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"I'm walking you back."

"My room is five minutes away."

"I know."

"Rhyven—" He looks at me. Nothing sarcastic. Nothing commanding.

"Four." One word. That's all. I don't argue.

We walk through the Academy side by side. No jokes.

No investigation. Only footsteps against stone. Students move in pairs around us. Wardkeepers stand at every intersection. Doors remain open. Lights burn brighter than usual. Everyone is watching everyone. And still...Mara vanished from a room with people only steps away. I think about the coffee still warming my hands this morning. My father's single word. Good. Nyra hugging me. Cassian shouting. Caelen's face. For several hours, Friday belonged to me. My victory. My manifestation. My future. Now... Friday belongs to Mara too.

At my residence door, Rhyven stops.

"Inside."

I raise an eyebrow. "You're very subtle."

"No."

Despite everything, the smallest smile touches my mouth. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

I step inside. He waits until the door closes. I know because I hear his footsteps only afterward.

I open Nyra's copied timeline. Not because she gave it to me. Because I copied it. Four names. Four days.

Saturday. Monday. Wednesday. Friday. Then— Sunday — Blank. For the first time we are not waiting to discover whether someone will disappear again.

We're waiting to discover who.

Chapter Thirty-six

By saturday morning, fear has become administrative. There are new signs outside every residence hall. NO STUDENT MAY TRAVEL ALONE. Another beneath it: ALL BUILDING ENTRIES AND EXITS MUST BE RECORDED. And another: PATROLS WILL OPERATE IN GROUPS OF THREE UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. Someone has underlined the final sentence twice. Probably Caelen. I stand in front of the notice board with Nyra and Cassian while students crowd around us. Nobody complains. That might be the strangest part. A week ago, people argued about curfew. Yesterday, they complained about shortened lunches. Today everyone reads the rules. Then obeys them. Cassian scans the parchment. "So if I need the bathroom..."

Nyra answers immediately. "You take someone."

He looks horrified. "I've lost all dignity."

"You had very little."

"That's cruel."

"Accurate."

I look toward the bottom of the notice. SUNDAY SECURITY PROTOCOLS TO FOLLOW. There it is.

Sunday. No one says the word. Everyone sees it.

Breakfast is louder than yesterday. Not happier. Nervous. People talk because silence leaves too much room for imagination. At the table behind us, two second-years argue about the disappearances.

"They're connected."

"Obviously."

"You don't know that."