CHAPTER 1: ELARA

The palace didn’t say goodbye.

There was no final dinner with the silver plates and the too-quiet string quartet. No court gathered in the marble hall to watch me leave. No brother at the east gate to put a hand on my shoulder and tell me to write when I landed. No mother at the top of the stairs pretending not to cry.

Just an envelope.

It was on my pillow when I came back from the library at midnight, placed there like a verdict. Royal wax, House Virell, stamped so hard it bit through the paper. My name was written across the front in ink that didn’t shake. Elara.

I knew my father’s handwriting the way prisoners know the weight of their cell doors. Not because he wrote to me. Because I’d spent years reading his signature on decrees, on trade agreements, on the military budgets that got slid across the council table when they thought I wasn’t listening. I learned the slant of his E so I could tell which laws were his and which were Adrian’s.

I slit the envelope with my nail. The paper inside was thick. Expensive. The kind that doesn’t tear, it surrenders.

Elara,

Your presence here is no longer strategically viable. Adrian requires the full attention of the council, and your... situation... complicates matters.

You will continue your education at Altiora Academy. The Virell Foundation has arranged your enrollment. You are to use the name Venn. You will not contact the press. You will not invoke your title. The estate will be informed you are abroad for health.

Live quietly. Your brother will handle the kingdom.

— A.V.

Four lines, plus the signature. No I’m sorry. No be safe. No I don’t want to do this. Just orders. He’d always been good at those.

I read it three times. The words didn’t rearrange themselves into something kinder. Strategically viable. Like I was a failing crop or a diplomatic incident.

I folded the letter once, edge to edge, and put it back in the envelope. Then I put the envelope in the top drawer of my desk, under a stack of sketchbooks he’d never opened. It felt like burying something that was still breathing.

Mother was in the rose garden when my trunk came down the stairs at dawn. I saw her through the window. She was wearing the blue dress she wore for portraits, the one that made her eyes look like the summer sky. She was pruning the white roses.

Snip. Snip. Snip.

She didn’t turn when the footmen carried my things past. She just tilted her head toward the fountain, like she was listening to water instead of me.

I waited. One second. Two.

She didn’t turn.

Adrian’s secretary found me in the lower hall. He was young. New. He hadn’t learned yet how to look at me without pity leaking through. “His Majesty sends his regards,” he said, and the words sounded like they’d been rehearsed in a mirror. “He’s in a war council and cannot be disturbed.”

“Of course,” I said. My voice came out level. Royal. Useless. “Send him mine.”

The secretary nodded like I’d handed him a sword. He left fast.

The car to the airport was black and silent. The driver didn’t speak. The security detail didn’t speak. I watched the city get smaller through tinted glass and tried to memorize the shape of it, just in case I was never allowed to come back. The towers. The bridges. The cathedral where they crowned kings. The bakery on Tiernan Street where the bakers used to sneak me lemon tarts when I was ten and hiding from etiquette lessons.

None of it waved back.

The private jet had my new name on the manifest. E. Venn. The flight attendant called me “Miss” and didn’t curtsy. It was the first time in eighteen years someone hadn’t lowered their eyes when I entered a room. I didn’t know whether to feel free or erased.

Customs was worse. The officer was bored. He flipped my new passport, stamped it, and pushed it back across the counter without looking up. Elara Venn. Date of birth, correct. Nationality, correct. Title, gone.

“Next,” he said.

Altiora Academy looked like it had been built by people who thought knowledge should be intimidating. Ivy strangled the brick. The windows were tall and thin, like they were designed to let light in but not let you out. Students moved across the quad in packs, laughing, arguing, wearing clothes that cost more than most people’s rent. They all walked like the ground owed them something.

The registrar gave me a key, a map, and a student ID. The photo was bad. My hair was flat from the plane. My eyes were empty. The name under it was a lie I was going to have to wear for four years.

Elara Venn. Undeclared. Foreign Student.

My dorm was Aldridge Hall, third floor, end of the corridor. The room smelled like lemon cleaner and someone else’s perfume. The bed was made. The desk was empty. There were no flowers, no note, no insignia carved into the headboard. Just a standard-issue lamp and a window that looked out at another brick wall.

