The Academy felt different once you started looking at it through the eyes of someone who had disappeared inside its walls.
Every hallway seemed too long.
Every glance felt loaded.
Every whispered conversation sounded like it hid a piece of a puzzle I didn't understand yet.
I walked to my second class with the schedule folded tightly in my hand, but my thoughts weren't on academics. They kept drifting to what I overheard earlier.
"He's back?"
"Are you sure it's him?"
"The Academy covered it up."
"Not with who he's rooming with."
They weren't talking about me.
They were talking about Elliot.
My Elliot.
The real one.
The one who never came home.
I took a slow breath and slid into a seat near the back of the lecture hall. Students filed in—some laughing, some closing last-minute assignments, some eyeing me like I was a glitch in a system they thought they understood.
Every new stare made my skin crawl.
Elliot used to walk through rooms like this with confidence. I had to force myself not to shrink, not to look too cautious or too soft.
Act like him.
Be him.
The instructor—a tall Beta man with silver-framed glasses—entered and started the lecture on "Elite Leadership Psychology." I tried to listen, but the words washed over me.
I kept thinking about Elliot's last day.
How Rowan said I didn't remember something.
How Cassian had looked at me like I wasn't the person he expected to see.
Something happened here.
And someone knew more than they were saying.
When class ended, I waited for everyone else to leave first. The hallways were busy again—students moving like currents in a river, strong and sure and headed somewhere I wasn't prepared for.
I pretended to follow the crowd until the hallway split into two paths: one leading toward the training field, the other toward the older wing of the Academy.
I chose the older wing.
It was quieter there, the noise fading behind me until only the soft hum of ventilation filled the space. Old portraits lined the walls—founders, headmasters, wealthy donors. Their painted eyes seemed to follow me as I walked.
I tried to imagine Elliot walking here.
His footsteps.
His smell.
His nervous habits.
His half-smile when he tried to pretend everything was fine.
He must've been scared too.
At the end of the hallway was a row of lockers—the older model, dented and scratched with markings from years of use. The metal doors were slightly dull compared to the polished new lockers in the main building.
Elliot's name wasn't on any of them.
But his locker number should still be in the Academy records.
If I could find it…
I checked the paper Rowan slipped under my desk during class. He hadn't said a word—not even looked at me when he did it.
But the note was simple:
[218]
Elliot's locker.
I walked down the row slowly, scanning for the number until—
There.
218
The door was slightly dented on the left corner. It looked like it had been forced open at some point, though the lock now sat closed and intact.
My heart lodged in my throat.
I checked the hallway—empty.
Then I knelt and gently pulled the lock.
To my surprise, it clicked open easily.
Inside, there wasn't much.
A thin notebook.
A broken pencil.
A folded piece of paper tucked behind the shelf.
For a moment, all I did was stare.
My fingers tingled before I even touched anything.
I reached for the folded paper first.
It was small, edges torn, handwriting rushed but familiar.
Elliot's.
My breath hitched as I unfolded it.
If something happens, don't trust—
The sentence cut off, the rest of the paper torn clean away.
My stomach dropped.
Don't trust who?
A person?
A teacher?
A dorm captain?
A friend?
Horace?
I looked around again, heart pounding.
There was no second half.
No signature.
Nothing else telling me the rest.
But this wasn't random scribble. Elliot wrote this when something was already going wrong.
He knew.
Whatever happened—he knew before it happened.
I swallowed hard and tucked the note into my pocket.
Then I pulled out the notebook.
It was mostly empty except for the first few pages—training notes, short bullet points, a few sketches of training formations.
Normal stuff.
Until the last written page.
There, written near the bottom corner, were three words:
"Don't follow him."
I stared at the handwriting until my eyes blurred.
Who?
Follow who?
Was this why he went back to the Academy that night? What did he see? Who was he following?
My hands started shaking. I wasn't sure if it was fear or anger—or both.
I closed the notebook and shoved it back into the locker just as footsteps echoed from around the corner.
I straightened quickly, heart leaping into my throat.
Horace rounded the hall.
He froze the moment he saw me kneeling in front of the open locker.
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
My mind blanked for half a second.
Think. Think.
"Just… looking," I said, too quietly.
Horace walked forward, expression unreadable. His gaze flicked to the open locker, to the dented corner, to my face.
"That's not your assigned locker," he said.
"I left something behind last term," I lied, keeping my face neutral. "Just checking."
His eyes studied me like he was trying to detect the smallest tremor in my voice.
"What did you leave?" he asked.
"A notebook."
"And?"
"And I found it," I said, showing my empty hands as casually as I could.
He looked at the locker again.
"Funny," he said softly. "I could've sworn that door was locked yesterday."
My throat tightened.
