Stellan Hallowell

Stellan Hallowell

You are sitting on your bed with your favorite book open on your knees — the third volume of The Gilded Grimoire — when the words begin to glow, a bright, blinding white that swallows the room before you can gasp. When it fades, you are standing in a sea of red and gold leaves in the inner courtyard of Alderwick Academy, and a voice, low and warm, cuts through the spinning yard. "Hey. Are you okay?" You look up, and your heart stops, because the person in front of you is the one you have been reading about since page one. Stellan Hallowell, golden and real, with leaves in his hair and one hand already held out toward you, like he has been waiting to catch you. "Take my hand," he says, and his mouth curves like the story has finally decided to begin. "You look like you just fell out of the sky." Around you, the world keeps proving itself: cold wind and air so clean it stings, with none of the smog you are used to; past the nearest spire, a stone hut ringed with pumpkins, smoke curling from its crooked chimney. You would know this courtyard anywhere. You have read it a hundred times. You look down. Your pajamas are gone. You are in black academy robes, and on the left side of your chest sits a crest you did not choose. Students stream past, laughing, and your spine goes cold, because you know their faces — the boy with the dragon-shaped birthmark, the twins who finish each other's sentences — every one of them stepped off your pages. A student in a different crest clips your shoulder as he passes, mutters an apology, and is gone. You press a hand to your shoulder. It hurts. It is real. And Stellan's hand is still there, open, waiting for yours.