I sat on the bed and didn’t unpack.

For eighteen years, my schedule had been built for me. Lessons. Appearances. Dress fittings. Language tutors. Fencing, because a Virell should know how to hold a blade even if she was never meant to use it. I’d never chosen a class. Never walked into a room where no one knew my name.

At 8:42 AM, I left Aldridge with the map folded in my pocket. I didn’t use it. I didn’t want to look lost on day one.

Halliwell Building was the big one with the clock tower. Political Theory, 9 AM, Room 214. I found it on the second try. The door was heavy. The room inside was tiered, like a small amphitheater. Students were already scattered through the seats, notebooks out, talking in low voices about summers in Nice and internships at The Hague.

I took a seat in the back row, left side, against the wall. If I sat there, I could see everyone. No one could see me unless they turned around.

The professor wasn’t there yet. I set my notebook down. It was new. Blank. The pages were too white.

The door clicked shut at 8:57.

I didn’t look up, but I tracked the sound. Footsteps. Not hurried. Not slow. Measured, like each step was counted before it was taken. A chair two rows ahead of me, left side, scraped out and then in.

Then — click.

The sound was small. A pen being uncapped. But in the quiet, it was precise. Deliberate. Like the person who made it didn’t do things by accident.

I kept my eyes on my blank page. My pen was still in my bag. I wasn’t ready to write yet.

“Morning.”

The voice came from the seat to my right. I hadn’t heard anyone sit down.

I turned my head.

She was already looking at me. Dark hair that shines. Pale eyes, gray or blue, I couldn’t tell in the fluorescent light. Her face wasn’t unkind. It wasn’t anything. It was still. Like a lake in winter.

“You’re Venn,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.” My fake name sounded real when she said it.

“Roxanne Rachford.” She didn’t offer a hand. She didn’t smile. She just said it, like she was filing a report. “Dean assigned me as your ambassador. Exchange protocol.”

“Ambassador,” I repeated.

“It means I tell you where not to sit and who not to talk to,” she said. Her notebook was already open. Today’s date in the corner, lecture outline already written in handwriting that belonged on treaties.

Week 1: Sovereignty & the Myth of Borders.

The professor walked in at 9:00 exactly. He was older, suit rumpled, eyes sharp. He didn’t do icebreakers. He didn’t ask us our names or what we hoped to get from the class. He just started talking about Westphalia and the idea of the state, and half the room started typing like their lives depended on it.

Roxanne didn’t type. She wrote. Pen to paper, no wasted movement. The click from earlier made sense now. She was the kind of person who chose her tools on purpose.

“Miss Rachford,” the professor said without looking up from his notes, “you’re still taking the transfer?”

“I am,” Roxanne said.

“Good. Venn, you’re with her. Dean’s orders.” He finally glanced at me. His eyes skipped over my face and landed on his roster. “Let’s begin.”

I looked at Roxanne. She was still writing. She didn’t acknowledge the arrangement. She didn’t look at me for approval or protest. She just kept moving her pen, line after line, as the professor talked about power.

I didn’t know, then, that her father and mine had played golf in Geneva twice a year for the last decade. I didn’t know that three weeks ago, her father had called her and said, “Adrian’s sister is going to Altiora. She’s not used to being alone. If she ends up on your list, don’t let her drown.”

I didn’t know that Roxanne Rachford had read a file with my real name on it and then burned it in her sink.

All I knew was that when the lecture ended and everyone stood in a rush of chairs and voices, Roxanne capped her pen click and said, “Halliwell empties out the north stairwell. It’s slow. Use east. You have Economics in Caldwell in ten minutes.”

It wasn’t friendly. It wasn’t warm.

But it was the first thing anyone had said to me in two days that felt like a plan.

And for a princess who’d just been exiled, a plan felt a lot like mercy.

CHAPTER 2: ELARA

Roxanne Rachford doesn’t ask if you need help. She informs you that you’re about to receive it.

The last student filed out of Halliwell Room 214, that big lecture hall with the tiered seats where Political Theory happened. The professor had left without saying goodbye. Chairs scraped against the floor. Backpacks zipped. And Roxanne stood.

