I thought the hardest part would be surviving the scent sweep.
I was wrong.
The hardest part was the quiet afterward.
The quiet that made every thought too loud.
Every breath too noticeable.
Every shift in the air too full of meaning.
Horace's dorm wasn't large, but it felt strangely spacious—like every corner echoed. Like the room itself was aware I didn't belong here.
Horace stood by the window, gaze fixed on the courtyard below, where students moved around unaware of the chaos happening behind royal doors.
Chandler sat on the couch—arms crossed, leg bouncing, eyes locked on Horace like he was waiting for him to slip.
And I—
I stood in the middle of the room, not sure what to do with my hands or my fear or the pounding in my chest.
Horace finally turned toward me.
"You'll stay here tonight," he said calmly. "No arguing."
Chandler snapped, "She's not staying in your room."
Horace raised an eyebrow. "Would you rather she step outside and get caught?"
Chandler gritted his teeth. "That's not the point."
"It is," Horace replied. "It's exactly the point."
Chandler stood up, frustration rolling off him in waves. "She's not safe around you."
Horace's voice lowered—not angry, just tired. "And she's not safe anywhere else."
My stomach twisted.
"Please," I said softly. "Don't fight right now."
They both stopped.
Chandler inhaled slowly, trying to calm himself. "Elleanore… you know he has an agenda."
Horace didn't deny it.
"I do," he said quietly. "My agenda is to keep her breathing."
Chandler's jaw clenched. "You think I can't do that?"
"No."
Horace's voice softened.
"I think you care so much you'll get reckless."
Chandler froze.
A hit he didn't expect.
For once, he didn't argue.
Horace shifted his attention fully to me.
"There are rules," he said. "If you stay here—my rules matter."
The way he said my rules wasn't possessive or controlling.
It was protective.
Structured.
The way someone creates order when everything else is falling apart.
"What rules?" I asked quietly.
Horace's expression remained calm, but serious.
"First," he said, "you do not step outside this dorm until I tell you it's safe."
I swallowed. "Okay."
"Second," Horace continued, "you keep the scent suppressor on at all times, and if it cracks again, you tell me immediately."
Chandler scoffed under his breath. Horace ignored it.
I nodded.
"Third," Horace said, "you don't agree to meet anyone without talking to me first."
My stomach flipped. "Anyone?"
"Anyone," Horace repeated. "Rowan, Adrian, Chandler—"
"Excuse me?" Chandler snapped.
Horace looked at him flatly. "You're the most likely to drag her outside and get her caught."
Chandler looked offended. "No, I'm the most likely to keep her from getting manipulated by you."
Horace didn't respond.
He didn't need to.
The tension in the air spoke enough for both of them.
"And fourth," Horace added quietly, "you sleep in the bedroom."
I froze. "Your bedroom?"
Chandler nearly exploded. "ABSOLUTELY NOT."
Horace held up a hand. "Not with me. I'll sleep on the couch."
Chandler looked between us like the world had cracked open. "So let me get this straight. You want her to sleep in your bed—"
"She needs a locked space," Horace said. "And my room has an internal lock that overrides the dorm's main system."
I blinked. "It does?"
Horace nodded. "Only royalty get them."
Realization hit slow but sharp.
So the only truly safe place in the entire Academy…
was behind that door.
In Horace's private room.
Under his protection.
Under his authority.
Chandler rubbed his temples. "This is insane. Completely insane."
Horace's gaze softened slightly as he looked at him.
"Chandler," he said quietly, "if you have a better option that keeps her hidden, protected, and undetectable—say it."
Chandler froze.
Then slowly deflated.
"…I don't," he whispered.
Horace nodded. "Then let me handle this."
Chandler sank onto the couch, defeated. "I still don't trust you."
"You don't have to," Horace said.
He looked at me—only me.
"She does."
The room felt too warm suddenly.
Too small.
Too full of things I didn't know how to deal with.
Chandler noticed the way my breath hitched.
He stood and walked toward me—slowly, gently.
"Come here," he murmured.
My chest tightened.
He placed his hands lightly on my arms, grounding me. "Breathe."
I did.
Slow inhale.
Slow exhale.
His thumbs brushed my upper arms—comforting, familiar in a way that made my eyes sting.
"You're safe," Chandler whispered. "I promise."
My throat tightened at the softness in his voice.
Horace watched—expression unreadable, but eyes storm-dark.
After a moment, Chandler stepped back. "If you need anything, you call me. I mean it."
Horace nodded once in agreement. "I'll allow him access if you request it."
Chandler rolled his eyes. "Wow. So generous."
