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"This is—it's disgusting."

Rowan stares at me like he wants to kill me before scrambling for the ladder and hauling himself out of the pool, movements jerky and frantic as he grabs for his towel with shaking hands.

"Oh, don't worry about the pool," I call after him, still smiling. "I'll have it cleaned."

He freezes like he can't believe I said that out loud.

Then he disappears through the locker room door.

Idon't expect anything to happen this late, especially after the pool and the way Rowan looked Exton before he bolted. Now I'm heading back through the halls, water drying on my skin, when my multi-slate bubbles in my pocket. I almost ignore it. Almost.

It's one of Dad's guards, informing me that Rowan's left his dorm by himself.

Really? At this fucking hour?

I shove my boots on and cut for the nearest exit. "Where is he now?"

"East wing," the guard says, a beat of static under his voice. "He just passed the lower hall. Looks like he's heading for the side gate."

"You sure?"

"I've got eyes on him. He's moving fast."

I hit the corridor at a run and catch sight of him halfway down the hall, moving fast enough that it's obvious this isn't some restless walk to clear his head. He's wearing a dark coat instead of his uniform jacket, a satchel slung over one shoulder, his whole posture tight with purpose.

Ten minutes ago, he practically ran from the pool. Now he's sneaking off campus in the middle of the night. He's going somewhere, and wherever it is, he doesn't want anyone to see.

I watch Rowan disappear through the side gate, heading down the path toward the lower-city tram line, and something in me sharpens.

Where the hell are you going, little mouse? What the fuck are you hiding?

He's slipping out alone like this, still chasing something after the pool, after looking rattled enough to run.

I cut through the east stairwell instead and head for the service arch before Rowan can get too far ahead. The air outside hits colder than it should after the humidity of the natatorium, damp enough to cling to my skin as I step out under the open night. Caervast looks different after dark, less like a school and more like something built to keep its secrets.

The paths are still lit in clean white strips set into the stone, but farther on the light changes, old iron lamps burning amber beside sleek security nodes. Glass transit lines curve overhead, carrying steady traffic, while arches throw long shadows across the walkways and silent shuttles glide above.

Rowan doesn't slow. His dark coat catches the wind as he heads for the tram platform, moving with that same tight, purposeful stride, and the sight of him pushing deeper into the city at this hour sends something mean and restless through me.

Because Rowan Ashford has exactly two talents when it comes to danger: he notices it, then walks straight toward it alone.

By the time I reach the lower tram, the city is already changing. The market noise thins first, the cleaner academy finish dropping away block by block until what's left is the older part of Sero, where the streets run narrow and slick with earlier rain and the buildings press close enough to cut the light between them.

Down here, all the polished Caervast bullshit gives way to what was already here—old stone, rusting ironwork, and money that knows how to hide the rot.

I can't help the small smirk that pulls at my mouth. We built half of it.

I catch sight of Rowan two blocks ahead and keep my distance, letting the evening crowd hide me. He doesn't move like he's turned around. He checks the folded slip under a flickering streetlamp, glances up at a worn corner marker carved into the stone, then keeps going without hesitation, cutting deeper into the district.

That lands wrong in my chest fast enough to feel instinctive.

He knows where he's going. Whatever pulled him down here matters more to him than the fact that he's walking alone through one of the most dangerous parts of the city at night.

Halvern wants him visible. Dad wants to know why. Watching Rowan disappear deeper into the old city, I'm starting to think the answer isn't sitting inside the academy at all.

The cleaner storefronts fall away fast. Neon signs buzz too dim to be respectable. A pawn broker with a dead holo display. A back-room card den behind smoked glass. A chapel wall gone black with age, its saints half eroded under graffiti and rain.

This is the kind of district that survives by keeping its mouth shut.