Her notebook vanished into a black leather bag that probably cost more than my entire dorm room in Aldridge Hall. She didn’t look at me when she spoke.

“You have ten minutes before Economics in Caldwell Hall,” she said. “I’ll show you the routes that don’t waste time.”

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t an offer. It was a fact, like the clock tower outside or the fact that my father had exiled me.

I grabbed my bag. My hands were still learning how to move when no one was watching.

She led. I followed. That seemed to be the rule with Roxanne.

“Altiora runs on three things,” she said as we hit the hallway. Her heels didn’t click on the old stone floor. They whispered. Purposeful. Every step measured, like she’d timed this walk before. “Timing, information, and avoiding the B Wing of this building between classes. Memorize that.”

The B Wing. I’d seen it on the map the registrar gave me. The part of Halliwell Building with no windows. The part where the steam pipes ran and the air smelled like old heat and everyone got stuck in crowds.

We took the east stairwell. The door said EAST in faded gold letters. It was empty. From below, I could hear the north stairwell — the main one, the one everyone used — groaning with bodies. Shouting. Someone dropped a textbook. Someone else laughed.

“Aldridge Hall,” Roxanne said as we stepped outside into the September air. She didn’t point, but I followed her gaze across the big lawn everyone called the Commons Green. “That’s your dorm. Third floor. The south stairwell jams from eight fifty to nine zero five and again at lunch. Use the east stairwell. Your Resident Assistant doesn’t check rooms until midnight.”

Resident Assistant. The older student who lived on each floor and was supposed to make sure you didn’t set the kitchen on fire or disappear for three days. I hadn’t met mine yet.

She didn’t ask if I lived in Aldridge Hall. She knew. Of course she knew.

“The library is open twenty four hours,” she continued. We cut across the Commons Green — that huge grass square in the middle of campus where everyone sat, talked, got seen. Students parted for Roxanne without her slowing down. Not because she was rude. Because she moved like she’d already filed the paperwork to be exactly where she was going, and everyone else was just in the wrong lane. “First floor is for socializing. People go there to be seen, not to read. Second floor is quiet. Third floor is silent. The electrical outlets are under the east windows. That’s where I work.”

“Okay,” I said. It was the first word I’d gotten in since we left the classroom.

She glanced at me. One second. Gray eyes, assessing. Like she was updating a spreadsheet inside her head. “You’re in Professor Blackwell’s Economics section. Nine A M. Caldwell Hall.”

“Yes.”

“He hates lateness more than he hates wrong answers. He locks the door at nine zero one. No exceptions. Sit on the left side of the room. He calls on the right side first, alphabetically. You’ll be safe until next week when he learns your name.”

We stopped at the edge of the Commons Green. Caldwell Hall loomed ahead — all glass and steel compared to Halliwell’s ivy and stone. Modern. Cold.

“Coffee here is terrible,” she said, jerking her chin toward the Student Union, that squat building with the bad fluorescent lighting where everyone got their mail and bought overpriced sandwiches. “They burn the beans. Aurora says Mayfair does a decent cortado. I wouldn’t know. I don’t drink caffeine after eleven A M. It interferes with rapid eye movement sleep cycles.”

Aurora. The name wasn’t on my schedule. It wasn’t on the map.

“Who’s Aurora?” I asked.

“My cousin.” For half a second, Roxanne’s mouth did something. Not a smile. A recalibration. Like she was adjusting to an unexpected variable in an equation. “Aurora Valencia. She’ll find you before Friday. She finds everyone worth finding.”

We stopped outside Caldwell Hall’s main doors. Students were streaming in, a river of blazers and backpacks and expensive shoes.

Roxanne turned to me fully for the first time since Halliwell Room 214. Really looked. Her eyes weren’t cold. They were winter. Clear. Unclouded. The kind of cold that preserved things instead of destroying them.

“My father knows your father,” she said. No build-up. No softening. Just data, delivered the way she probably delivered everything. “He mentioned you might be here. That you probably wouldn’t ask for help because people from Virell don’t do that.”

My blood went cold. The Commons Green suddenly felt too open. Too many eyes. Too much space for someone to recognize me.

“I’m not—” I started.

