The darkness inside the ventilation shaft is absolute. It is a tight, cramped, vertical world that smells of old grease, dust, and a century of forgotten meals. Below them, the sound of the kitchen door crashing open is a muffled, violent thud, followed by the angry, confused shouts of Marche Corp security.
"Anything?" a gruff voice barks from below.
"Nothing. Scanners are clear. Bio-signature is gone. It's like it just… vanished."
They hold their breath, plastered against the cold, slick metal of the duct. Lucien is above Caelan, his feet braced on a cross-beam, his hands scrabbling for a hold in the darkness. Caelan is below, one arm wrapped around the Relic, the other pushing against the opposite wall to hold himself in place. The jar is pulsing against his chest, a soft, steady rhythm, a tiny, brave heartbeat in the oppressive dark. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. It is no longer afraid. It is with him.
"This way! Check the service corridors!" The shouts below fade as the security team moves on.
For a long moment, they just hang there, their lungs burning, the silence broken only by the frantic pounding of their own hearts.
"You know," Lucien whispers, his voice strained with effort, echoing eerily in the metal tube. "My father once paid a sherpa twenty thousand dollars to teach me how to climb. I believe this is marginally less glamorous."
Despite the terror, Caelan lets out a small, sharp huff of laughter. The absurdity of it all—the prince in the greasy chute, the god in the dark—is the only thing keeping them from panicking.
Slowly, painfully, they begin to climb. It's a brutal, inch-by-inch struggle, a vertical crawl through a forgotten artery of the academy. Every scrape of their shoes, every grunt of effort, sounds like a thunderclap in the confined space. The Relic is a heavy, precious, and awkward burden. But its steady, rhythmic pulse is a guide, a metronome for their ascent.
After what feels like an eternity, Lucien's hand hits a grated ceiling. "I think… I think this is it," he pants. "The roof vent."
He pushes. The grate is heavy, crusted with years of grime. It doesn't budge. He pushes again, all his Argent-family-funded personal training focused on this one, desperate moment. The grate groans, then shifts.
A sliver of moonlit sky appears, the most beautiful sight Caelan has ever seen.
With a final, heroic heave, Lucien shoves the grate aside and clambers out onto the roof of Emberwood Hall. He reaches down and helps Caelan, who emerges, gasping, into the cool night air, the glowing Relic held triumphantly in his hands.
They are free.
The roof of the dorm offers a breathtaking, panoramic view of the besieged campus. Below them, flashlight beams cut through the darkness like searchlights from a prison yard. The fire alarm has been silenced, replaced by an eerie, tense quiet. They can see figures moving with military precision, cordoning off the area.
Their escape has not gone unnoticed for long. The bio-scanners will eventually be pointed skyward. They have moments, not minutes.
Suddenly, a tiny red light blinks to life on a lamppost in the arboretum, a hundred yards away. It blinks twice, then goes dark.
A signal. Mira.
The way is clear. But the roof is a dead end. They are four stories up, a sheer brick wall between them and freedom.
"Any other secret Argent family skills?" Caelan asks, only half-joking. "Parkour? Base-jumping?"
"Unfortunately not," Lucien replies, his eyes scanning the edge of the roof. Then his gaze stops. It falls on something mundane. Something every old building on campus has.
The ivy.
A thick, ancient vine of ivy, as thick as a man's arm, snakes its way up the side of Emberwood Hall, its gnarled branches a living, organic ladder. It is less than ten feet from where they stand.
"You have got to be kidding me," Lucien breathes.
Caelan looks at the ivy. Then he looks down at the precious jar in his hands. He can't climb down with this. He needs both hands.
He looks at Lucien. In the pale moonlight, a wild, unspoken plan forms between them. It is stupid. It is insane. It requires a level of trust that goes beyond friendship, beyond strategy. It is an act of pure faith.
Caelan takes the thick, soft sweater he is wearing and wraps it around the Relic, creating a padded, makeshift cradle.
"Get ready to catch," he says.
Lucien's face pales. "Caelan, no. If we drop it—"
"We won't," Caelan says, his voice a low, steady certainty.
He gives Lucien a look that says I trust you with the future of the world. Lucien nods, a single, sharp affirmation.
Lucien scrambles over the ledge, his expensive shoes finding purchase on the thick, woody vines. He begins a clumsy, terrifying descent, the leaves rustling around him. He makes it down twenty feet, to a small outcropping above a second-story window, his face grim with concentration. He braces himself. "Now!" he calls up.
Caelan takes a deep breath. He holds the bundled jar in his hands. And with a smooth, underhanded toss, he lets it go.
The world seems to slow down. The bundled Relic arcs through the cool night air, a soft, lumpy comet against the moon. It is a perfect, gentle throw. It falls, end over end…
And lands squarely, softly, in Lucien's waiting arms.
He stumbles for a second, his feet slipping on the ivy, and for a heart-stopping moment it looks like he will fall. But he holds on, pressing the precious bundle to his chest. He gives Caelan a shaky thumbs-up.
Just as Caelan is about to follow, a brilliant, blinding white light floods the rooftop.
A searchlight. They've been spotted.
Below, an alarm begins to sound again—not a fire alarm, but a harsh, blaring security klaxon. Shouts echo from the ground.
Caelan is trapped on the roof, exposed, the target of every security guard on campus. Lucien is halfway down a wall of ivy, clutching their only hope. They are separated. Exposed. The siege has found them.