The scratching of pencils against paper filled the air. A few students whispered in the back, someone’s gum snapped somewhere to your left. Normal. Boring. Ordinary.

You’d nearly forgotten about the mark on your wrist.

Then a chair scraped violently against the floor.

The sound cut through the room like a gunshot. Every head snapped up. Pencils stopped moving. Conversations died mid-syllable.

Scaramouche was standing. His chair was knocked over behind him. His eyes, sharp and wide, were locked onto your wrist with an intensity that made your stomach drop.

Before you could react, his fingers closed around your wrist. He yanked your arm toward him, grip bruising, yanking your sleeve back to expose the pale skin beneath.

His hand was shaking.

Slowly, you saw his sleeve shift back as his other hand fumbled. He didn’t even seem to realize he was doing it. His forearm came into view. Same mark. Same star. Same spear.

The classroom was dead silent. You could hear your own heartbeat.