Ian finished buttoning up his shirt and draped a small towel around his shoulders to keep his clothes from his wet hair. Another towel, one he’d used just moments ago, lay forgotten on his bedroom floor. Ian didn’t bother picking it up; he didn’t care much for keeping his bedroom here particularly tidy. It didn’t matter anyway.

He dried his hair with a third towel until his curls started sticking up and out again, then went along to soaking up the two locks of hair hanging by his cheeks. When he managed to get most of the water out, he pulled them back into a low ponytail in an attempt to straighten his curls. Then he stopped.

Ian touched the sides of his face and looked at his reflection in a tall mirror on his dressing table.

On the left, close to the ear and in a section that was usually left unseen, there was a long vertical cut crossed by stitch marks. There was an almost identical scar on his right side as well. Both old, both dark and ugly, both equally impossible to heal. Just one more sign of his failures. His father tended to remind him that less and less these days, but Ian had never dared forget it.

Every time he read one of his father’s all too infrequent and all too formal letters, usually informing him of his whereabouts, Ian tried to convince himself that everything had always been for his own good, that his father had his best interest at heart, that Ian was not afraid of him. That maybe his brother and that other brat were indeed better than him, and Ian just had to try harder.

On the other hand, thanks to Miss Winter more so than anyone or anything else, Ian had been made aware of his own abilities some time ago. He had moments where he caught himself thinking that, yes, his shields in particular certainly were not brilliant, but on the other hand, his father didn’t always have to focus on that and ignore the other things that Ian was much more—

A knock on the door cut off his train of thought.

Distractedly, he said, “Enter.”