The voice made us both look up.
Two students stood nearby—upperclassmen I recognized from combat class. The girl wore dark jeans and a cropped sweater, her arms crossed tightly and chin tilted in challenge like she was ready to argue just for the satisfaction of it. The guy beside her hovered half a step back, his hoodie sleeves pushed up and fingers drumming lightly against the strap of his messenger bag—uncertain but here anyway.
Yes? I kept my voice neutral.
Some of us are wondering, the girl said, why we’re still under movement restrictions. Lord Raynoff’s statement said the corruption had been found and dealt with. Keane’s uncle was arrested. Her eyes flicked to him. The Lightfords are fugitives. So why are we locked down like prisoners?
Because the corruption wasn’t dealt with. Because Raven proved the master could strike inside Wickem. Because we didn’t know who else might be compromised.
But I couldn’t say any of that without causing panic.
Scout shifted on my shoulder, his skeletal form pressing closer to my neck. I resisted the urge to touch him for comfort.
The restrictions stay, I said simply.
But—
The master targeted Raven specifically because she was vulnerable and accessible. I met her eyes. Movement restrictions make targeting harder. They stay until we have better intelligence on his next move.
You don’t even know if there is a next move, she said, pushing the boundary of respectful challenge and testing how far she could question an heir. You’re just guessing.
True. But I wasn’t going to admit that.
The restrictions stay, I repeated, firmer this time.
The girl’s jaw tightened. She wanted to argue. I could see it in the set of her shoulders, the way her magic flickered at her fingertips. But I was an heir. She was an upperclassman who’d trained her whole life, yes, but that didn’t override bloodline authority.
She looked past me to Keane, clearly hoping the second heir—publicly cleared of treason charges just last month—would soften my decision or at least explain it better.
Keane didn’t move, didn’t speak, just sat there with that quiet, controlled presence that made it clear he was backing my call.
The silence stretched, uncomfortable and tense.
Finally, the girl turned and left, the guy following with an apologetic glance back.
I waited until they left the café before exhaling.
That’s not going to make me more popular, I muttered.
Probably not, Keane agreed. His hand found mine, and he gave it a quick squeeze of support. But it’s the right call.
I knew that. Logically, I knew the restrictions made sense.
Keane’s name had been cleared in Lord Raynoff’s statement. His uncle had been arrested, Keane’s innocence established. But a month wasn’t long enough to erase the damage of being labeled a traitor and hunted.
Students deferred to him because he was an heir, not because they trusted him.
Same problem I had. Different origins.
I didn’t defer. Didn’t hide behind Keane’s inherited authority. Didn’t explain my right to be here.
I just… held the line.
Even when it felt like standing on cracked ice.
The student would follow orders, just like everyone else.
But following orders because you had to wasn’t the same as following them because you trusted the person giving them.