Horace ignored the sarcasm.
Then he moved toward the door.
"I'll get food," Horace said. "You need to eat. Both of you."
Chandler blinked. "You're leaving her?"
"For five minutes," Horace said. "There are guards posted outside the hallway entrance. No one is getting through."
He paused by the door.
"Elleanore," he said softly, "lock the bedroom door until I return."
I nodded.
Horace left.
The door closed.
Chandler and I were alone.
There was a long, heavy silence.
Then Chandler muttered,
"You know… this is the second-worst situation we've been in today."
I sniffed, wiping my eyes. "What's the first?"
"The moment you said, 'I choose Horace.'"
He paused.
"I'm still recovering."
I laughed—weak, but real.
It broke the tension.
For a moment.
Then Chandler sat down on the couch, patting the spot beside him.
I hesitated—but sat.
He looked at me closely. "How are you really?"
"Scared," I admitted. "Confused. Exhausted."
"Want me to beat up the entire administration?"
That made me laugh again. "No."
"Want me to beat up Horace?"
"No!"
Chandler smirked. "Then you're doing better than I thought."
But his eyes softened.
"All jokes aside," he said, "I'm here. Even if you're choosing rooms with royalty."
I lowered my head. "I didn't choose him. I chose safety."
Chandler's voice quieted. "I know. But that doesn't make it easier."
Before I could reply—
The door opened again.
Horace returned with food trays, setting them down silently.
"You should eat," he said.
Chandler, of course, spoke with his mouth first and brain second. "Your Highness, do you serve all your guests or just the ones you like?"
Horace didn't pause.
He didn't glare.
He didn't even blink.
He simply said, without looking up:
"Just the ones I'm protecting."
Chandler fell silent.
My chest tightened.
We ate quietly.
Tension still hummed in the air, but it settled—a little.
When I finished, Horace stood and gestured to the bedroom door.
"Elleanore," he said softly, "you should rest."
Chandler tensed but didn't interrupt.
I nodded.
Horace opened the door for me and waited until I stepped inside.
Right as I entered, he spoke in a low voice:
"If you need anything," he murmured, "knock twice."
I swallowed. "Okay."
"And Elleanore?"
I looked up.
His eyes held something warm.
Something quiet.
Something unreadable.
"You did well today," he said gently. "Better than most would."
My throat tightened.
I whispered, "Thank you."
He nodded once.
Then closed the door—
softly, carefully—
leaving me alone in his room, surrounded by the quiet safety I didn't know I needed.
Horace's room was too quiet.
Too clean.
Too still.
Too… him.
The walls were pale grey, with soft white light reflecting off neatly arranged shelves. His desk was perfectly organized. A folded jacket lay on the back of a chair. Everything had a place. Everything had an order.
Except me.
I sat on the edge of his bed—my legs pulled up, heart still racing from everything that had happened today. The blanket beneath me smelled faintly like winter air and something sharper—Horace's scent buried beneath layers of cleanliness and discipline.
It wasn't overwhelming, but it was unmistakable.
I pressed my palms to my eyes and tried to steady my breathing.
You're safe.
You're okay.
You're safe.
For now.
Beside me, on the nightstand, sat the same small tablet that had been shoved into my bag the day I arrived at the Academy.
Elliot's tablet.
I had been avoiding it.
Afraid of what I might find.
Or what I wouldn't.
But now… I needed answers.
My hand hovered over the device before I finally turned it on. The screen flickered to life, showing Elliot's old home layout—simple, slightly messy, wallpaper still a photo of us at age twelve.
My throat tightened.
I swiped through the apps, searching for anything unusual, anything out of place.
Messages.
Old class schedules.
Training notes.
Nothing.
Then—
At the very bottom of the folder list—
Almost tucked away—
A hidden folder.
"E. F. — PRIVATE."
My heart skipped.
A password prompt popped up.
I hesitated only a second before typing the one thing Elliot always used when he didn't want anyone else to guess:
Our birthday.
The tablet unlocked instantly.
A single video file stared back at me.
Timestamp: The night before Elliot disappeared.
I covered my mouth with my hand.
My fingers shook as I tapped it open.
The screen filled with Elliot's tired face, hair disheveled, sweat on his brow. He looked like he'd been running or crying or both.
His voice was strained.
"If you're watching this…" He swallowed hard. "Then something went wrong."
My breath caught.
Elliot leaned closer to the camera.
"Elleanore—if you're the one who found this—please listen carefully."
Tears filled my eyes instantly.
