Landeskog’s manipulation.

  The girls who were still missing.

  And beneath it all—me. Being used. Being maneuvered.

  My footsteps echoed through the halls, crisp against the marble, each one carrying a little more weight. A little more defiance.

  Landeskog wasn’t wrong—about the threat, about the stakes. But that didn’t mean I was okay being his sacrificial piece. No one had asked what I wanted. They just assumed I’d move when told.

  By the time I made it back to my room, my jaw was sore from clenching it. I sat in the stillness, letting the quiet soak in. Trying to remember why I’d agreed to any of this.

  The answer came easily.

  Lianna.

  And the others. The ones who didn’t get to choose. The ones who might already be gone if I didn’t act.

  I would go. I would fight.

  But it would be on my terms.

  When training rolled around, I wasn’t subtle.

  I channeled every ounce of rage and unrest into each movement—every block, every strike, every pivot.

  My body moved with sharp, surgical intent. Like I was cutting something out of myself.

  Cadets watched. Some whispered. A few edged away.

  I didn’t care.

  Because when the world got dark, sometimes it needed something darker to fight back.

  As Mei and I squared off, I could tell she was holding back at first—testing the waters with each strike, gauging whether it was safe to meet me at full force.

  I pushed harder, and she rose to meet it—her blocks sharper, her counters faster. The sound of our training swords clashing filled the air, steady as a heartbeat. For a brief moment, I could almost forget the rumors. The stares. The weight pressing down on me since this morning.

  Here, in the rhythm of combat, I could breathe.

  Here, no one asked questions. No one whispered my name like a curse or a prophecy. The training ground didn’t care who I loved, what I’d lost, or what the captains were planning behind closed doors.

  Only the fight mattered.

  And in the fight, I was free.

  But even that was a lie, wasn’t it?

  Because solitude—real solitude—was something I couldn’t afford. Not anymore.

  Not with Landeskog pulling strings. Not with Jeremy watching the fallout. Not with Okami somewhere in the dark, unknowingly walking into a storm.

  Every look that darted away when I noticed it, every conversation that stopped cold when I stepped too close—it all reminded me: I wasn’t alone.

  I was surrounded.

  Observed.

  Judged.

  Expected.

  When the sparring ended, Mei and I nodded to each other—no words, just a flicker of mutual respect. A small, steadying thing in the whirlwind.

  I left the mat with my head high, shoulders squared, the weight of future battles pressing hard against my spine.

  In the showers, the other cadets came and went quickly, all routine. I stayed longer than I needed to, letting the hot water wash the sweat and tension off my skin. As if it could strip away everything else, too.

  I wasn’t ready for the mess hall.

  Wasn’t ready for the crowd, the glances, the buzzing anticipation that clung to the academy walls like a stormcloud ready to break.

  But I didn’t have the luxury of hiding.

  Not tonight.

  As I finally pulled on my uniform and stepped outside, Willow caught up beside me, bouncing on her toes like she hadn’t just spent the last hour getting knocked around.

  “I hear Landeskog’s making some big announcement at dinner,” she said brightly, practically skipping. “Do you think it’s squad assignments? Oh! Maybe they’re sending people out on missions—finally!”

  Her voice was light. Excited.

  And completely unaware of the war already brewing inside me.

  I didn’t respond right away. Just kept walking, letting the silence stretch between us. Because I already knew what was coming. And nothing about it felt like a celebration.

  “How could you possibly know that?” Kira asked, her voice laced with skepticism as she cast Willow a sidelong glance.

  “She’s sleeping with Landeskog’s subordinate,” Mei said flatly, not even bothering to look up. Her tone was so dry it could’ve ignited a spark, but no one laughed. No one was surprised either.

  Willow didn’t even blink. “So? He talks in his sleep.”

  Kira rolled her eyes, but her shoulders tensed.

  “You think it’s about the special squads?” Willow pressed on, undeterred. “My sister was here during the last wave. They didn’t even mention squads until the Culling.”

  “Yeah, well, you heard Uzaki,” Kira said, voice dropping a little. “If war’s coming, they might be accelerating everything.”

  The words landed like stones.

  No one replied.

  We just walked—boots scuffing stone, nerves twisting tighter with each step toward the mess hall.

  Willow’s voice broke the silence again, this time softer. “I hope I’m selected.”

  “Why?” Kira frowned. “Special squads are almost always Scarlet.”

  That word hung between us.

  Scarlet.

  It sounded beautiful. Lethal.

  “What does that even mean?” I asked. My voice didn’t shake, but I could feel something tightening in my chest. Something instinctive. Warning.

  Kira looked at me like I’d grown a second head. “You don’t know?”

  “She was off with Jeremy Sannin during classification week,” Mei cut in, filling the gap like she always did—cool, efficient, sharp. “She missed the breakdown.”

  Kira nodded slowly, then hesitated before answering.

  “Scarlet means the mission’s… delicate,” she said carefully, as if choosing her words could blunt the truth.

  “It means you’re either going to seduce someone for intel or slit their throat after,” Mei said. “Sometimes both.”

  The words hit harder than I expected.

  Scarlet.

  Not just high risk.

  No rules.

