It was Timmy. The freshman from the Coffee Shop. The one who always ordered hot chocolate and tipped with nervous smiles.
"Timothy grew bold," Marrow said, stepping into the cell. "He was caught attempting to mail a letter to his parents. Without Censor approval."
"A letter, sir?" Stone asked, his brow furrowing. " Is that... a Priority offense?"
"It is when the letter details 'unfounded rumors' about my administration," Marrow said smoothly. He walked over to the boy, who flinched. "We cannot have hysteria spreading to the outside world, can we?"
"No, sir," Stone said, but his stomach twisted.
"Stand guard, Stone," Marrow ordered. "Ensure we are not disturbed."
Stone took his post at the door, his hand resting on his baton. He watched as Marrow knelt in front of the trembling freshman.
"Now, Timothy," Marrow purred. "Let's remove those rebellious thoughts, shall we?"
Marrow didn't use a spell. He didn't use a potion.
He reached out and grabbed the boy's wrist.
The effect was instant. Timothy screamed—a high, thin sound of pure agony. His veins turned black where Marrow touched him.
And Marrow... Marrow took a deep breath, his eyes rolling back in his head.
He was feeding.
Stone watched, frozen, as the Dean drained the magic right out of the freshman. It wasn't just energy; it was vitality. Timothy's skin turned grey. His eyes went dull. He slumped against the wall, gasping for air, looking ten years older than he had a minute ago.
Marrow released him and stood up, looking energized. Vibrant. Younger.
"A simple suspension wouldn't have taught the lesson," Marrow said, adjusting his cuffs. "This... is permanent."
He turned to Stone, his eyes glowing with stolen power. "Escort him to the infirmary. Tell them he had a bad reaction to a potion mishap. And Stone?"
"Sir?" Stone's voice was hoarse.
"If you ever speak of this... I have a cell waiting for you, too."
Marrow swept out of the room, leaving the door open.
Stone stood there for a long moment. He looked at the Dean's retreating back. He looked at Timothy, who was curled in a ball, sobbing silently.
The Rules. The Order. The Law.
It was all a lie.
Stone walked into the cell. He knelt down, not to intimidate, but to help. He gently lifted the boy up.
"Come on, kid," Stone whispered. "Let's get you some help."
But not the infirmary. And not the Registry.
He knew where he had to go.
The "War Room"—formerly our cozy pillow fort—had been militarized.
The pillows were still there, but now they were covered in maps of the campus, blueprints of the steam tunnels, and sticky notes detailed with shifts of the Enforcer patrols.
The air smelled of pizza, tension, and a cocktail of incompatible magic.