I didn't respond.
Horace stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Elliot… are you hiding something?"
I forced a straight face. "No."
"You hesitate whenever the topic of last term comes up."
"I don't."
"You do."
He wasn't accusing me.
He wasn't angry.
He was… concerned.
That made it worse.
"There are people here," he said quietly, "who watch for weakness. If something happened to you last semester—"
"Nothing happened," I said each word carefully. "I just had family issues."
Horace held my gaze for a long moment.
Then he exhaled, almost reluctantly.
"Fine," he said. "I'll stop asking."
He didn't believe me.
I could see that in the way he stepped aside but didn't turn his back fully.
I shut the locker, making sure it looked untouched, and walked past him carefully.
Horace didn't follow immediately.
But he watched.
He definitely watched.
I exited the old wing quickly, my heart still racing. I turned toward the courtyard when—
"Elleanore?"
I froze.
The voice wasn't loud.
But it was familiar.
Too familiar.
I turned slowly.
Chandler Monteverde stood beneath the shade of the garden archway, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his student ID lanyard.
My breath caught.
He was wearing the Academy uniform.
He was on campus.
He was a student here.
Chandler gave a small, crooked grin, the sun hitting his grey eyes just right.
"What?" he said. "Didn't expect to see me?"
My stomach flipped.
No.
I hadn't.
Not here.
Not in the one place where a single mistake could expose everything.
Not in the Academy where Elliot disappeared.
Chandler took a few steps toward me, stopping close enough that I could feel the faint warmth of his presence.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," he said lightly. "Relax. I'm not here to make trouble."
My heart pounded.
Chandler Monteverde—bad boy of our old school—was standing in the Alpha Division courtyard, wearing the uniform of the most dangerous academy in the country.
This wasn't a coincidence.
It couldn't be.
Why was he here?
What did he know?
And more importantly—
What did Elliot know before he vanished?
For a full three seconds, all I could do was stare.
Chandler Monteverde—my school's infamous troublemaker, the boy who stepped between me and Oliver when no one else did—was standing inside the Royal Triskelion Academy like he belonged here.
My brain stuttered.
"You…" I managed. "You're a student here?"
Chandler shrugged, stuffing his hands deeper into his pockets. "Transfer program. Special case. Long story."
Of course it was. With him, it always was.
He looked good in the Alpha Division uniform—but in a dangerous, "should definitely not fit this well" kind of way. The blazer sat open, his tie half-loose, shirt slightly rumpled in a way that looked too intentional.
"How—why—" I began.
"Didn't you check the transfer list?" he asked casually.
I blinked. "No."
He smiled a little. "Then I guess it's a surprise."
A surprise?
More like a heart attack.
The Academy was the last place I expected to see him. And yet, a strange calm washed over me—like the world didn't feel as heavy now that there was at least one person who felt familiar.
Before I could gather my thoughts, Chandler stepped closer, voice lowering.
"You okay?" he asked quietly. "You looked pale earlier."
"I'm fine," I lied.
He didn't believe me. I could see it in the way his eyes narrowed slightly, concern flashing across his face before he hid it.
"You shouldn't wander around alone here," he said.
My stomach tightened.
"Why?"
Chandler opened his mouth to answer—
—but someone else spoke first.
"Because he's right."
Horace.
He stood a few steps behind me, posture straight, expression unreadable—but his eyes… his eyes were colder than usual.
Chandler's smirk faded slowly as he turned.
"Oh," he said. "Royalty."
Horace didn't respond at first. He simply stepped forward, positioned himself at my side—not touching me, not crowding me, but close enough that his presence shielded me from Chandler in a subtle, unmistakable way.
"What are you doing here?" Horace asked Chandler.
The question wasn't rude.
It wasn't even loud.
But it held weight—like a quiet warning wrapped in courtesy.
Chandler raised a brow. "I could ask you the same."
"This is my campus."
"And now it's mine too."
The air thickened.
Two Alphas, two very different energies.
Chandler's scent—warm smoke, cedar, something sharp—spread subtly through the space. Horace's scent pushed back—cold, restrained, authoritative.
Neither outright challenged the other.
But neither backed down.
I stepped between them.
"Okay," I said quickly. "Let's not do… whatever this is."
Chandler looked down at me. "I'm not doing anything."
"You're provoking him," Horace said quietly.
Chandler smiled slightly. "Am I?"
"Both of you stop," I hissed, lowering my voice. "People are staring."
They were.
Several students slowed down to watch, whispering in groups. Rowan Blackwell leaned against a nearby pillar, eyes sharp behind his glasses, observing everything. Cassian's squad walked by, all of them turning their heads our way.
The last thing I needed was attention.
I stepped back from both of them.
