Morning came too fast.
Or maybe it didn't come at all—maybe the night simply bled into daylight without giving me a chance to rest.
I didn't sleep. Not a second. Not even when the quiet in Horace's room softened the fear in my chest.
Every time I closed my eyes, Elliot's video replayed in the darkness behind my eyelids.
"…don't trust—"
And then nothing.
My body trembled each time I replayed it. Every unfinished sentence felt like a knife.
When Horace knocked softly on the bedroom door at sunrise, I was already awake, sitting on the edge of his bed with the blankets drawn tightly around me.
"Elleanore?" His voice was gentle. "Can I come in?"
I swallowed and whispered, "Yes."
He pushed the door open and stepped in quietly, as if afraid to break whatever fragile composure I'd managed to build overnight.
His uniform jacket was on, shirt crisp, hair slightly tousled from lack of sleep. He'd probably stayed awake, guarding the door from anyone who might try to break in.
He glanced at me—just once—and that small, subtle crease formed between his brows.
"You didn't sleep."
I shook my head.
"I'm sorry," he said softly.
I smiled weakly. "It's not your fault."
Horace sat down on the chair beside the bed—close enough to reach me if I fell apart again, far enough that I didn't feel crowded.
"I need to tell you something," he said.
My chest tightened. "What?"
"Rowan contacted me this morning." Horace leaned forward slightly, voice dropping to a whisper. "He found something."
My heart jumped. "About Elliot?"
"Yes. Or at least—about what Elliot was looking into."
"What is it?"
Horace rested his elbows on his knees, threading his fingers together.
"He mentioned a place called the Hidden Records Room."
I frowned. "The Academy doesn't have a hidden—"
"It does," Horace said quietly. "But only certain families know about it. The Valehart family is one. My family is another."
Cassian's cold expression flickered in my mind.
"So Elliot found it?" I whispered.
"We think so," Horace said. "And Rowan believes that's where Elliot saw something he wasn't supposed to."
"What kind of something?" My voice barely held.
Horace looked at me slowly.
"Elleanore… the Records Room is where they keep files that were erased from the public archive. Including sealed disciplinary cases. Surveillance logs. Medical profiles. Scent analyses."
My blood ran cold.
"And," Horace continued, "records of any student flagged as a liability."
I pressed a hand to my mouth. "You mean—"
"Yes," he said quietly. "Possibly even the last weeks of Elliot's movements."
I forced myself to breathe.
Rowan had information. Horace had access. Chandler would fight anyone who tried to stop us.
But this place… This "Hidden Room"… It sounded like something built specifically to keep the truth out of reach.
"Where is it?" I whispered.
Horace didn't answer right away.
Instead, he stood and walked toward the desk, pulling something from the drawer.
A small, simple metal keycard. Sleek. Silver. Marked with a single crest:
FRINTON.
My heart stopped.
"That's your family seal," I whispered.
"Only royals can access the sublevel beneath the main archives," Horace said. "And even then, only for specific reasons."
I stared at the keycard, realization slowly forming.
"You're not… you're not seriously thinking—"
"Yes," he said. "I am."
"Horace, that's illegal."
He inhaled slowly. "Yes."
"And dangerous."
"Yes."
"And if you get caught—"
"I won't." His voice held no doubt. Just certainty. Pure, frightening certainty.
I stared at him, heart pounding.
"Why?" I whispered. "Why would you risk this? For me? For Elliot?"
Horace looked at me then—eyes steady, calm, but filled with something warmer than I knew how to name.
"Because Elliot didn't deserve to disappear," he said quietly. "And you don't deserve to lose him without answers."
I swallowed hard.
"And because," he added softly, "I owe him."
I frowned. "Owe him for what?"
He didn't answer.
Not yet.
Before I could ask again, someone knocked sharply at the dorm door.
Horace stiffened.
I froze.
The knock came again—two quick taps, then silence.
Rowan.
It had to be.
Horace opened the door a few inches.
