Which means it’s probably her again.
I sit back on my heels and grab the phone. Sure enough. Arwen. Sinless, blue-eyed, sharp-tongued Arwen. Somehow she’s got her claws into my skin, and I can’t even pin down when it happened. She’s nothing like me—small, unpowered, a nobody in the hierarchy. But she never flinches, never stumbles over her words. She throws her sass at me like knives, daring me to catch them.
Most people avoid me. She doesn’t.
And maybe that’s why I keep letting her.
I unlock the screen. The message is brief, just like her other messages last couple weeks. Canceling tutoring today.
My jaw tightens. Again.
Something’s off. She’s been pulling back, avoiding me, hiding behind excuses. I’ve let it slide. Until now.
My thoughts shift, slow and deliberately, circling like a predator. I remember the day Atticus pulled her aside, months back. Hewhispered something in her ear that she wouldn’t share, no matter how I pressed. Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s something worse.
Either way, I’ll find out.
Arwen can bail on sessions all she wants. Doesn’t matter. It’s not going to undo the way she’s hooked herself into me without permission.
And I’m done pretending I don’t notice.
***
I wait outside the cafeteria during dinner. I never eat here—why would I? Sitting out in the open like a target, giving anyone the chance to take a shot at me? My family’s eyes stretch farther than I can see. Their reach doesn’t stop at the academy gates.
Enemies linger in corners, waiting for the moment I slip. To eat here is to invite weakness. To announce who you’re tied to. Who you trust. Who could be used against you.
Even the smallest things—what’s on your plate, how fast you eat it, whether you go back for seconds—become weapons in the right hands. A preference is a vulnerability.
An allergy is a death sentence.
My brothers and sisters would buy those scraps of information to claw their way closer to Father’s approval, to carve their place at the table larger by clawing me out of it. And that’s not even mentioning enemies outside our faction. It’s the way our world works.
So I don’t eat here. Every move I make has to be intentional, every detail calculated. Control is survival.
And survival is the only thing that matters.
But Arwen eats here.
Besides freshmen, It’s mostly kids who can’t afford call-in meals or private chefs eat here, or the ones like ‘almighty heir Atticus’ who want the entire world to see their power and status as if it matters.
I watch as students walk out. Their posture frigid and wary. They’re not used to my attention scrutinizing them.
She slips out with her friends, their heads bent close in serious conversation. My pulse kicks harder than I’d like to admit. I move before I can stop myself and catch her shoulder.
She turns, and her friends stop and stiffen. The three Wrath friends eye me like I’m the enemy. The Gluttony friends flick their gaze away, fear tugging them down like weights.
Arwen studies me, and for the first time, I think I see fear in her eyes. Not the kind I’m used to, the sharp flinch people give when they remember who I am. This is different. Defiant. Like she’s holding her ground even though her hands are shaking inside.
“What do you want?” she asks, her voice clipped.
“I need to talk to you,” I say.
“I’m busy.”
That’s it—I know I’ll get nowhere if I make it a request. “It’s not a question.”
Her eyes flash, but she tells her friends to go on without her. When they’re gone, the air feels heavier, as if it’s pressing down on just the two of us.
