I cut back toward the hallway where I last saw Dean Bellows and Arwen, the academy’s layout snapping into place in my mind like a battlefield map. My boots slam against the marble—too loud, too fast—but I can’t slow down. Not when every stride sends a fresh jolt of adrenaline through my veins.
Atticus can hover at her side all he wants. He doesn’t change the one thing that matters.
I don't want her to go.
The thought claws up my throat, makes the world narrow to a single objective. Get to her. Get the potion into her hands. Don’t let her slip away again.
Corridors blur past. Students jump back, startled, but I barely register them.
I’m already imagining the worst—her collapsing, her breath sputtering, that stubborn fire in her eyes flickering out as she's transported away to the Wastes.
Not happening.
Not while I’m breathing.
I’ll get to her. I’ll fix this. I’ll make sure she walks out of today alive.
Whatever it costs.
Rounding the corner in the familiar hallway, I slam to a stop. A familiar face- not the Dean, not Arwen—but Maylo Villanox is leaning against the wall, looking at his phone. "What the hell?"
“Took you long enough,” he says, not even looking at me, voice smooth, almost smug.
“What are you talking about?” I snap, stepping closer, eyes narrowing.
He smirks, unbothered. “You’re late, West. For someone very important.”
I grit my teeth. “What game are you playing, Villanox? Where is the council?”
Maylo tilts his head, amused. “We don’t have time for explanations. You’re trying to get to Arwen, and I’m late for a very important Council vote. Follow me.”
He moves, and I follow. He's an insane psychopath but if he's heading toward Arwen, that's all that matters.
Every second counts. Every hallway, every turn brings me closer to her, and closer to the moment I can make sure she gets what she deserves: a chance to survive, a chance to unleash what she’s meant to be.
***
Arwen
“I will speak for her.” Though Atticus's voice is steady, it carries a certain gravity that pervades the room.
Every head in the room turns toward him. The torchlight catches the sharp edges of his face, reflecting in his eyes —which are not trained on me, but on his father. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t shift. The air feels charged, like the moment before a storm cracks the sky open.
“I have watched Arwen fight harder than anyone in this academy,” Atticus says, each word precise, measured. “She has no power, yet she stands shoulder to shoulder with those of us who do. She defends herself with nothing but grit and discipline. She has proven she deserves to be here.”
The Councilors murmur, some scoffing, others exchanging quiet glances. But Atticus doesn’t waver. He stares at his father like he’s boring through him, silent words carrying beneath his spoken ones. My stomach twists. I know what he’s doing. He’s trying to push past his father’s mental shields, to plant conviction where none exists.
My heart pounds.
“You raised me to believe strength is everything,” Atticus continues, voice low, dangerous. “But maybe strength isn’t just power. Maybe it’s resilience. Maybe it’s refusing to bow, even when the world says you should.”
A tremor ripples through the air, too subtle for anyone else to notice, but I feel it. The tension between father and son, power colliding beneath the surface, invisible but suffocating. Atticus’s spine straightens. He’s pushing harder.
“Enough!” Councilor Willshire slams a hand against the stone desk, his face flushing with fury. His voice booms, echoing off the vaulted ceiling. The chamber goes silent.
His eyes burn into his son. “You think I don’t know what you’re trying to do, boy? You think I can’t feel it? As if you could ever overpower me.” His lip curls in disgust. “What has gotten into you? Why on earth would you stand up for this sinless scum?”
“She is my bond.”
