He jerks me out of my spiraling thoughts.
“Arwen,” he says, teeth clenched, stormy eyes fixed on me. “What in the world possessed you to leave the Academy alone? Do you knowhow reckless that was? How easily it could have gone wrong—if I hadn’t sensed the bond and found you?”
His voice is sharp with anger, but there’s something under it—an edge of concern I’m not used to seeing aimed at me.
My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Words scatter like leaves in a storm, none of them landing right. My brain is a tangle of flashing images, half-heard shouts, and the taste of panic still sour on my tongue. Twelve hours of chaos press against my ribs, heavy and relentless. I can barely catch a breath, let alone string a sentence together.
His jaw clenches, a hard line under stormy eyes. He shifts his weight, shoulders stiff, then straightens with a reluctant exhale. Fingers curl around something in his pocket—smooth metal. The screen lights up under his thumb.
“I need to call my father,” he says.
“No!” The word shoots out of me before I can stop it. My voice is harsher than I intend. My hands go cold. The Councilor who despises me most—Atticus’s father—cannot know I tried to run.
“You can’t,” I tell him. “You can’t call him.”
Atticus pauses, phone in hand. “Arwen, those were Sloth rebels. They were three streets from the Academy wards. I have to report this.”
“Please.” The plea comes out thin, raw. “Please don’t. They’ll exile me for trying to run. They’ll make it a show—’sinless attempted escape’—and I’ll be gone before noon.”
He inhales slowly, chest rising, eyes flicking over me with a sharpness that misses nothing. For the first time, I glimpse the gears turning behind the perfect posture and controlledauthority.
“Running off?” His voice is low, precise, each word measured like a scalpel. “Explain. Why were you leaving the Academy, Arwen?”
I laugh, a brittle sound that tastes like glass. “You’ve been front and center in this entire ordeal since it started, Atticus. You know what’s going to happen to me next month.”
He swallows, and the armor slips; his face goes regretful. He doesn’t argue.
“Your father is the number-one champion for my exile,” I say, words tumbling out faster now. “I’m sure the Council is already preparing to exile me at the end of term, but your father would be delighted to speed up the process if he found out their little science experiment tried to run away.”
He looks at me, tired and defeated. “So you tried to run because you’ve given up? You’re just… accepting exile?”
I snort in response. “I’m not giving up. I’m running to avoid exile. At least on my own I can try to stay in civilization. Have resources. Try to live.” My voice frays.
“I’ve tried everything, Atticus. Nothing is working. No sign of any powers are coming forward. I have no one on my side on the Council, and they certainly won’t keep a useless, sinless girl around when she can’t contribute to any faction.”
The weight of the last twelve hours drops into my chest like a stone. It’s too much, and finally the dam breaks. A single tear slips down my cheek.
“I’m worthless, Atticus.” The words scrape out of me, thin and pathetic, and I hate how true they feel. “I’m… I’m some cosmic screw-up, okay? A mistake the universe didn’t bother fixing. I know that.” My throat tightens. “But that wasn’t my choice. I’m just trying to… exist without breaking everything I touch.”
He moves before I can even think to react, hands cupping my face as if I might shatter. His thumbs sweep across my cheeks, brushing away the tears with a careful gentleness. “Arwen,” he says, voice low, deliberate, impossible to ignore. “You are not worthless. You are not a mistake. You are not nothing.”
He leans closer, eyes stormy and fixed on mine. “You are brave. Loyal. Strong. You’ve faced everything this Academy has thrown at you—and you’ve thrown it back, unbroken.”
A softer edge creeps into his tone, almost private. “You may not be Pride, but I’ve watched you carry yourself higher than any Pride would dare under the weight of what you’ve endured. You lack a Wrath power, yes—but your fire burns hotter than any Wrath. I’ve seen your fire, Arwen. Don’t let anyone take that from you.”
His words sink in slowly, crawling under my skin, stirring a heat I didn’t know language could make. The bond thrums beneath my ribs, insistent, wild, like wings beating inside me—louder than any heartbeat I’ve felt alone. No one has ever said things like this to me.
I tilt my head into his touch, reckless for a fraction of a second, and dare a thought that almost makes me dizzy: maybe… maybe he really means it.
Then the bitter part of me slams back. Hope is useless if it doesn’t change reality. “It doesn’t matter,” I spit, voice sharper than I intend. “They will exile me in a month. No powers. Don’t you get it, Atticus? I have to leave.”
He releases my face but doesn’t blink, doesn’t flinch. His stormy gaze pins me in place, sharp and unyielding, like a predator assessing atarget. “No,” he says, voice low and absolute. “No more running. We’ll figure this out. We’ll make a plan. And I will see this through—with you.”
I study him, wary, every instinct bristling. “I still don’t trust you.”
“I understand,” he says quietly. “And I know I have to earn that. But letting me help is a hell of a lot less dangerous than you trying to disappear on your own.”
A slow breath works its way into my lungs, shaky and stubborn. Options are scarce—pathetically so. Either I slip into the world alone and vanish like the universe always intended… or I let someone with real power, someone who might actually sway the Council, stand between me and the machine built to erase me.