“I’m not helping you,” Roxanne cut in. Her voice didn’t change. “I’m optimizing. The Dean partnered us for the Sophomore Symposium. Comparative Government Systems. It’s forty percent of our grade for Political Theory. You getting lost, missing class, or crying in the bathroom wastes my time. I don’t like waste.”

She pulled a folded paper from her bag. My class schedule. My name at the top in computer print: Elara Venn. Under it, her name. Under that, every class we shared, annotated in her handwriting. Sharp. Precise. The kind of handwriting they taught diplomats and surgeons.

Political Theory — Halliwell 214. Sit left side. Avoid B Wing._

Economics — Caldwell 101. Professor Blackwell. Nine zero one door lock. Left side._

Library Third Floor — Electrical outlets. Silent. Seven A M best time before the pre-law students arrive.

“Why?” I asked. My voice came out smaller than I wanted. Smaller than a princess was supposed to sound. But I wasn’t a princess here. I was Venn. Just Venn.

Roxanne considered me for three seconds. Not with sympathy. With assessment. Running an equation only she could see.

“Because inefficiency annoys me,” she said. “And my father mentioned you might be here. He said you wouldn’t ask for help because people from Virell don’t do that. He was right.” She paused. “I don’t like being right about things that waste my time. The Dean partnered us for the Sophomore Symposium. You falling behind is a risk. I eliminate risk.”

No sob story. No “we’re the same.” Just Rachford logic: If something’s in her way, she moves it or fixes it.

Then she walked into Caldwell Hall without looking back. No good luck. No see you inside. No welcome to Altiora.

I stood there with her notes in my hand and realized my fingers were shaking. Not from fear. From something else. The feeling you get when someone hands you a map after you’ve been stumbling in the dark with no compass.

Economics passed in a blur of supply curves and Professor Blackwell’s voice. He did lock the door at nine zero one. A boy in a rugby shirt knocked, sheepish, and Blackwell didn’t even look up from his attendance roster. “Read the syllabus, Mister Carter. It’s on page one.” The boy left.

I sat on the left side. I was safe.

The rest of the day was Roxanne’s handwriting made real. Avoid the B Wing — check. I saw the crowd from the east stairwell, a bottleneck of students swearing and shoving. Library Third Floor — empty, silent, electrical outlets exactly where she said, under the tall east windows that looked out over the garden behind Aldridge Hall. I sat there for two hours and didn’t speak to anyone. Didn’t have to.

For the first time since the letter, since my father’s words your presence here is no longer strategically viable, my chest didn’t feel like it was caving in.

Four forty seven PM. My phone buzzed on the library desk. Unknown number.

Unkown Number: Mayfair. Five fifteen. Aurora wants to meet you. She’s bringing Eve Laurent. Wear something you can walk in. -R

Mayfair. The café off-campus. Two blocks past the Main Gate, past the stone walls that were supposed to be “historic charm” and not prison walls. I’d seen it on the campus map.

I changed out of the blouse I’d worn to look “un-royal” and into jeans. They still felt like a costume. Like I was playing dress-up as a normal eighteen year old.

The café was warm. It smelled like real espresso and cinnamon and something else — paint? — and it was nothing like the Student Union. A girl in a blazer was holding court at a corner table. Tall. Olive skin. Hair pulled into a twist that looked effortless and probably took twenty minutes and three different products. She saw me before I saw her.

“You’re early,” she said. Not unkind. Just factual, like Roxanne. “Good. Roxanne hates waiting. And she hates when other people make her wait even more.” She stood and extended a hand. Her grip was firm. Professional. “Aurora Valencia. Roxanne's cousin. You must be the Virell situation.”

I flinched. The word Virell sounded like a slap in a place like this.

Aurora’s smile sharpened. She didn’t look sorry. “Relax. If I wanted to sell you out to the campus news blog, I wouldn’t do it over coffee. I have standards. And better sources.”

The door banged open so hard the bell nearly came off its hook.

“She’s not a situation, she’s a person, Aurora, god—”

The new girl had paint on her jeans and charcoal smudged across her left cheekbone. Curly hair shoved into a messy bun with what looked like a paintbrush. Combat boots, laces undone. She dumped a sketchbook on the table and flopped into the chair next to Aurora like she owned the place.

