Chapter 9- Ice For Blood

The best lies are the ones you start believing yourself.

And Sonia was starting to believe she was Silas.

She hadn’t slept. Again.

The photo of Rhys Vale now lived taped to Silas’s notebook, but Sonia didn’t open it that morning. She pushed it into her drawer like an ugly secret and decided for now, she’d forget.

There were more immediate problems:

Her physics grade had dropped by five points.

Mavina was acting territorial again.

And someone had updated Daxton’s social board to declare that “Prince Vale is back. But colder.”

That part didn’t bother her.

In fact, she liked it.

As she stepped into the hallway, conversations halted. Two girls at the lockers paused mid-whisper. One even adjusted her hair as Sonia passed.

She didn’t look at them.

She didn’t look at anyone.

Just like Silas.

By mid-morning, it was raining, the kind of soft drizzle that made Daxton’s stone corridors smell like moss and power. Sonia stood under the arch outside the east wing with her hands in her pockets, watching students run between classes.

Then came Mavina, hair sleek despite the damp air, umbrella twirling in one hand.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

Sonia didn’t answer.

“I don’t like being avoided,” Mavina continued, stepping closer. “Especially not by my boyfriend.”

Sonia met her eyes coldly. “Maybe I’m not your boyfriend anymore.”

That made Mavina pause. But only for a moment.

“You think you can just come back and play ghost prince?” she said, voice low. “You used to chase attention, Silas.”

“Now I run from it.”

“You run from me.”

“No,” Sonia said. “I just don’t play pretend anymore.”

The tension cracked between them.

Mavina leaned in close, her voice sugar-coated with venom.

“You’ll come back to me. You always do.”

---

Later, Sonia slid into the back of the economics hall, rain dripping from her sleeves. She didn’t realize until halfway through the lecture that Eric was staring at her.

Not like before, no suspicion this time.

More like confusion.

Like he was trying to remember how someone he used to know had become someone he didn’t recognize.

After class, he followed her down the hall.

“You’re different again,” he said.

“I thought we’d already had this conversation.”

“Yeah, but now you’re... colder.”

“Maybe I’m tired of caring what people think.”

Eric slowed. “I liked you better when you did.”

Sonia didn’t stop walking.

“Then maybe you liked the wrong person.”

He reached for her wrist, just briefly.

She stopped.

Their eyes met.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly.

“Does it matter?” she replied.

“It does to me.”

She almost believed him.

Almost.

But before she could answer, a voice interrupted.

“SILAS! BLACKBOURNE! On the mat. Now.”

It was Coach Lennox. Fencing challenge. Instructor-mandated.

Perfect.

---

Fifteen minutes later, Sonia stood on the slick training floor, mask on, blade in hand. Eric stood across from her, expression unreadable.

The students circled around, some whispering, others placing silent bets. Fencing at Daxton wasn’t sport. It was status warfare.

Coach blew the whistle.

They lunged.

Blades clashed, metal against metal.

Eric was faster.

Sonia was smarter.

He advanced. She ducked. He spun. She struck...shoulder, not chest.

Point: Sonia.

Cheers from the crowd. But Eric didn’t flinch.

Round two.

Harder. Angrier.

“Why are you doing this?” he muttered during a clash.

“Because I’m tired of people thinking I’m soft,” Sonia hissed back.

“You’re not. You’re just not him.”

She faltered.

Just long enough for him to disarm her.

The match ended, but the moment didn’t.

They stood inches apart, breath ragged, hearts racing.

“You don’t have to keep acting, you know,” Eric whispered.

"I’m not acting,” she lied.

He stepped back, eyes lingering on her just a second too long.

---

That night, Sonia stood by the dorm window again, Daxton lit up in patches below her. She opened Silas’s notebook but didn’t read it.

Not tonight.

She needed to forget for a little while.

To feel normal.

A knock at her door.

She opened it and found a box. No name. No message.

Inside was a perfectly tailored black blazer.

Not Silas’s.

Hers.

Fitted to her real form.

And pinned to the lapel was a crest she’d never seen before.

Half a crown.

Half a dagger.