At noon, Brittany goes to class.
She actually goes—walks out the door with her backpack and Herbert, the flat expression of a woman who refuses to let a magical crisis disrupt her attendance record. She returns at one with notes from Magical Theory, a sandwich she stole from the faculty lounge, and intelligence.
"Security's doubled at the main gates. Ward sweep scheduled for nine PM—they're checking every building for concentrated magical signatures." She drops the sandwich on the desk. "The east gate has the lightest coverage. One guard. One ward. Twelve-minute reset cycle."
"How do you know the ward cycle?" Callum asks.
"Because I've been mapping the security systems since September." She pulls a folded paper from her jacket—hand-drawn, meticulous. The campus in detail, exits marked in red, security positions in blue, ward patterns in green. Refresh cycles noted in her small, precise handwriting. "I'm a mundane-born student at a school that treats mundane-borns like disposable labor. I plan exit strategies the way other people plan outfits."
She hands the map to Callum. He studies it. Through the bond I feel something shift in him—a grudging recognition that he'sholding a document more thorough than anything his mother's security team has produced.
"This is good work," he says.
"I know."
"Where do we go?" Atlas has stopped pacing. He's at the window, looking out at the campus—the oaks, the spires, the Gothic buildings catching the last of the afternoon light. Through the bond I feel what leaving costs him. This place is the only stable ground he's had since a kitchen on a Tuesday. His father brought him here after his mother died. These buildings, these storms, this sky—it's the closest thing to home he's got left, and he's about to walk away from it.
"Not a random direction," Callum says. "We need somewhere specific. Warded. Off-grid."
"I know someone." Felix collects his cards from the grid in one smooth motion. His face has settled into something I haven't seen before: decision. Not calculation. A choice made without enough data, based on something other than math. "Professor Wheeler. Former Tumult faculty—left Nyxhaven eight years ago. Publicly a sabbatical. Actually fired for researching grimoire history outside approved channels."
"A disgraced professor," Callum says.
"A disgraced professor with a warded house in the Vermont mountains that doesn't appear on any magical registry, who has spent eight years studying what the Administration does to grimoires, and who contacted me three years ago through a probability channel because she's been waiting for one to surface." Felix meets Callum's stare. "Unless you've got a better option. Which you don't. Because your mother owns every option on this campus."
Silence. The clock tower chimes three outside. A normal afternoon. Normal students going to normal classes. Not five people in a dorm room planning to flee a university that's been disappearing people for fifty years.
"Vermont," I say. "How far?"
"Six hours. Maybe seven." Felix pockets his cards. "I can nudge probabilities to get us through the gate. Past that, we improvise."
"I can mask our biological signatures," Ren says. Eyes open now. Voice rough but present. "Blood magic. It won't hold forever—a few days—but it'll keep them from tracking us through standard channels."
"I'll shadow the car." Callum, quiet. "Mother's monitoring network relies on light-based wards. Shadows block light."
"Storm cover for the exit," Atlas says. "I can pull clouds over the east side. Kill the visibility."
"My car," I say. "It's in the east lot. I can—"
"No." Brittany's voice, from the closet door. Flat. "I checked on my way back from class. Your car has a ward on it. Administrative lockdown—they put them on any vehicle registered to a student under investigation. Your engine won't turn over. You try to force it and the ward triggers an alert to campus security."
My stomach drops. Catalina thought of that. Of course she thought of that—she had hours between the amphitheater and now, and one of the first things she did was make sure I couldn't drive away from whatever she's planning. The woman who checked her phone and scheduled a follow-up appointment also disabled my car.
I look at them. Four men, each offering the magic that's theirs. Twenty-four hours ago they were channeling that magic into mebecause a woman told them to. Now they're planning to use it to run from her.
"Midnight," I say. "The east gate."
"Midnight," Callum confirms.
Brittany has been leaning against the closet door through all of this, arms crossed, Herbert on her shoulder. She's been listening with the particular focus she brings to problems she's already solved—the look of someone who figured out the answer ten minutes ago and is waiting for everyone else to catch up.
"You'll need my car," she says.
"You're coming with us," I say. Obviously. Of course she's coming. She has the car, the map, the exit strategy. She's Brittany. She's my—
"I'm not."
The words hit the room like a slap. Everyone goes still. Felix's cards stop. Atlas turns from the window. Through the bond I feel four spikes of confusion that aren't mine, but they're nothing compared to what's happening in my own chest.