“Eve Laurent,” she said to me, then pointed at Aurora with her thumb. “Don’t mind her. She flirts by conducting background checks. I’m the fun one. Allegedly.”

“You’re the one who got banned from the Student Union for painting a mural on the vending machine,” Aurora said dryly, but her eyes were fond. The way you’re fond of a hurricane. You respect it, but you don’t stand in front of it.

“It was performance art and they deserved it for charging four dollars for bottled water,” Eve said. “Highway robbery.” She turned back to me. Her eyes were brown and quick. She missed nothing. She looked at my hands, my shoes, my face, and came to a conclusion in three seconds. “So. You’re Roxanne’s new project.”

“I’m not—” I started, again.

“Please.” Eve rolled her eyes. “She rewrote her entire seven A M schedule. She _never_ gives up seven A M. That’s when the library is empty and she can plot world domination in peace and nobody asks her stupid questions about where the stapler is. You’re not a charity case. You’re a project. Congratulations. That’s, like, step four of her friendship protocol.”

“I don’t have a—”

The bell dinged again. Roxanne walked in. No greeting. She just set a single tea bag on the counter, paid with a black credit card, and came to the table. She sat. Didn’t touch the menu. Didn’t look at anyone.

“Drink this,” Aurora said, sliding a cortado toward me. The cup was warm. “You look like you need it. And like you haven’t eaten since breakfast. Which, knowing R’s tour, you probably haven’t.”

I didn’t argue. It was perfect. Hot and bitter and real.

“So,” Eve said, flipping her sketchbook open. The pages were thick with charcoal. She was already drawing, her hand moving without looking down. “Princess to regular student. How’s that going for you? Scale of one to ‘burning the kingdom down’?”

I choked on the cortado. Aurora kicked Eve under the table. Hard. Eve didn’t even flinch.

“What? It’s a valid question,” Eve said. “Look, I don’t care about the crown stuff. My mom’s an art teacher and my dad drives a city bus. I care that R hasn’t shut up about ‘east stairwell efficiency’ since nine A M. Which means she likes you. Which means you’re stuck with us now. Sorry. I don’t make the rules. Actually, no, I do. Welcome to the group.”

“I don’t—” Roxanne started.

“You gave her your annotated schedule, Rox,” Aurora said, sipping her own drink. Black. No sugar. “You gave me your annotated schedule sophomore year and we’re related. You gave me a color-coded key to the dining hall and a list of professors who take attendance. You don’t do that for people you don’t plan to keep around.”

Roxanne’s jaw tightened. One muscle. “It’s a strategy. The Sophomore Symposium is forty percent of our grade. If she fails, I fail. I don’t fail.”

“Is your excuse for everything,” Eve finished. She spun the sketchbook around and pushed it across the table.

It was me. In line art. No crown. No title. Just E. Venn written underneath in block letters. My hair was messy from the wind. My eyes were tired. My hands were wrapped around a coffee cup that looked exactly like the one I was holding.

It was the most honest I’d looked in months. Since before the letter. Since before strategically viable.

“For your wall,” Eve said, capping her charcoal pencil. “Aldridge Hall is beige and oppressive and it looks like a hospital. You need something to look at that isn’t your own existential dread or that lemon-scented cleaner they use. Trust me. I’ve broken in. It’s bleak.”

I didn’t know what to say. No one had made me anything in years. Not without it being inspected by a committee first, or approved by my mother’s secretary, or designed to “enhance the image of the crown.”

Roxanne stood. The tea hadn’t even steeped yet. “Library Third Floor. Seven A M. We start the Sophomore Symposium outline. Bring Professor Blackwell’s syllabus and the Halliwell reading on the Treaty of Westphalia. Don’t be late.”

She left. No goodbye. The bell dinged.

Aurora sighed. “She’s allergic to sentiment. And proper farewells. And feelings in general. Don’t take it personally. She also paid for your coffee. And mine. And Eve’s, even though Eve didn’t order anything and just stole all the sugar packets for her bag.”

“I’m reappropriating them,” Eve said, shoving five packets into her jacket pocket. “Capitalism, etcetera. The revolution will be caffeinated.”

