The courtyard went quiet after Rowan's warning, but the silence wasn't peaceful.
It was cold.
Tight.
Like the air itself was waiting for something to crack.
Horace was the first to move.
He stepped forward—steady, composed, but not calm. His eyes were locked on mine, sharp with a mix of fear, frustration, and something he wasn't saying.
"Elliot," he said, voice low, "I need you to be honest with me."
My pulse jumped.
He should've been angry. He should've been commanding. He should've been cold, like the Crown Prince everyone whispered about.
But he wasn't.
His voice was steady, almost gentle. Too gentle.
Chandler moved instantly, stepping between us like a shield. "Back up."
Horace didn't. He didn't even blink.
"I'm not going to hurt him," Horace said quietly.
"Doesn't look like that," Chandler shot back.
"Then you're misreading me."
"No," Chandler said, voice hardening. "I'm not."
Rowan watched them like he was sitting in a theater seat with perfect view of the drama. Adrian stood off to the side, brow furrowed with worry.
Everything inside me felt stretched, trembling like a thread pulled too thin.
"Horace," I whispered, "please—"
He turned to me immediately.
"We need to talk," he said. "Privately."
"No," Chandler snapped. "You're cornering him—again."
Horace's jaw tightened. "I'm trying to protect him."
"Funny," Chandler said. "So am I."
"Enough!" I stepped between them before they could push the tension further.
My hands were shaking.
They both froze—because whenever I snapped, it didn't sound like Elliot. Not even close.
I tried to steady my breathing. "We're not doing this here. Not in the open."
Horace's eyes softened—just barely. "Then talk to me inside. Or somewhere no one can overhear."
Chandler scoffed. "Why in private? What do you want from him?"
Horace didn't answer.
He didn't have to.
He was staring at the chain in my hand.
At the faint tremble in my fingers.
At the fear I couldn't hide anymore.
"Because I'm worried about him," Horace said quietly.
Chandler hesitated—for the first time.
The silence that followed was thick, fragile, uncomfortable.
I swallowed hard. "Chandler… let me talk to him."
He stared at me—long, conflicted, protective in a way that hurt to look at. Finally, he exhaled sharply and stepped back.
"You have five minutes," he said. "And I'm not leaving the area."
"Noted," Horace said, tone clipped.
Rowan smirked and wandered off in the opposite direction, as if he already knew everything that would be said. Adrian lingered nearby but gave space.
Horace gestured to the edge of the courtyard—a quieter corner near the archway.
I followed.
Not because I trusted him.
But because avoiding him was becoming dangerous.
When we stopped beneath the archway, Horace didn't speak right away. He stood with his hands clasped behind him—shoulders tense, expression unreadable.
Finally, he said:
"What aren't you telling me?"
My stomach twisted.
I forced a steady breath. "I don't know what you mean."
Horace stared at me like he could see straight through that lie.
"You're scared," he said softly. "Not confused. Not overwhelmed. Scared."
I looked down. "Everyone's scared right now. You heard what Rowan said."
"That's not the reason."
His voice was too calm.
Too certain.
"You've been acting differently since the moment you arrived," Horace continued. "Your scent is wrong. Your behavior is wrong. Your reactions—your posture, your instincts—they're all different."
My breath stuttered.
"Horace—"
"I don't care about mistakes," he said. "I don't care if you're hiding something that's painful or personal. I don't even care if you don't trust me yet."
I froze.
"But I do care," he said quietly, "if you're in danger."
My chest tightened.
"I'm not—"
"You are," Horace cut in. "And you know it."
The wind rustled the leaves overhead, carrying the faintest scent of cold amber and something sharper—concern, protectiveness, worry.
"Who are you afraid of?" Horace asked. "Cassian? Rowan? Someone else?"
"I can handle it," I whispered.
"No," he said, softer now. "You can't. Not alone."
He stepped closer, not enough to crowd me—just close enough that the space between us warmed.
"I know what it looks like," Horace said. "When someone is carrying fear that isn't theirs. When someone is carrying someone else's weight."
I swallowed hard.
"And right now," he continued, "you look like someone trying to carry your brother's burden."
My heart dropped.
"I don't know what happened to him," Horace admitted. "But I know you do."
A tear slipped down my cheek before I could stop it.
Horace didn't pretend not to notice.
He didn't move.
He didn't touch me.
But something in his expression cracked—not in anger, but in quiet, aching empathy.