Chandler's smirk faded when he looked at me again. "We need to talk," he said. "Somewhere quiet."
My heart jumped. "Talk about what?"
"Elliot," he replied.
The world stopped.
Every sound in the courtyard dulled around me.
Chandler's gaze wasn't teasing now. He looked serious—more serious than I'd ever seen him.
My fingers curled. "What about him?"
Chandler lowered his voice. "Later. Not here."
The soft click of leather shoes approached.
Horace stepped closer, face tightening. "He knows your brother?"
Chandler's jaw flexed. "I know the rumors. I know he disappeared. And I know Elliot was seen with someone—"
"Enough," I snapped before he said the wrong name.
Chandler blinked, surprised.
Horace's eyes sharpened.
"I said not here," I whispered firmly. "Please."
Chandler studied me for a long moment—really studied me—then sighed and stepped back.
"Fine," he said. "I'll wait for you."
"Where?"
"The south garden," he said. "After classes."
Then he shot Horace one last look—something between amusement and challenge—and walked away.
Silence followed him until he disappeared beyond the archway.
Only then did Horace exhale softly.
"That was reckless," he said.
"What was?"
"Talking to someone like him."
I frowned. "He's not dangerous."
"He's unpredictable," Horace corrected. "Which is worse."
I opened my mouth, then closed it again. Because he wasn't entirely wrong. Chandler was unpredictable. And yet…
I trusted him more than anyone here.
"He's my friend," I said quietly.
Horace's gaze flicked to me—not surprised, but thoughtful. "Then be careful. People aren't always what they seem."
For a moment, I wondered if he meant Chandler… or me.
Horace turned. "You're late for your next class. Come on."
Classes blurred together for the next few hours. Students whispered about the "new guy" walking beside the Crown Prince. Rowan watched me like I was a puzzle he intended to solve. Cassian's eyes lingered too long when I passed. Adrian—the polite noble from Leadership—greeted me with a confused "You look… different this year."
Everyone noticed something.
No one knew what.
And through it all, Horace stayed close.
Not hovering.
Not overbearing.
Just… aware.
Like he didn't trust the Academy enough to let me walk alone.
Or maybe he didn't trust me.
By the time classes ended, I felt drained. My scent had held, but just barely. The suppressor vial in my pocket felt too light, almost empty.
I made my way to the south garden, passing stone pathways lined with trimmed hedges and tall white pillars. The area was quieter, sunlight filtering through the leaves.
Chandler sat on a stone bench near the fountain, leaning back, arms stretched along the top edge like he owned the place.
He straightened when he saw me.
"You came," he said.
"I said I would."
He patted the spot beside him. "Sit. You look like you're about to pass out."
I sat, keeping a few inches between us just in case.
His expression softened. "Okay. Before we talk about Elliot… I need to know something."
"What?"
"When you left school that day—back home—I knew something was wrong."
My breath caught.
"You had that look," he continued. "The one where you're trying not to fall apart."
I looked away. "It was a bad day."
"It was more than that."
Silence.
Then Chandler leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees.
"Elleanore," he said quietly. "Why are you pretending to be your twin?"
The world stopped moving.
I froze—every muscle, every breath, every thought.
My hand tightened on the stone bench.
"I'm not—"
"Don't lie," Chandler said softly. "I knew the second I saw you."
My heart dropped into my stomach.
"You and Elliot smell almost the same," Chandler said. "But not exactly. You're siblings—you share notes. But I can still tell them apart."
My breath shattered.
Chandler's expression wasn't angry or judgmental.
It was gentle.
"I'm not going to say anything," he said. "I'm not here to expose you. I just…" He swallowed. "I just want to know if you're safe."
My eyes stung.
No one asked me that here.
No one even thought to.
Except him.
"Please," Chandler murmured. "Tell me what's going on."
My voice cracked when I whispered,
"I don't know."
And it was the truth.
I didn't know what happened to Elliot.
I didn't know who to trust.
I didn't know why the Academy was hiding something.
But Chandler kept looking at me with that same quiet concern.
For a moment, I wanted to tell him everything.
Then a soft crunch of footsteps came from behind me.
I turned.
Horace stood a few feet away, eyes unreadable, gaze flicking between us—between the space Chandler had closed, between my face, between how close we were.
My breath hitched.
The tension between them was instant and sharp.
Chandler stood slowly, body shifting between relaxed and ready.
Horace didn't move, but his presence pressed into the space like cold pressure.
Then—
"Who," Horace said quietly, "said you could use her name?"
My blood ran cold.
Chandler's jaw tightened.
He knew.
Horace didn't hear Elliot.
He heard Elleanore.
He heard the truth.
My disguise cracked for a split second—
And the Crown Prince noticed.