Aurora stood too. “Walk back with us. The East Gate is faster but R says it’s not safe after dark. Too many blind spots, no security cameras. We’ll take the Main Gate. It’s lit and the campus security cart does rounds every twenty minutes.”

They didn’t ask if I wanted to. They just waited until I stood too. Like it was already decided. Like I was already part of the calculation.

Aldridge Hall at night was quiet. The third floor smelled like lemon cleaner and old books. My room, number 312, was exactly as I’d left it: bed made, desk empty, window looking out at the garden that separated Aldridge Hall from Beaumont House.

I put Eve’s napkin drawing on the desk next to Roxanne’s schedule. The two pieces of paper didn’t match. One was chaos in charcoal. One was order in ink.

My phone buzzed on the desk.

Roxanne: Library Third Floor. East windows. Bring Professor Blackwell’s syllabus. And the Halliwell reading on the Treaty of Westphalia.

I stared at it. The screen light was blue in the dark room. Then I typed back before I could stop myself, before I could remember that princesses didn’t text first, that people from Virell didn’t say thank you to people who were just doing their duty.

Elara: Thanks for the map.

Two minutes. The three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. Disappeared.

The café was warm. It smelled like real espresso and cinnamon and something else — oil paint, clean and faint — and it was nothing like the Student Union.

A girl in a blazer was holding court at a corner table. Tall. Olive skin. Hair pulled into a twist that looked effortless and probably took twenty minutes and three different products. She saw me before I saw her.

“You’re early,” she said. Not unkind. Just factual, like Roxanne. “Good. Roxanne hates waiting. And she hates when other people make her wait even more.”

She stood and extended a hand. Her grip was firm. Professional.

“Aurora Valencia. Roxanne's cousin. You must be the Virell situation.”

I flinched. The word Virell sounded like a slap in a place like this.

Aurora’s smile sharpened. She didn’t look sorry. “Relax. If I wanted to sell you out to the campus news blog, I wouldn’t do it over coffee. I have standards. And better sources.”

The door opened with a soft chime.

The girl who walked in didn’t rush. She didn’t need to. Dark hair in a low, neat bun. Cream sweater. Simple gold necklace with a small pendant — a scale, like the kind that balanced. A canvas tote with the Altiora Art Department crest embroidered on it. No paint on her hands. No charcoal on her face.

She set a leather-bound sketchbook on the table. Not dumped. Set. Like it mattered.

“Eve Laurent,” she said, and her voice was quiet. Clear. The kind of quiet that made the room settle. “Student Body President. Art Department. It’s good to finally meet you, Elara.”

She offered her hand. Her palms were clean. Her handshake was gentle, warm, sure.

“Don’t mind Aurora,” Eve said, sitting with perfect posture. “She thinks directness is diplomacy. I think people deserve a moment to breathe before they’re assessed.”

“Diplomacy is inefficient,” Aurora said, but she slid a menu toward me. “Order whatever you want. Roxanne’s paying.”

“I’m not—” I started, again.

“You are,” Eve said. Not arguing. Just certain. She looked at me — really looked — and her brown eyes didn’t miss anything. But she didn’t pick me apart. She just… saw me. “You’re new. Altiora’s a lot. Roxanne knows that. That’s why she sent the schedule.”

“She rewrote her entire seven A M schedule,” Aurora added, sipping her own drink. Black. No sugar. “She never gives up seven A M. That’s when the library is empty and she can work without interruption. She gave that up for you.”

“She didn’t—” I started.

“She did,” Eve said softly. “Because she doesn’t do things halfway. Not with the Symposium. Not with people.”

The bell dinged again.

Roxanne walked in. No greeting. She just set a single tea bag on the counter, paid with a black credit card, and came to the table. She sat. Didn’t touch the menu. Didn’t look at anyone — except, for half a second, her eyes found Eve’s.

Eve’s expression didn’t change, but something in her shoulders softened. She reached under the table and squeezed Roxanne’s hand once. Quick. Private. Natural. Roxanne didn’t pull away.

“Drink this,” Aurora said, sliding a cortado toward me. The cup was warm. “You look like you need it. And like you haven’t eaten since breakfast. Which, knowing R’s tour, you probably haven’t.”