Rowan slipped inside, glasses slightly fogged from the morning air. His uniform was perfectly neat—probably because he never slept either.
He looked at me, then at Horace, then at the keycard in Horace's hand.
"Good," Rowan said, brushing past him. "You're not completely useless."
Horace gave him a look. "Rowan…"
Rowan waved him off. "Oh, relax, Your Highness. If I wanted to get you arrested, I would have done it years ago."
I blinked. "You've known him for years?"
Rowan smirked. "You don't think elites mingle with elites? We all know each other. Unfortunately."
Horace sighed quietly, as if he had lived with this chaos for too long.
Rowan turned to me and crossed his arms.
"You ready to break into the most secure room in the Academy?" he asked.
"No," I said honestly.
Rowan shrugged. "Too bad. We're going."
Chandler's voice suddenly echoed from the hallway:
"Rowan, I swear—if you drag her into something stupid—"
And then the door swung open as Chandler stalked in, hair messy, breathing hard like he'd run across half the campus.
"You're leaving?" he demanded. "Without me?"
Horace sighed. "We were going to tell you."
"No you weren't," Chandler said, pointing an accusing finger. "You two were absolutely going to sneak off."
Rowan smiled. "He's learning."
"Shut up," Chandler snapped. "Elleanore, you're not going anywhere without backup."
"I'm here," Horace said.
"Backup that doesn't wear a crown," Chandler corrected.
Rowan snorted. "Good luck finding that at this school."
Chandler ignored him and turned to me.
"Elleanore," he said quietly, "I'm not letting you walk into that place without me. Elliot meant something to me too."
My breath hitched.
Chandler rarely admitted anything that vulnerable.
Horace studied him for a moment… then nodded once.
"Fine," Horace said. "You can come."
Chandler blinked. "Seriously?"
"Better you than Cassian," Horace said.
Rowan added, "Or someone with actual intelligence."
Chandler pointed at him. "I hate you."
"I know," Rowan said cheerfully.
Horace stepped toward the door, sliding the keycard into the inner pocket of his coat.
"Let's go," he said.
I followed.
Not because I wasn't scared— but because the alternative was worse.
The truth was waiting for us.
And Elliot's shadow was leading the way.
The Records They Tried to Erase
The walk to the main archives felt like moving through a dream—quiet, cold, and too heavy to be real.
Students passed by us on the courtyard paths, chatting about exams, schedules, and lunch menus. None of them had any idea that beneath their feet, under the pristine marble floors and polished chandeliers, was a room full of secrets the Academy hoped no one would ever find.
Horace led the way.
Chandler walked beside me, close enough that our arms brushed whenever I drifted, grounding me when my thoughts tried to spiral.
Rowan walked behind us, hands in his pockets, humming lightly as if we weren't about to break half a dozen Academy laws.
Only Rowan could hum on the way to a crime.
We reached the central building—tall pillars, thick stone doors, everything pristine and intimidating. But when Horace approached the entry, the guards stiffened immediately.
"Your Highness."
Horace nodded once. "I'm accessing the archives."
The guards bowed. "Of course. Do you require assistance—?"
"No."
One word. Cold. Controlled. Enough to stop all questions.
We stepped inside.
The main archive hall was enormous—floor-to-ceiling shelves, glass cases, the smell of old paper and polish lingering in the air. But we weren't here for the public archive.
Horace walked past the grand reading tables and toward a plain wall on the far right—white stone, smooth, unremarkable.
To anyone else, it was just a wall.
But Horace stopped in front of it and glanced back at us.
"Stay close," he murmured.
Chandler huffed. "We're literally breaking into a secret basement with you. Where else would we go?"
"Chandler," I whispered.
He shrugged, but quieted.
Horace slid his fingers over the stone surface until he found a barely visible indentation.
A keycard slot.
He took the silver card from his coat.
"Once we go down," he said quietly, "there's no pretending we didn't know about this place. Understand?"
I nodded.