"I think I found something in the Academy," Elliot whispered. "Something they're hiding. Something they're willing to bury people over."
He looked over his shoulder, panicked, then back at the camera.
"Be careful," he said. "And El—don't trust—"
The video cut out.
Black screen.
No ending.
No explanation.
Just gone.
I stared at the tablet, breath frozen, hands shaking so hard I almost dropped it.
Who was he warning me not to trust?
Cassian?
Horace?
Rowan?
Administration?
Everyone?
My chest tightened painfully. A quiet sob escaped before I could stop it.
A faint vibration buzzed beside me.
I looked down at the tablet—
A new notification.
Rowan Blackwell → "Unknown Contact"
Message: "You found something. Do NOT open the door for anyone."
My stomach twisted.
Before I could respond—
A sudden knock hit the bedroom door.
Soft.
Controlled.
Not Chandler.
Not Horace.
Someone else.
My blood ran cold.
A calm voice spoke from behind the door:
"Elleanore? It's me."
Cassian.
Every muscle in my body locked.
He shouldn't know where I was.
He shouldn't know the room.
He shouldn't—
Another knock.
"Elleanore," Cassian said quietly, "I know you're in there."
My heart pounded so hard I felt dizzy.
I didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Didn't even blink.
"Elleanore," he said again, softer this time. "Please."
I stared at the door in horror.
His voice wasn't cruel.
Wasn't mocking.
Wasn't threatening.
It sounded…
Broken.
"I shouldn't have treated you the way I did," Cassian murmured. "I didn't know—I didn't understand."
My throat tightened.
He sighed—a shaky, frustrated sound.
"I'm not here to hurt you," he said. "I just need to make sure you're alright."
I stayed still.
He stepped closer, his shadow blocking the light under the door.
"You were at B-12," Cassian said. "I know you were. And you found something you shouldn't have."
My breath stopped.
"I'm not your enemy."
I squeezed my eyes shut.
If I made a sound… he would know.
If I breathed too loudly… he would scent the fear.
Then—
A sharp voice cut through the hallway:
"What are you doing here?"
Horace.
Relief slammed into me so hard my knees buckled.
Cassian's tone dropped. "Checking on Elliot."
"You're lying," Horace said coldly.
Normally, he kept his voice measured, formal, diplomatic.
Not now.
The tension was crackling through the wood.
I could feel it from here.
"I'm not lying," Cassian replied. "I'm worried."
"Worried?" Horace echoed. "That's rich, coming from you."
Cassian's voice tightened. "You don't know anything about last year."
"And you don't know what she's been through this week."
My breath hitched.
Silence followed—sharp, tense, dangerous.
Then Cassian spoke in a low voice I could barely hear:
"Move aside, Horace."
"Not a chance."
"You don't even know why I'm trying to help."
"I don't trust your version of 'help.'"
Neither of them yelled.
Neither of them raised their voice.
But the hallway felt like it was vibrating with barely-contained dominance.
A deep exhale came from Cassian.
"Fine," he said. "But if anything happens to her, it'll be on you."
Footsteps.
Retreating.
Then gone.
Horace waited a full ten seconds before knocking gently on the door.
"Elleanore?" he called softly. "It's just me."
I scrambled across the room and unlocked the door with shaking hands.
Horace slipped inside, shutting it quickly behind him.
He didn't ask if I was okay.
He didn't ask if I was scared.
He just looked at me—
And the fear in my eyes told him everything.
"Elleanore," Horace whispered, stepping closer, "what happened?"
I held out the tablet with trembling hands.
He took it carefully.
Watching Elliot's video was torture.
Not because he showed emotion—but because he hid it.
Horace's jaw tightened.
A subtle tremor passed through his hands.
When the video cut off, he closed his eyes for a long moment.
Then he whispered something I never thought I'd hear from him:
"I should have protected him."
The ache in his voice hit me like a punch.
I swallowed hard. "Horace… did you know he was in danger?"
"No," he said quietly.
But the way he said it held guilt.
"But I knew he was frightened," Horace added. "I just didn't know why."
My throat burned.
"What did he mean?" I whispered. "Not to trust who?"
Horace met my eyes.
And for a moment—just a moment—
I saw the same fear I felt.
"I don't know," he said softly. "But we're going to find out."
His hand reached out—hesitant.
I placed mine in his.
Not because I wasn't afraid.
But because right now—
I needed strength that wasn't mine.
Horace's voice dropped to a whisper:
"I promise you… whatever Elliot uncovered—whatever he saw—
it won't swallow you too."
But part of me already knew:
It was too late.
I was already in the dark with him.