I didn’t argue. It was perfect. Hot and bitter and real.

“So,” Eve said, opening her sketchbook. The pages were thick watercolor paper, not charcoal-stained newsprint. She wasn’t drawing yet. She was just looking at me, then at the blank page, like she was asking permission. “How are you finding Altiora so far? I know it can feel overwhelming. The B Wing alone is enough to make anyone want to transfer.”

I choked on the cortado. Not because the question was rude. Because it was kind.

“Roxanne hasn’t stopped talking about ‘east stairwell efficiency’ since nine AM,” Eve continued. Her voice was warm, with no teasing edge. “That means you matter to her. Which means you’re stuck with us now. If you want to be. No pressure.”

“I don’t—” Roxanne started.

“You gave her your annotated schedule, Rox,” Aurora said. “You gave me your annotated schedule sophomore year and we’re related. You don’t do that for people you don’t plan to keep around.”

Roxanne’s jaw tightened. One muscle. “It’s a strategy. The Sophomore Symposium is forty percent of our grade. If she fails, I fail. I don’t fail.”

“Is your excuse for everything,” Eve finished. But she said it gently. Like it was a fact she’d accepted years ago, not a joke at Roxanne’s expense. She turned the sketchbook around and pushed it across the table.

It was me. In soft graphite. No crown. No title. Just E. Venn written underneath in small, careful letters. My hair was messy from the wiwind. My eyes were tired. My hands were wrapped around a coffee cup that looked exactly like the one I was holding.

It was the most honest I’d looked in months. Since before the letter. Since before strategically viable.

“For your wall,” Eve said, closing the sketchbook. Her smile was small. Real. “Aldridge Hall can feel impersonal. I thought you might like something that felt like you. Not the version everyone expects. Just you.”

I didn’t know what to say. No one had made me anything in years. Not without it being inspected by a committee first, or approved by my mother’s secretary, or designed to “enhance the image of the crown.”

Roxanne stood. The tea hadn’t even steeped yet. “Library Third Floor. Seven A M. We start the Sophomore Symposium outline. Bring Professor Blackwell’s syllabus and the Halliwell reading on the Treaty of Westphalia. Don’t be late.”

She left. No goodbye. The bell dinged.

As she passed, her fingers brushed Eve’s shoulder. Barely there. Eve didn’t look up, but her lips quirked — like that touch was a whole conversation.

Aurora sighed. “She’s allergic to sentiment. And proper farewells. And feelings in general. Don’t take it personally. She also paid for your coffee. And mine. And Eve’s, even though Eve insisted she didn’t need anything.”

“I told her to save it,” Eve said, standing. She slung her tote over her shoulder. “But Roxanne believes in contingencies. And taking care of people. Even if she’d never call it that.”

Aurora stood too. “Walk back with us. The East Gate is faster but Roxanne says it’s not safe after dark. Too many blind spots, no security cameras. We’ll take the Main Gate. It’s lit and the campus security cart does rounds every twenty minutes.”

They didn’t ask if I wanted to. They just waited until I stood too. Like it was already decided. Like I was already part of the calculation.

CHAPTER 3: ELARA

The B Wing was packed. Students shoving, yelling, dropping textbooks. Roxanne took one look at the crowd and turned left. East stairwell. Empty. Quiet.

No one was there.

“See?” Roxanne said, starting down the steps. Her voice wasn’t sharp today. Just matter-of-fact. “Five minutes saved. You can use it to breathe before Professor Blackwell tries to murder you with supply curves.”

Eve walked on my other side, her tote bumping my hip. “She times everything,” she said to me, but loud enough for Roxanne to hear. “Including how long it takes me to get coffee. She once sent me a spreadsheet titled "Inefficient Caffeine Acquisition, A Case Study.”

“I was being helpful,” Roxanne said without turning around. “You spend eight minutes in line every day. That’s forty minutes a week. Two hundred hours by graduation.”

“And yet,” Eve said, grinning at me, “I’m still Student Body President. So maybe eight minutes of human interaction isn’t a waste.”

