The world outside the refectory has transformed. What was once a peaceful college campus is now a grid of controlled checkpoints. Academy security, no longer the friendly, semi-retired guards they knew, move with a cold, professional efficiency, their faces set and impassive. Holt and Marche aren't just locking down a building; they're putting the entire academy under martial law.
Students are being funneled toward their dorms, but every path to Emberwood is blocked.
"They're not just guarding the doors," Lucien mutters, his eyes scanning the lines of security. He points to a figure standing near the main entrance of Emberwood, a man in a crisp suit holding a sophisticated scanner. "Those aren't academy guards. That's Marche Corp private security. That scanner… it's a bio-signature detector. They're not just looking for us. They're looking for the culture."
Their simple heist has become a techno-thriller.
The plan has to change. The kitchen is already a fortress. Walking in the front door is impossible.
"The greenhouse," Talia whispers, her voice urgent. "It connects to the back of the kitchens. They might not be watching it as closely."
"I'll create a distraction," Nyra says, her eyes flashing with a familiar, fiery resolve. She looks at a nearby fire alarm pull station. "Give me ninety seconds."
"Lucien, you're with me," Caelan commands, his voice steady. The gentle, quiet boy is gone, replaced by a field general. "We go for the Relic. Talia, Mira—get to the commissary. We'll meet you in the tunnels."
It is a desperate, split-second plan, held together by nothing more than pure, unadulterated trust.
Nyra doesn't wait for a reply. She pulls the hood of her sweatshirt up, melts into a throng of confused students, and disappears.
Caelan and Lucien hug the shadows of the old stone buildings, their hearts pounding in a frantic rhythm. They see Chef Maillard in the distance, still locked in his magnificent filibuster with Provost Holt, a verbal battering ram of bureaucratic procedure. They see Milo, a lone beacon of chaos, his camera held high as he provides a breathless, guerilla-style commentary on the lockdown.
Then, a piercing, electronic shriek splits the night air. The fire alarm. Emergency lights begin to strobe, casting the campus in a chaotic dance of red and white.
It's Nyra's signal.
For a critical half-minute, the security grid falters. Guards turn, their attention pulled toward the false alarm. It is the only opening they will get.
Caelan and Lucien sprint. They tear across the manicured lawn, low and fast, diving behind a row of sculpted hedges just as a guard's flashlight beam sweeps past. The back door to the greenhouse is an old, wooden thing, probably locked. Lucien pulls a slim metal card from his wallet—the all-access pass of the Argent family—and with a deft, practiced movement he learned in his misspent youth, he slides it into the jamb. The old lock clicks open.
They slip inside, into the warm, humid air of the greenhouse. It smells of damp earth and chlorophyll. The sound of the alarm is muffled here. They are behind enemy lines.
They move silently through rows of potted herbs and exotic flowers, the glass panes of the ceiling glowing with the flashing emergency lights. They reach the connecting door to the kitchens. It's locked with a heavy deadbolt. This time, Lucien's credit card trick won't work.
But Caelan places a hand on the cool metal of the door. He closes his eyes.
He can feel it.
On the other side, just twenty feet away, the Relic is… afraid. Its gentle, living pulse of energy has become a frantic, terrified thrum. It can sense the hostile forces closing in on it. He can feel the bio-scanners probing the walls, a cold, clinical touch that feels like a violation.
The Relic calls out to him, not in words, but in a wave of pure, concentrated life-force.
A single, golden spore, no bigger than a speck of dust, drifts under the crack of the locked door, drawn to his presence. It lands on the deadbolt's internal mechanism.
With a soft, metallic groan, a delicate, golden web of mycelium begins to grow over the lock. It is a living key. The metal of the tumblers, the oil lubricating them—it is all just a source of minerals, of fuel. The lock is being organically, silently, beautifully disassembled from the inside out.
Click.
The deadbolt slides open.
They step into their kitchen. It is dark, the only light coming from the single, small golden orb at the bottom of the Relic. It pulses, a tiny, happy lighthouse signaling that its rescuers have arrived.
Then they hear it. Heavy, booted footsteps in the hallway outside. The sweep of scanner beams under the door.
"They're here," Lucien breathes, his voice tight with panic.
Caelan carefully lifts the jar, cradling it in both hands as if it were the most precious object in the world. There is no time to get to the commissary, to the tunnels. They are trapped.
He looks around the darkened kitchen. At the pots. The pans. The walk-in refrigerator.
He looks at the giant, industrial steel vent hood over the main stove. It's an old, wide model, the kind that probably vents directly to the roof. An exhaust duct. An escape route.
It is small. It is filthy. It will be a near-impossible climb.
He looks at Lucien, a question in his eyes. Lucien, the silver prince, who a week ago wouldn't have touched a dish towel without sterile gloves. Lucien looks up at the greasy, dark opening of the vent.
He doesn't hesitate. A grim, determined smile flashes across his face.
"Of course," he says, already dragging a heavy prep table over to give them a boost. "We're The Leftover League. We were born in the trash."
Caelan holds the pulsing, living Relic tight against his chest. As the kitchen door begins to splinter under the force of a battering ram, he takes a leap of faith, up into the darkness, into the greasy, unknown heart of the academy itself.