"You don't have to tell me everything," he said gently. "Just tell me one truth."
I wiped my cheek quickly. "What truth?"
"Do you believe Elliot was targeted?"
My breath caught.
The word targeted made my chest twist painfully.
I didn't answer.
I couldn't.
But silence was its own confession.
Horace inhaled slowly. "Then I'll help you find out what happened."
I looked up, startled. "Why?"
His eyes met mine—unflinching, unguarded.
"Because I should have protected him," he said quietly. "And I won't fail you too."
The breath left my lungs.
Before I could speak—
The Academy intercom crackled to life.
A formal voice echoed through the courtyard:
"Second-year Alpha Division, please report to the Administrative Wing.
Mandatory scent evaluation in thirty minutes."
My blood turned to ice.
Scent evaluation.
With dominant Alphas.
With scent experts.
Where suppressors couldn't fully hide anything.
Where lies tore themselves apart.
Where an Omega pretending to be an Alpha would be exposed in seconds.
Horace froze.
Chandler heard it too—he turned sharply, eyes darting to me like he already sensed something was wrong.
Adrian's face went pale.
Even Rowan stopped walking.
And the intercom repeated:
"All second-year Alphas.
All."
My heart punched against my ribs.
Not now.
Not this.
If I went, I would be exposed.
If I didn't, they would drag me there.
Horace stepped toward me instantly.
"Elliot," he said sharply. "Look at me."
I tried but couldn't.
My hands shook. My breath came too fast.
"Elliot," he repeated, voice softer, firmer. "Don't panic."
Chandler reached us with wide, alarmed eyes. "Elleanore—shit—your scent—"
"Stop," I snapped, covering my mouth.
HORACE HEARD HIM.
I knew he did.
His eyes widened—barely—but enough.
Everything cracked.
Everything.
Horace exhaled a single, soft breath.
Not angry.
Not mocking.
Not triumphant.
Just stunned.
"Elliot…" he whispered.
Except he didn't say Elliot.
He said:
"…Elleanore?"
The world stopped.
The first fracture had happened.
For a second, no one spoke.
No one moved.
Not Horace.
Not Chandler.
Not Adrian.
Not even Rowan, who always had something clever to add.
The only sound was the soft hum of the courtyard lights as the silence stretched thin.
Horace said my name—my real name—as if the truth had been sitting on his tongue for days without him knowing it.
"Elleanore?"
My heart slammed against my ribs so hard it hurt.
I shook my head instinctively, reflexively, the way someone denies fire even when they're already burning.
"No," I whispered. "No, you misheard—"
But Horace wasn't stupid.
Horace wasn't blind.
And Horace wasn't the type to run from the truth once it was in front of him.
He stared at me—slow, stunned realization spreading through his face with painful clarity.
"You're—"
His voice caught.
He swallowed once.
"You're not Elliot."
My breath broke.
"No," I choked out. "Horace, wait—"
Chandler grabbed my arm instantly, pulling me back. "Enough. He heard wrong."
Horace didn't look away. "He didn't."
Chandler glared at him. "You're making assumptions—"
"I'm recognizing the obvious," Horace said quietly.
The way I stood.
The way I spoke.
The way I smelled when the suppressor cracked.
The way I reacted to pressure.
He had pieced it together.
Slowly.
Carefully.
And now completely.
"Elleanore?" he said again, softer this time. "It's really you, isn't it?"
The first tear slipped down my cheek.
I didn't even feel it leave my eyes.
Chandler cursed softly and positioned himself directly between us.
"This conversation ends now," Chandler snapped. "She doesn't owe you—"
"Look at her," Horace said sharply. "She's terrified."
His voice wasn't accusing.
It wasn't cold.
It was hurting.
Chandler's jaw clenched. "And whose fault is that?"
"I didn't cause this," Horace said. "But I'm trying to help—"
"You cornered her so many times I lost count," Chandler shot back.
"And every time," Horace snapped, "I was trying to understand why someone who smelled like Elliot didn't move like him, didn't speak like him, didn't—"
"Stop," I whispered.
They froze.
My whole body shook.
I pressed my hands to my face, palms cold and trembling.
"I-I can't—"
I couldn't breathe.
I couldn't think.
"I can't do this here."
Chandler pulled me into his side protectively. "Then we're leaving."
Horace took a step forward.
Chandler blocked him. "Don't."
