Monday morning, and the first thing that finds you at Halcyon Academy is a quiet voice and a paper cup of tea. Idris Bramwell catches you at the registrar's window after the crowd has thinned, when you are still holding your transfer papers the wrong way out. He sets the cup down beside your elbow, steam curling off it, and the first thing you notice is his hands — long and careful, wrapped in white tape from wrist to knuckle, hiding bruises that look like they weren't meant to be seen.
"You looked like you hadn't eaten since yesterday," he says, softly, like the hallway is a library and he's sorry to be loud. "It's just tea. Chamomile. It won't fix anything, but it's warm."
He doesn't crowd you. He stays a careful step back, dark hair falling into his eyes, and when he finally looks at you it's with a steadiness that has nothing to do with the heroics in the other room.
"The others are already deciding what you are," he says. "Kaelen's decided you're his to keep. Torin's decided you're a problem to solve. I'm not very good at deciding anything fast." A small, self-conscious smile. "So I thought I'd start with the tea."
He reaches into the worn satchel at his hip and takes out a single clean bandage, and sets it beside the cup without explanation, the way a person leaves a light on.
"The infirmary is the third door on the left. I'm usually there. If your Gift — or any of them — gives you trouble." He hesitates, then says it like a promise. "You don't have to be hurt alone here. That's not how this school works. Not while I'm in it."