in her ears. The hallway noise seemed to blur—students slowing, watching, the air turning sharp with expectation.

She didn’t even get the chance to flinch before a heavy boot caught her ankle.

Time fractured.

Her breath lodged in her throat. Balance slipped from her like water through fingers. Her arms shot out, panic sparking lightning in her veins, raw magic crackling unbidden at her palms. Shadows stirred at her heels, rising to catch her but it wasn’t enough. She braced for the impact of stone. The scrape of bone. The bite of humiliation.

Instead—

Thump—crack—OOMPH—

She landed on someone.

Not stone. Not air.

Warm. Solid.

And very much alive.

A hush swept through the hallway. Dozens of eyes turned, the silence curdling like milk about to sour.

Sierra blinked, dazed. “Shit—sorry—”

Her words froze.

Because the body beneath her… was Malick’s.

He lay flat on his back, shadows curling instinctively around him like a shield. One of his hands rested heavy at her waist, the other hung awkwardly in the air, like he couldn’t decide whether to push her away or pull her closer.

Silence stretched too long.

Then—

“Oops,” Patricia sing-songed. “She’s falling for him. Literally.”

Elara sneered, but her voice wavered. “I think she just wanted an excuse to flash Malick.”

Gloria didn’t speak. She tilted her head instead, eyes narrowing with unnerving curiosity, as if watching a dangerous experiment spiral out of control.

Sierra’s own gaze finally dropped, desperate to understand why Gloria looked so… unsettled.

And her stomach dropped.

Malick’s face—

Was buried directly against her chest.

Heat exploded in her veins. She gasped, tried to shift—

Ping. Snap. Pop.

Three buttons gave way.

Her shirt fell open just enough to betray the lacy red bra she’d sworn no one would ever see. The one she’d worn only because it made her feel like maybe—just maybe—she wasn’t invisible.

Malick’s breath hitched against her skin. His lashes lifted, his mouth parting as if he’d just stumbled onto a sacred altar.

“Hi,” he said, voice deep and strangled, not moving an inch. “I believe I’m having a religious experience.”

Her blood boiled hotter than fire magic. “Malick!”

He grinned faintly, still pinned beneath her. “You know… you’re making a habit of this.” His tone dipped lower, almost teasing. “Not that I mind. Honestly? Don’t worry about it. This might just be the best day I’ve ever had.”

Her face went scarlet, fury and shame tangling until she could barely breathe.

“Hey, could’ve been worse.” His tone tilted toward casual, almost convincing. “You might’ve landed on someone else.” Then his eyes dipped, lingering far too long, and—oh gods help me—he winked. A cheeky, maddening wink that sent a hot rush flooding Sierra’s face.

Her stomach dropped. Heat flared in her cheeks, in her chest, everywhere. For half a heartbeat, it almost felt like the world narrowed to just him—his grin, that infuriating spark in his eyes.

And then the laughter started.

It rolled around her in jagged waves. Not warm. Not kind. Sharp, ugly, hungry laughter that stripped her raw. Sierra’s breath caught, her chest tight. Every cruel chuckle pressed closer until she wanted nothing more than for the shadows to rise up and swallow her whole. To bury her deep where no one could see.

Elara’s smirk froze mid-curl. Patricia’s grin faltered. Even Gloria’s lips parted, her crow-dark eyes narrowing as though she saw something she couldn’t quite name.

Malick rose like smoke—slow, deliberate, shadows rippling at his heels. He didn’t even look at Sierra, not at first. His gaze cut instead to Elara, blade-sharp and lethal. “Tripping people in public?” His voice was low, cold, threaded with something dangerous. “Real original, Elara.”

“It was just a joke,” she snapped, shoulders squaring. “We’re… friends.”

Sierra snorted before she could stop herself. The sound cracked the tension like a whip.

Malick didn’t spare Elara another glance. Without hesitation, he peeled off his overshirt, revealing a black tee beneath that clung to him like a second skin. The smell hit Sierra like a curse—spice, smoke, stormlight, shadows.

He thrust the shirt toward her. “Here. Before someone else has a heart attack.”

Elara’s expression curdled, brittle with disbelief.

Gloria leaned forward, lips curling. “Didn’t know you were into wounded things, Malick.”

“Or maybe just things with claws,” Patricia chimed, voice sly.

Malick turned his head toward them—slow, precise, the kind of motion predators made before they pounced. “Keep talking,” he said softly. “You might find out just how sharp her claws really are.”

The hallway stilled. Even the crows knew when they’d crossed a line.

Sierra didn’t care. She couldn’t breathe. Her fingers trembled as she took the shirt, warmth still clinging to the fabric.

Too big. Too intimate. Too much him.

She shoved her arms into it, the scent wrapping around her like smoke. She buttoned it clumsily, every motion magnified by the weight of his gaze.

“What?” she whispered, flustered, when she caught him watching her.

“What,” Malick echoed with a crooked grin, “you want to walk into the dining hall looking like a walking fantasy? I’m the only one who gets to fantasize about that. And I hope you know this was way more exciting than our first collision.”

Her face went nuclear. Her heart stuttered, too fast, too loud.

He leaned in, his breath brushing her ear, shadows coiling like they strained to listen. “Meet me tonight,” he whispered. “East tower. After curfew. Don’t be late.”

Before she could form words, before she could demand answers, he was gone.

And her heart.

Wouldn’t. Stop. Racing.

The lunch hall was worse.

Whispers hit her the second she stepped through the doors. Stares burned hotter than fire sigils. She tried to shrink into Malick’s shirt, its oversized folds swallowing her small frame like borrowed armor. Every thread whispered of him—his warmth, his scent, his danger.

Elara reclined at the Crows’ table like a queen fallen from grace, eyes sharp and lips tight. Gloria murmured at her side, a smirk tugging her mouth, while Patricia laughed too loud, too late. All three of them watched Sierra as if waiting for her to choke.

Wolves in pretty faces.

Sierra sat at the far edge of the northern table, picking half-heartedly at her food. She wasn’t hungry. The whispers were louder than her stomach.

And across the hall, Malick sat slouched in his chair, surrounded by older war-track boys. One boot hooked against the table leg, one hand loose at his side, like he belonged—and didn’t.

But his eyes kept drifting to her.

Quick. Careless. Careful.

Like he didn’t want to be caught looking. Like he couldn’t stop.

Sierra forced herself to look away, shoving her tray aside.

Her pulse still hadn’t settled.

Not after the hallway.

Not after the shirt.

Not after the way his voice had wrapped around her like a secret spell meant only for her.

And somewhere in the rafters above—unseen by anyone but her—

A single crow blinked. Its eyes gleamed.

And then it vanished.