Gideon Marche's smile does not falter. The word "no" does not compute in his world; it is merely an opening bid in a negotiation.
"A principled stand. Admirable," he purrs, setting down the soup bowl as if Caelan had just made a clever joke. "Perhaps we can discuss the… branding. A charitable foundation. A co-branded product line. 'Veston's Golden Spore by Marche Labs.' It has a nice ring to it."
He believes this is a negotiation about money and fame. Caelan's face remains a placid, impenetrable wall. It is a refusal born of a faith Marche cannot quantify, and therefore cannot understand.
Seeing the utter finality in Caelan's eyes, a flicker of genuine, reptilian annoyance crosses Marche's face. The benevolent mask slips for a second, revealing the tyrant beneath.
"Very well," Marche says, his voice losing its silken edge, becoming as cold and hard as forged steel. He turns not to Caelan, but to the spectral figure of Provost Holt, who has been observing from the shadows.
"Provost," Marche says, the word a command, not a title. "It seems Aurum Academy is having some… infrastructural issues. As a primary stakeholder and chairman of the safety board, I'm concerned about the integrity of some of your older buildings. Emberwood Hall, for instance. I believe a full, top-to-bottom safety and sanitation audit is in order. Effective immediately."
The threat is brutally, elegantly simple. It is a corporate siege.
Holt, now little more than Marche's puppet, snaps his fingers. Academy security, who had been lingering at the edges of the hall, step forward. Their uniforms seem stiffer, their faces grimmer.
"Emberwood Hall is now under official review," Holt announces, his voice a hollow echo of his former authority. "All residents are to vacate the premises pending a full sanitation and structural sweep. No items may be removed."
The crowd gasps. The meaning is clear. They aren't just evicting the residents; they are quarantining the kitchen. They are coming for the Relic. For the Golden Spore.
Chef Maillard steps between Marche and The Leftover League, a great, immovable mountain of righteous fury. "You cannot do this, Gideon! This is a violation of the student charter!"
Marche looks at the old chef with something akin to pity. "Barthol, please. Charters, rules… these are sentimental notions. We are discussing business. And my business just had its generous offer rejected."
He gives Caelan one last look. It is the look of a collector whose favorite butterfly has stubbornly refused to die for the pinning board. "I hope you find your principles to be… nutritious," he says. Then, he turns and glides out of the hall, his silent assassins in his wake, leaving his puppet to do the dirty work.
Chaos erupts. The Leftover League's triumphant feast has become a rout. Academy security begins to move, herding students, their faces impassive.
"We have to get the culture out of there!" Nyra hisses, her mind racing. The Relic, the living heart of their entire movement, is sitting on a counter in a kitchen that is about to become a warzone.
But the exits are already being sealed. Uniformed guards block the doors to Emberwood. The siege is on.
Then, a quiet, steady voice cuts through the rising panic. "There is another way."
Talia Verdurex has appeared at their side, as if from the earth itself. Her face is calm, her eyes sharp. She is not a student of politics or combat, but she understands the land, the hidden paths, the ways things grow and connect beneath the surface.
"The old service tunnels," she says, her voice low. "The ones that connect the original academy kitchens. They run right under Emberwood. My grandfather helped dig them."
It's a long shot. A desperate gamble.
Mira Solstice appears, her datapad already glowing with an old, archived blueprint of the campus. "The tunnel access is in the main commissary's dry storage. The entrance will be guarded. But the exit…" she traces a line with her finger, "…surfaces in the campus arboretum, a hundred meters from the west gate."
Zadie Nightwell shoves her camera into Milo's hands. "Keep broadcasting! Don't let them cut the feed!" she orders, her journalistic instincts giving way to a raw, activist fury. "The whole world needs to see this."
Their fellowship of the leftover has just become a heist team.
The plan is simple, insane, and their only option.
Nyra, Lucien, and Caelan will make for the Emberwood kitchen, a desperate delaying action to protect the culture.
Talia and Mira will head for the commissary, to open the tunnel and guide them out.
And Chef Maillard? The old lion smiles a grim, weary smile. He straightens his chef's coat.
"I," he announces, "am going to make a formal complaint. Very, very slowly." He turns and begins to majestically, glacially, walk toward Provost Holt, launching into a long, rambling, and technically flawless critique of the evening's administrative protocols, a filibuster of pure, pedantic glory.
Caelan, Nyra, and Lucien exchange a look. Fear, exhilaration, and a terrible, beautiful sense of purpose pass between them. Their aprons, still spattered with the sauces of their celebratory feast, feel like battle flags.
Nyra grins, a sharp, feral flash of defiance. "So," she says. "We're stealing ourselves from our own school to save a jar of sentient potato peels from an evil billionaire."
"Yes," Caelan replies, his voice calm amidst the storm. "And we need to hurry."
He turns, his gaze fixed on the doors of their dorm. On the prize. The future. The life they created in a little glass jar. "The Relic is calling for us."