I TRACED THE RIM OF my coffee cup, the foam skull grinning up at me.
Just a week ago, Lord Raynoff had handed us the keys to Wickem’s defense and sent Cyrus and Elio to Europe. You’re central command, he’d said, like that was a thing that made sense. Corruption monitoring. Early warning. Hold the line. I’d nodded like I knew what that meant.
The dead moved beneath my feet in their usual low murmur, and the vibration in my bones had shifted—uneasy and waiting.
My father’s ring chilled my collarbone through my shirt, the metal refusing to warm.
Anticipation curled sharply in my gut.
Wickem was silent, but it wasn’t calm.
The hum of the wards pressed faintly beneath the café’s indie playlist and the hiss of the espresso machine. Everything here looked normal—latte foam art, warm tables, enchanted speakers, Keane seated across from me. But the dead beneath my feet were restless.
Raven proved the master didn’t need permission to strike here. If he could reach one of us, he could reach anyone. The academy had become something between a fortress and a waiting room—bristling with magic, locked down tight, holding its breath. While we waited for him to try again, classes still ran, faculty still taught, and everyone was testing the edges of our command.
Wards hummed overhead like high-tension wires. Evacuation drills. Corruption sensors. My necromancy laced through Keane’s portal grid like a tripwire—altering us to disturbances before the wards couple register them.
It was working. Technically.
But technical success didn’t stop students from looking at me like I was the reason they needed protecting.
I felt it everywhere—the dining hall where conversations stopped as I passed and the corridors where eyes tracked and measured.
Raven had been my friend. Everyone knew that. And now she was corrupted, missing, and weaponized against us.
The unspoken questions hung heavily: How close were you really? Did you miss the signs? Lucas got hurt because of you. Are you compromised too?
No one asked directly. They just… watched. And obeyed. Because I was an heir, and that meant something—even when trust didn’t follow.
The eastern ward is fluctuating again, Keane said, pulling me back from my thoughts.
We sat near the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Mountain View Café. The glass was fogged at the corners from cold. Outside, snow dusted the porch. Keane’s portals shimmered faintly on the edge of the table, quietly monitoring for magical disruptions.
I took a sip of my drink.
Third time this week, he continued, tapping something into his tablet. I’ll reinforce the anchors, but we should schedule another drill.
Tomorrow morning, I said, setting down my coffee and making a note. Before breakfast. Students are more alert then.
He nodded, already calculating portal positioning for rapid evacuation routes. Wisp rested at his feet, her spectral form barely visible in the afternoon light.
This was how we worked now—me making the calls and Keane backing them without hesitation, even when no one else did. Only I felt like I was standing on borrowed ground anyway. But at least, with him, I never felt alone on it.
The rest of Wickem was a different story.
Lord Raynoff’s statement back in January had been carefully worded—corruption found, new council formed, precautions in place. It all seemed reassuring on paper, but anyone paying attention could see how scared we still were.
Students weren’t stupid. They’d heard the rumors—Elio condemning his parents in the auditorium, Alstone’s arrest, Lucas bleeding on the library floor. They’d felt the wards tighten and watched the heir structure shift without knowing who decided it or why.
The space between everything is under control and stay ready for another attack was wide enough to breed all kinds of resentment.
And every sideways glance said the same thing: We know what happened wasn’t normal. We just don’t know if we trust you to fix it.
Keane’s name had been cleared. Mine never would be—traitor’s daughter, half-witch, heir by technicality.
I lifted my coffee again, my fingers tightening around the warm ceramic.
Miss Grimley?