Roxanne huffed. Not quite a laugh. But her shoulders dropped half an inch. “The coffee is still burned.”

We hit the first floor. The east door let us out near the Commons Green, away from the worst of the crowd.

“Economics,” Roxanne said, checking her watch. “You have three minutes. Left side, remember? Professor Blackwell starts on the right. He won’t know your name until next week if you don’t give him a reason to.”

“I remember,” I said.

“Good.” She hesitated. Then reached into her bag and handed me a granola bar. Same plain wrapper as yesterday. “You didn’t eat breakfast. Again. If you pass out, I have to fill out paperwork. I hate paperwork.”

It wasn’t warm. But it wasn’t ice either. It was Roxanne.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Eat it,” she said. “Because I said so.”

Eve snorted. “She’s been practicing that one.”

“I have not,” Roxanne said, but she was already walking away. “Library. Third floor. Seven AM tomorrow. Don’t be late, Elara.”

She used my name. Not Venn. Not variable.

Eve watched her go, then slung her arm through mine. “Come on. I’ll walk you to Caldwell. I need to intimidate a freshman who thinks murals are ‘free expression’ and not ‘defacing school property.’"

“You wouldn’t,” I said.

“I absolutely would,” Eve said, but her eyes were kind. “But I’ll use my nice voice. I have range.”

Economics. Caldwell Hall 101. 9:00 AM.

Professor Blackwell locked the door at nine zero one. A boy in a rugby shirt got there at nine zero two.

“Read the syllabus, Mister Carter,” Professor Blackwell said without looking up. “It’s on page one.”

I sat on the left side. I was safe.

But my mind wasn’t on supply curves. It was on the east stairwell. On the way Roxanne had handed me that granola bar like it was a battle plan. On the way Eve had linked her arm through mine like it was normal.

On the way I’d gone twenty four hours without feeling like I was drowning.

Library Third Floor. 2:43 PM.

I’d camped out at the east windows like Roxanne said. Silent. Electrical outlets right where she promised. I was halfway through the Halliwell reading on the Treaty of Westphalia when my phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

Unknown Number: East stairwell. After your last class. We need to talk. It’s about Virell.

My blood went cold.

I looked up. Roxanne was at the other end of the table, two laptops open, typing like the keys had personally offended her. Eve was next to her, feet tucked up in the chair, sketchbook open. She wasn’t drawing. She was watching me.

She saw my face.

She closed her sketchbook. Stood. Walked over.

“You okay?” she asked quietly. No president voice. Just Eve.

I turned the phone toward her.

She read the text. Her jaw tightened. Not scared. Pissed.

“Roxanne,” she said.

Roxanne looked up. Saw the phone. Saw my face. She was out of her chair in two seconds.

“Who sent that?” Roxanne asked. No accusation. Just data gathering.

“I don’t know,” I said. “The number’s blocked.”

Roxanne held out her hand. I gave her the phone. She read it once. Then again. Then she looked at Eve.

“Campus security?” Eve asked.

“Not yet,” Roxanne said. “We don’t know if it’s a threat or just… someone being stupid. If we report every weird text, we’ll be in the Dean’s office twice a week.”

She handed the phone back to me. “Don’t go. Not alone. Not without telling us.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” I said. And I meant it.

“Good,” Roxanne said. She sat back down, but she didn’t open her laptop. “Because I’m not filling out a missing persons report. I hate paperwork.”

“I know,” I said. “You said.”

The corner of her mouth twitched. “Then you were listening.”

Eve sat on the edge of the table, looking between us. “Okay. New rule. No one meets mysterious strangers in stairwells. If Virell wants to talk, they can file a request with the Student Union. In triplicate.”

That got a real laugh out of me. Small. But real.

Roxanne didn’t laugh. But she did slide her open bag of pretzels toward me. “Eat. Your blood sugar is probably low. It affects decision-making.”

It was still strategy. But it was also something else.

Aldridge Hall. 11:32 PM.

My room was dark. My phone lit up on the desk.

Unknown Number: You’re not safe here, Your Highness. But you’re not alone.

I didn’t sleep.

Not because I was scared.

Because for the first time since I got to Altiora, I wasn’t sure if alone was the worst thing I could be.