At the bottom of the folder: DNA reports. My name, Eve Allen, paired to a string of numbers. The other name, Kent Harrington, paired to the same.
I don’t need a degree to know what it means.
I look up. Harrington is smiling now, full and open, like a man who’s just won something precious.
“You see, Miss Allen,” he says, “you are exactly what we hoped you would be. And now you’re here, ready to fulfill your destiny.”
The air is thick. My hands shake so hard I have to grip the table to keep from shattering.
“What did you do to her?” I whisper. “Where is she?”
Steele closes the folder with a gentle tap.
“That’s not relevant,” he says. “Your mother chose her path. You now have to choose yours.”
I want to scream, but the sound would only echo back, empty and useless.
Harrington stands, walks to the window, looks out over the quad.
“Blood always calls home,” he says. “You’re home, Eve. Welcome.”
I want to call Colton, to find his face and let him anchor me. But I know that’s what they want—to see me run to him, to see me prove their point about blood and legacy and the way the world always bends back to the ones who built it.
Instead, I open the folder and pull out the photo of my mother, the one where she’s smiling in a way I never learned how to do.
I trace her face with my thumb, feeling the ghost of her in my cheekbones.
The folder weighs nothing and yet it’s heavy. My arms hurt holding it, but I can’t set it down.
I flip to the back. The final sheet is heavier than the others. Cardstock. There’s a photo, color, high-res. It’s a picture of meand Vivienne. The party at Harrington Hall. I’m in the red dress, her arm draped around my shoulder in that way people do to prove a point about who’s in charge.
There’s a sticky-note in the corner, handwritten: “Half-sisters. Neither aware.”
I stare at it for so long my eyes go out of focus.
The memory unspools in reverse: Vivienne’s laughter, the tilt of her chin, the way she watched me as if she was waiting for me to break. None of it was about me. It was never about me. It was about the hierarchy. The food chain.
Even the hate was inherited.
“You’re probably confused,” Mr. Harrington says. “It’s understandable.”
He waits, but I don’t give him anything. My hands shake, so I hide them under the table.
“There is no easy way to acclimate you to your future,” he continues, “but we feel it’s best to be direct. You are not here to excel. You are not here to rise above your peers. You are here to be claimed. To be tested. To be, ultimately, integrated into the legacy.”
My mouth goes dry. I can’t even swallow.
Harrington speaks, his voice almost gentle. “You will participate in the Night Hunt.”
Thewhat?
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
Steele fills the silence. “The Hunt is a tradition as old as the Academy itself. It is a crucible. Those who survive it become the foundation of the next generation. You, Miss Allen, are to be the runner for Colton Ellis.”
It doesn’t register at first. When it does, I almost laugh.
“That’s it?” I say, my voice brittle. “That’s my whole life?”