Horace's voice tightened. "The evaluation starts in less than thirty minutes. If she doesn't show up—"
"She's not going to the evaluation," Chandler cut in.
"She has to," Horace said sharply.
"She can't." Chandler glared. "They'll smell her in seconds."
Horace went still.
Fully, painfully still.
Because now he understood everything.
The panic.
The shaking.
The suppressor.
The way I avoided certain rooms, certain people.
The strange reactions.
The way I almost crumbled under too much Alpha pressure.
And his voice—usually so controlled—fell to a whisper.
"She's… Omega."
Chandler's glare sharpened dangerously. "Watch your tone."
Horace didn't rise to the challenge.
He didn't look angry.
He didn't look disgusted.
He didn't look triumphant.
He looked devastated.
"Why?" he whispered. "Why would she come here like this? Why would she risk—"
"Because Elliot is missing," Chandler snapped. "And no one else is doing a damn thing."
Horace inhaled slowly—as if swallowing a hundred words at once.
Behind us, Adrian took a shaky step closer.
"This is bad," Adrian murmured. "They're already talking about ramping up scent security. If she gets caught—"
"I know," Chandler said.
"Then we need to move," Adrian insisted. "Now."
Rowan, who had been quiet this entire time, finally sighed.
He stepped out from the pillar, looking far too casual for the situation.
"If you're done with the emotional meltdown," Rowan said lazily, "I suggest you start running sooner rather than later."
None of us responded.
He continued anyway.
"The Admin Wing is already raising protocols," Rowan said. "Someone tipped them off."
Chandler stiffened. "Tipped them off to what?"
"That an Alpha's scent profile is inconsistent." Rowan shrugged. "They think there's a risk of hormone destabilization."
"Or?" Horace pressed.
Rowan smiled thinly. "Or someone hiding something."
My stomach twisted.
Rowan pointed at me. "Guess who the top candidate is."
"Rowan," Horace said sharply, "this is not the time for—"
"Oh, but it is," Rowan interrupted. "Because if she doesn't disappear within the next five minutes…"
He tilted his head.
"…they'll track her down themselves."
Horace's breath caught. "Who's coming?"
"Professors. Two scent specialists. And probably someone from administration."
My blood froze.
Adrian's voice came fast and anxious. "Where do we take her?"
Chandler answered instantly. "Out. Through the west exit."
"No," Rowan said. "Guards stationed there."
Horace stepped forward, voice low and decisive. "Then we go to my dorm."
My breath hitched. "What?"
"It's protected," Horace said. "They can't conduct a scent evaluation in the prince's quarters without clearance."
Chandler snapped, "Absolutely not."
"It's the safest place on campus."
"It's the worst place!" Chandler shot back. "She'll be trapped."
Horace stepped closer. "She'll be safe."
"I'm not letting her anywhere near your—"
"ENOUGH!" I cried out.
All voices dropped instantly.
I was shaking so hard I had to grip the wall.
"Stop arguing," I pleaded. "Just stop."
A tear slid down my cheek.
"I can't handle—"
My voice broke.
"I can't handle all of you right now."
Chandler moved toward me first. "Hey, hey… it's okay, breathe—"
But Horace reached me first.
Not touching.
Not crowding.
Just stepping close enough to catch my collapsing focus.
"Elleanore," he said softly, "look at me."
I forced myself to lift my head.
His eyes weren't sharp now.
They weren't suspicious.
They weren't royal.
They were warm.
Soft.
Terrified for me.
"We will keep you safe," Horace murmured. "But you need to choose. Now."
Choose?
Choose between what?
Between who?
Between the prince who just saw through every lie—
Between the boy who protected me long before I stepped foot here—
And the Academy closing in around me like jaws.
My breath trembled.
Chandler's voice broke through the tense air—quiet, fragile.
"Elleanore…"
A pause.
"I'll protect you. You know that."
Horace's voice followed—gentler, threaded with something raw.
"I won't let them touch you."
My heart twisted.
I looked between them.
Two Alphas standing on opposite sides of my world—
one armed with instinct,
one armed with loyalty,
both ready to fight.
Adrian stepped forward. "Whatever you choose… I'll help cover your tracks."
Rowan shrugged. "Same. But choose fast. I give you two minutes before someone rounds that corner."
Two minutes.
Two lives.
Two dangers.
Two ways this could go horribly wrong.
My hands shook as I pulled the chain tight in my grip.
My voice came out small, but steady.
"I choose—"