I dig through the drawer for the Westpoint cufflinks, two circles of onyx rimmed in silver, with the school crest stamped in the center. The crest is worn smooth from generations of Greys; these are mine now, as much as the scars on my chest or the anger in my blood.
Unlike Caius, I didn’t come from an old money family. No, my past is built on generations of sneaking in the shadows, making deals, building empires and running legacy schools that feed into the machine.
My great-great-grandfather helped found Westpoint, and after my father died, the Board had to wait for me to ‘grow up’ and take my place beside them.
Caius jumping ship just put me in a more favorable position. With no golden-spoon child to compete with, the Chair was a shoo in.
The bathroom door opens. Isolde steps out, wrapped in a towel, hair still wet, face blank. She moves slow, careful of her feet. She’s taken off the bandages and replaced them with fresh ones from my kit. Her hands look worse, if anything, but she doesn’t say a word.
She just goes to my closet and pulls out one of the dresses I had bought for her. It’s white. She holds it up, stares at it for a long minute, then slides it on over her naked body.
She doesn’t ask for help with the zipper. She doesn’t look at me while she does it.
I go to the mirror, tie my tie, and watch her reflection in the glass. She stands at the far end of the room, staring at the door. Her lips are pale, almost blue. Her hands shake as she pulls on the new shoes I had delivered a few days ago. White runners with purple laces.
She looks mismatched, but I like her like this. It’s real, when nothing else is.
I catch her eyes in the mirror. There’s nothing there but calculation and dread. She’s running through her options, and finding them all shit.
I finish the knot, smooth the front of the jacket, and turn to her.
“Ready?” I ask.
She nods, and for a second, she almost smiles.
I cross the room, close enough to smell the soap on her skin, the tang of fear beneath it. I reach for her hand and she lets me take it. Her fingers are cold, so cold I can feel the chill through my skin.
I lean down, close, and whisper in her ear: “Whatever happens in there, remember you’re mine now. I won’t let them hurt you.”
She laughs, one short bark. “Mhmm,” she murmurs back, but she doesn’t let go.
We walk to the door together, hand in hand, the ruined prince and his unwilling princess.
Grabbing a warm coat off the coat rack, I help her into it, ensuring she will stay warm against the winter chill before we head out and down the steps.
We walk down the hall slow, heading towards the West quadrant before going up those steps, one at a time.
The guards stand in shadow, hands behind their backs, eyes on everything and nothing. They don’t stop us, not even a glance.
The boardroom is on the top floor. She walks like she’s being escorted to the chair, head up, back straight, but every step is a test of will.
At the landing, another set of guards. They open the doors for us.
Inside, it’s creepier than I remember. We look up at the platform, at the walls, at everything and everyone who will determine our fate. The table is long, the grain so deep it looks like a record of every ugly meeting that ever happened here.
Twelve chairs, twelve figures, all in hooded robes. They sit at exact intervals, hands folded on the table, faces shrouded except for the shine of old eyes and expensive dental work. Beneath the platform, a furnace. In front of it, a wrought-iron stand holds a branding iron, the sigil of the Board at its tip. The iron’s already red-hot.
Dr. Abelard stands at the head. He’s not in a robe. He wears a suit, black as midnight, tie so tight I willed it to cut his vocal chords. His hair is even whiter in this light, his smile an ugly smear.
To his left, Valence. She’s in a velvet blazer and a skirt. Her glasses catch every flame, but her eyes are the real knives. She sits, not stands, as if she knows her power is rooted and doesn’t need to strut.
At the far end, waiting for us, is the empty chair. I guide Isolde up the platform to the spot. She sits, hands folded, refusing to meet the Board’s gaze. I stand behind her, hands at my back.
Abelard clears his throat and addresses the room, not us. “The Hunt is complete. The Heir Apparent has made his Claim. The Greenwood line has been absorbed into the House of Grey.”
One of the hooded figures makes a note in a ledger.
Abelard turns to me, voice lower. “Rhett Grey, you stand here by the right of conquest and vacancy left behind by Caius Montgomery. Do you accept the terms of the Chair?”