Chandler nodded.
Rowan didn't bother answering—he just watched with interest, eyes glinting.
Horace inserted the keycard.
A faint click echoed.
Then—
The wall split.
Slowly. Quietly. Revealing a narrow staircase descending into darkness.
A cold draft rushed up to meet us.
Chandler squinted. "This looks like the opening to a murder dungeon."
Rowan beamed. "I know. Isn't it charming?"
"Shut up," Chandler muttered.
Horace stepped down first.
We followed.
The door sealed shut behind us.
The Sublevel
The staircase spiraled deeper and deeper, the temperature dropping with every step. Dim lights flickered on as we passed, one by one, until the stairs finally opened into a long hallway lined with metal doors.
But only one was marked.
"RESTRICTED ARCHIVE – LEVEL OMEGA ACCESS ONLY"
Chandler stared. "Omega? Why Omega?"
Rowan smirked. "It doesn't mean what you think it means."
Chandler scowled. "Still hate you."
Horace approached the door, placing his palm against a scanner plate. Lines of faint blue light raced up and down his hand.
A mechanical voice announced:
"IDENTITY CONFIRMED: HORACE ISAAC FRINTON."
"ROYAL CLEARANCE ACCEPTED."
Locks clicked one by one.
Then the door slid open.
The smell hit me first.
Cold metal. Old paper. Something sterile and too-clean—like the place had been scrubbed of any trace of life.
We stepped inside.
Rows of sealed shelves filled the room.
Glass cases. Locked cabinets. Digital screens powered down.
Horace moved toward a black console in the center of the room.
He placed the keycard onto it.
The entire room hummed as hidden screens flickered to life.
Rowan moved to the nearest digital panel, tapping the interface. "Let's start with the last thirty days before Elliot disappeared."
Chandler stood beside me, watching the shadows, every muscle tight like he expected someone to leap out from the shelves.
Horace typed quickly on the main console, pulling up internal records.
My pulse thudded. "Do you really think there's something here?"
Horace didn't answer directly.
Instead—
He said softly:
"Elliot didn't vanish. Someone erased him."
My stomach twisted.
Rowan found something first.
A file folder locked behind a digital seal.
RESTRICTED – CLASSIFIED LEVEL 2 STUDENT RECORD: ELLIOT JAN FONZE LEAK RISK: HIGH STATUS: SUSPENDED
Suspended?
My breath caught. "He was suspended? For what?"
Horace shook his head. "He wasn't. Not officially. This record shouldn't exist."
Rowan tapped one more icon.
Another folder appeared beneath it—half hidden.
SEALED REPORT: INCIDENT 17B ALPHA–ALPHA ALTERCATION INVOLVED PARTY: VALEHART, CASSIAN ALTXR SECOND PARTY: REDACTED WITNESS: REDACTED
Chandler stepped closer, eyes narrowing. "Altercation? Cassian was in a fight?"
Horace's brows furrowed. "Cassian never mentioned being involved in any disciplinary matter."
Rowan smirked. "Exactly. Because someone hid it."
I swallowed hard. "Do you think… the redacted student was Elliot?"
Horace didn't answer.
He didn't have to.
The tension in his jaw said everything.
Rowan slid to another console and began typing rapid commands. "Let's see if we can unmask redacted files…"
The system resisted at first. Rowan tapped harder. Lines of code filled the screen.
Then— The file flickered.
Redaction began to lift.
A name formed.
One letter… Then two… Then—
E—L—L—
I gasped.
Chandler cursed under his breath.
"Elliot," Rowan said quietly. "The second party was Elliot."
Horace inhaled sharply.
"He and Cassian fought," I whispered. "The night before…?"
"No." Rowan leaned forward. "Seventeen days before his disappearance."
Chandler blinked hard. "Then what happened that night?"
Rowan scanned the file again.
"No details listed," he muttered. "Only that the incident was classified. Which means—"
Horace finished the sentence for him:
"It wasn't a fight. It was a secret."
