He smiles that slimy, self-satisfied grin that always signals he’s set his children on a collision course. “You do that, son. I’d hate to see you lose territory while you’re at the Academy.”
I leave without another word. My phone is already open before my feet hit the hall.
All hands on deck.Everyone needs to be briefed. Everyone needs to move.
As I round the corner, I stop short.
Arwen strides between Atticus and Dean Bellows, the two of them bracketing her like she needs escorting.
Heat coils low in my chest—sharp, unwelcome. Atticus keeps a half-step too close, posture all righteous guardian, and something in me snarls at the sight.
She looks calm, collected… but I catch it—the flicker behind her eyes. A spark of determination. A live wire of fire she tucks behind a steady expression. The same fire that drags her through every damn thing the world throws at her.
And watching Atticus pretend he’s the one keeping her upright?
Yeah. That sets my teeth on edge.
I drag my gaze away. I can’t—can’t—let her pull my focus right now. This is exactly what I warned myself about. One look at her, and the edges of my priorities start to blur.
My jaw locks hard enough to ache.
No. I shove the distraction down where it belongs.
There’s a mess brewing, and I’m the one who has to keep it from detonating.
I steady my breaths, shoulders squared.
I need to get this Feastwell situation under control. Now.
***
Arwen
The Dean leads me down to the basement, past floors I’ve never seen, past the level that holds Maddox’s lab, past every familiar corridor and training room. The air grows colder, heavier, and the torches flicker shadows that stretch like long fingers across the stone walls. This place feels less like an academy and more like a dungeon carved into the bones of the building itself.
My hand bumps the Sloth relics I lifted from my kidnappers. I should probably know how they work before handling them but…nope. If things crash and burn today, maybe they’ll be useful. Or explode. Knowing my life? Probably explode.
We arrive at a room with vaulted stone ceilings, torchlight dancing across rough-hewn walls. A prickle runs up the back of my neck. The chamber is similar in layout to the trial room in Pride — crescent-shaped desk with 7 seats, the intimidating weight of authority—but this one feels darker, older, meaner.
Most of the Councilors are already here. My eyes lock on Maddox’s father, whispering into Councilor Willshire’s ear with that sickly, smooth grin I recognize from last time. Willshire chuckles quietly, but his gaze snaps to me. The amusement vanishes in an instant when he notices Atticus standing beside me.
“Is there a purpose to your presence, Atticus? You weren't summoned,” his father asks, suspicion lacing his tone.
Atticus glances at me, almost pained, and I shake my head subtly. “Just observing, Father,” he murmurs, stepping toward the crescent-shaped desk where the Councilors sit.
“Smart of you to take the initiative, Atticus, although next time you’ll inform me first,” his father says, dismissing him and turning back to me.
Dean Bellows nudges me forward toward the small stone circle at the center. There’s no seat for me today. My heart hammers.
“Has Councilor Baylen brought the transporter?” Councilor Willshire asks, scanning the group.
“He has,” Councilor Blaise replies. My stomach drops. Ryker. He looks every bit like his father, smug and untouchable.
“And where is Speaker Villanox?” the Councilor Baylen interrupts, scanning the room. My gaze flicks to the empty spot, the one missing for Envy.
Of course—Maylo again, voting in place of his Councilor. Things didn't go so well for me last time with Maylo.
“We don’t have time to wait,” Councilor Willshire booms, irritation rolling off him like wildfire. “This has already been a huge inconvenience to our schedules. Let’s get this ridiculous circus over with.”
