Chapter 2

The Corridor

I was still holding the letter when the door opened again.

Not the aide. Someone else.

The new footsteps were lighter, measured, and completely unhurried. I did not turn immediately. I kept my eyes on the dark wax crest pressed into the envelope and forced my breathing to stay even. The cold understanding from the aide’s final words had not left. Sundown. The Grand Master expected an answer by sundown.

“You should not be in here,” a voice said behind me.

Low. Controlled. The kind of voice that never needed to raise itself to be obeyed.

I turned slowly.

Cassian Voss stood in the doorway.

I knew his face from the university orientation materials and the occasional news clip that played in public halls. Crown Prince. Heir to the empire. Blond hair cut with precise severity, ice-blue eyes that looked permanently unimpressed, black clothing tailored so perfectly it almost disappeared against the shadows of the corridor behind him. He was taller than the aide and carried the same quiet authority, only colder.

Two campus security officers waited farther down the hall, not quite inside the room, not quite leaving. Their presence was deliberate. I was not being given the option of walking out unnoticed.

I kept the letter against my side, half-hidden by the fold of my blazer.

“I was told to wait,” I said.

Cassian’s gaze dropped to the envelope for half a second, then returned to my face. He stepped fully into the office and let the door close behind him with a soft click. The security officers remained outside.

“You were told to receive a message,” he said. “Not to linger.”

I did not move. The office suddenly felt smaller. His scent reached me then—clean winter air, steel, and something darker underneath that my suppressants should have blocked completely. They did not. A thin thread of heat slid under my skin before I could stop it. I locked my shoulders and kept my expression neutral.

“I was just leaving,” I said.

“Were you.” It was not a question.

He walked closer, stopping on the opposite side of the table. The lamp light caught the sharp line of his jaw. Up close he looked even less approachable. There was no curiosity in his eyes, only assessment, as if he were already deciding what category I belonged in.

“The Grand Master does not send personal correspondence to ordinary scholarship students,” he said. “Yet here you are, holding one.”

I stayed silent. Speaking would only give him more.

Cassian tilted his head slightly. “Open it.”

“No.”

The single word left my mouth before I could soften it. His eyes narrowed a fraction, the only sign that the refusal had registered.

“You refuse a direct request from the Crown Prince?” he asked.

“I refuse to open a letter in front of someone I do not know,” I answered. My voice stayed level. My pulse did not.

For a moment the only sound was the faint hum of the lamp. Then Cassian’s mouth curved, not quite a smile.

“You know exactly who I am.”

I did. Everyone did. That was the problem.

He held out one hand, palm up. “Give me the letter.”

I did not move. The wax crest pressed against my fingers through the paper. Whatever was inside had already changed the shape of the day. Handing it over felt like handing over the last piece of ground I still controlled.

Cassian’s gaze flicked to my closed fist, then back to my face. Something colder entered his expression.

“You are making this difficult,” he said.

“I am making it simple,” I replied. “I came for a scholarship packet. I received a letter instead. Now I am leaving.”

I stepped around the table toward the door. He did not block me with his body. He simply spoke.

“Security will not let you pass.”

I stopped with my hand on the door handle. Through the narrow glass panel I could see the two officers still waiting, faces blank, posture ready. They were not here for ordinary campus enforcement. They were here for me.

Cassian’s scent pressed closer even though he had not moved. Winter and steel and that darker note that made the back of my neck tighten. My suppressants were supposed to hold for another twelve hours. They were failing in real time, and he was close enough to notice if I was not careful.

I turned the handle anyway.

The door opened onto the restricted corridor. The officers straightened. One of them glanced at Cassian for instruction. The prince gave a small, almost lazy shake of his head. They remained where they were, blocking the main exit but not advancing.

I stepped into the corridor. The air was cooler here, moving in a faint current from the far end. Cassian followed at an unhurried distance, as if we were simply walking in the same direction by coincidence.

“You cannot outrun this,” he said behind me.

I kept walking. “I am not running.”

“You are trying to.”

The corridor bent left. A tall window looked out over one of the inner courtyards. Students crossed the open space below in ordinary groups, completely unaware of the conversation happening above them. I watched them for a second too long. Ordinary had already become impossible.

Cassian stopped a few paces away, giving me space that still felt like a cage.

“The Grand Master has opened a formal interest petition,” he said. The words were delivered without drama, the way someone might mention a change in the weather. “Your name is on it. Your real name.”

I turned to face him fully. “I did not consent to any petition.”

“Consent is not required at this stage,” he answered. “Only presence.”

The heat under my skin sharpened. I forced it down with pure will. My suppressants were slipping faster now that his scent was constant. I could feel the first real warning signs—the slight sensitivity at the base of my throat, the way the air itself seemed thicker. If it continued, he would know. Anyone with a trained nose would know.

Cassian studied me in silence for several seconds. Whatever he saw, he did not comment on it directly.

“You are pale,” he said instead.

“I am always pale.”

“Not like this.”

I looked past him toward the far end of the corridor, calculating distance, exits, the position of the officers. None of the options were good. Walking away clean was no longer possible. The letter in my hand felt heavier with every second.

Cassian took one step closer. The winter-and-steel scent intensified. My pulse kicked hard once, then I locked it down again.

“Whatever you think you can control,” he said quietly, “you cannot control this.”

I met his eyes. Ice blue. Completely steady.

“Watch me,” I said.

I turned and walked toward the officers, letter still closed in my fist. For a moment I thought they might actually step aside. They did not. One of them looked over my shoulder, waiting for a signal.

Behind me, Cassian’s voice carried without effort.

“Let him pass.”

The officers moved. I walked between them and into the wider hallway beyond, where ordinary students still moved in ordinary clusters. The air here was warmer, crowded with too many scents at once. I kept my head down and my pace even, the letter pressed tight against my side.

I made it ten steps.

Then the full force of Cassian’s scent hit me from behind as he followed at a measured distance, and the last of my suppressants collapsed.

Heat surged under my skin without warning, sharp and unmistakable. My steps faltered for half a second before I forced them steady again. I did not look back. I did not need to. I already knew he had noticed.

The corridor suddenly felt far too public.