A chill ran up my spine.
My hands felt numb.
"Cassian told you he warned Elliot not to go into B-12," Horace said slowly. "But he didn't mention this."
"Why would Cassian hide it?" Chandler snapped.
Rowan lifted a brow. "Because he didn't want anyone to know that Elliot confronted him."
Horace's voice lowered. "Or because what happened between them wasn't something Cassian could explain."
My throat tightened.
Elliot… fought him.
Why? About what?
Horace clicked another tab.
The screen loaded another restricted file:
SURVEILLANCE FOOTAGE LOG LOCATION: LOWER WING – B-12 HALLWAY DATE: [REDACTED] STATUS: DELETED
Chandler leaned closer. "The night he disappeared."
My pulse hammered.
Rowan read the log aloud:
"Footage removed manually. Access used: V—"
He stopped.
His eyes widened.
"It's incomplete," Rowan whispered. "Someone cut off the access ID."
Horace frowned. "Meaning only part of the signature remains."
"Meaning," Rowan said, "someone wanted us to know it started with V—but not who the full name belongs to."
Chandler swore under his breath. "V for Valehart. Cassian."
I felt like my lungs had collapsed.
"No," Horace said slowly. "V could also be… Valesco, Varlam, Vinton—"
Chandler rounded on him. "Oh, come on. You know what this implies."
"It implies," Horace said tightly, "that someone wants us to think Cassian is involved."
The implication hit hard.
Someone tried to point the blame. Someone erased footage. Someone sealed records. Someone hid the truth inside a room meant for erasing people.
My chest tightened painfully.
Elliot had tried to tell me.
"Don't trust—"
But who? Who in this mess could I not trust?
Horace? Cassian? Rowan? The Academy itself?
I wrapped my arms around myself.
"Is there… anything else?" I whispered.
Rowan tapped another folder.
"There is one more thing."
A final hidden file.
Tiny. Compressed. Encrypted behind triple seals.
Horace leaned over the console.
"What is that?" he asked.
Rowan smirked.
"A message," he said. "From Elliot."
Chandler inhaled sharply. "From when?"
Rowan tapped the timestamp.
My vision blurred.
Timestamp: Ten minutes before Elliot disappeared.
I felt the room tilt.
Horace's grip tightened on the edge of the console.
Chandler's breath shuddered.
Rowan whispered:
"You need to prepare yourself before I open this."
My throat closed.
"Open it," I whispered.
But Rowan shook his head.
"No. Not here."
I blinked. "Why?"
Rowan glanced around the room, lips pressing into a thin line.
"Because this place might not be as abandoned as it looks," he said quietly. "And this file… feels like a trigger."
Horace stiffened. "Trigger for what?"
Rowan stepped away from the console.
"For whoever erased the others," he said.
A chill settled in my bones.
Chandler's voice dropped to a near whisper. "You mean—if we open it—someone will know?"
Rowan nodded once.
"Immediately."
I stared at the backup message.
Ten minutes before Elliot vanished.
Ten minutes before everything changed.
I closed my shaking hand around the tablet and whispered:
"Then tell me where we open it."
Rowan looked at me—really looked—and for once, he didn't smirk.
"Somewhere no one can listen," he said.
Horace straightened. "My private dorm."
Chandler nodded reluctantly. "Agreed."
Rowan added one more condition:
"And somewhere no one can scent you."
All eyes shifted to Horace.
His expression flickered between fear, determination, and something else—something I couldn't read yet.
"We go now," Horace said quietly.
I nodded.
But as we turned to leave the Records Room—
Something faint flickered on the corner screen.
A security feed.
Of the hallway outside this level.
Someone was standing at the top of the staircase.
Watching the door.
Tall. Still. Familiar.
Cassian.
My heart plummeted.
Horace's jaw clenched.
Chandler swore quietly.
Rowan narrowed his eyes.
"Well," Rowan said lightly, "that's inconvenient."