  I swallowed hard, that cold weight settling deep in my gut.

  We didn’t speak again as we stepped into the mess hall; the din of cadets crashing into us like a wall. Trays clattered. Conversations buzzed. But beneath it all, there was a current—anticipation. Everyone felt it. They knew something was coming.

  We grabbed our trays in silence. Steam rose from the serving line—roasted meat, spiced greens, thick rolls. It should’ve smelled comforting. Instead, it made my stomach twist.

  I didn’t want food.

  I wanted answers.

  And I knew exactly where they were going to come from.

  Tonight.

  At dinner.

  Landeskog’s move was coming.

  And we were all just pieces on his board.

  Once our trays were loaded, we slid into a quieter corner of the mess hall—one of the tables that hadn’t filled up yet; the kind reserved for people who didn’t want to be seen or who were about to be.

  Around us, the chatter rose and fell in waves, pockets of gossip bursting like fireworks. Everyone was speculating—some with excitement, others with dread. But even surrounded by noise, I felt removed. Like I was underwater. Watching it all happen through glass.

  I picked at my food, appetite fading fast. The weight of earlier conversations pressed down harder with every bite I couldn’t finish.

  My gaze drifted across the room until it landed on Okami.

  He sat at the far table, among the other captains and instructors, but it was clear he wasn’t part of the conversation. The others laughed, gestured, leaned in toward each other with interest. Okami didn’t. His hands rested on the table. His face unreadable. He might as well have been carved from shadow.

  Even seated, there was a kind of tension to him—a coiled readiness, like he was always bracing for a hit no one else could see coming.

  He didn’t look at me.

  But I couldn’t stop looking at him.

  He didn’t belong there. Not really. Just like I didn’t belong here, sitting at this table with a tray of food I couldn’t stomach and a future I hadn’t asked for being carved up behind the scenes.

  I looked away, pressing my fork into the mashed potatoes like it might keep my thoughts from spiraling.

  The buzzing cadet chatter dulled into static as a single figure rose at the front of the room.

  Landeskog.

  He stood tall, hands behind his back, eyes sweeping across the sea of uniforms. The mess hall fell into an immediate hush—conversations choking off mid-sentence as every head turned toward him.

  “Cadets,” he began, his voice smooth and commanding. “Tonight, I want to speak to you about the future of this academy. And of this city.” He let that hang in the air, letting silence press its weight against us. “As you’ve heard, we face uncertain times. Whispers of unrest. Shifting alliances. The return of enemies we thought long buried. And so,” he continued, his gaze narrowing slightly, “we are activating our Scarlet Division.”

  The ripple that followed his words wasn’t sound—it was silence. A vacuum. Every cadet went rigid. Every breath hitched.

  Landeskog continued without missing a beat. “These elite squads will be composed of cadets trained to operate under specialized conditions. Their missions will be high-stakes. Often unsanctioned. Often dangerous. Each cadet chosen will be briefed privately. You will report directly to your assigned captain. You will be selected. Deliberately.”

  He paused again.

  And then his eyes slid to me.

  Just for a second.

  It was fast—blink-and-miss-it fast—but I felt it like a blade drawn across skin.

  Okami’s head turned. Slowly. His gaze tracked Landeskog’s.

  Landeskog scanned the room like he was counting hearts. His gaze landed on cadets one by one—some held their breath, some sat up straighter, others visibly shrank in their seats. It wasn’t just ceremony anymore. It was judgment. Selection. A subtle reminder that not all of us were going to make it through this next chapter.

  “The roles and expectations for these squads,” he said, voice clipped, crisp, “are absolute. You will not question your assignments. You will not abandon your posts. These are not training exercises. They are live missions.”

  Silence clamped tighter.

  “Tonight marks the formation of our first special squad,” Landeskog announced. “This unit will be led by Takashi Okami.”

  The air in the mess hall didn’t stir. No applause. No breath.

  My head turned before I could stop it, eyes drawn to him.

  Okami hadn’t moved.

  But I felt the shift in him.

  A flicker. A spark in dry brush.

  Landeskog went on, voice steady and surgical. “The squad will consist of Willow Harding. Sam Hunter. Ruben Espendido. And…”

  He paused.

  He knew what he was doing.

  “…Piper MacKenzie.”

  My name crashed into the silence like a gunshot. I didn’t hear gasps, but I felt them. Like cold water soaking through cotton. Whispers rippled instantly, sharp and fast and slicing through the hall like a current of static.

  Across the room, Okami’s head finally turned.

  He didn’t blink.

  He didn’t breathe.

  He just looked at me.

  And I broke eye contact before I could stop myself.

  Not out of fear.

  But because I could feel it coming.

  The storm.

  The fury he would bury under that unreadable mask.

  And behind my ribs, where my heart should’ve been hammering, there was only ice.

  Because Landeskog had done exactly what he set out to do⁠—

  And now the Reaper knew.

  Twenty-Two

  The silence after Landeskog’s announcement didn’t crack.

  It shattered.

  Not with cheers—no, nothing so celebratory—but with slow, stilted claps from the faculty table. Measured. Intentional. Like they were trying to show support without staking too much on it.

  A few cadets joined in, the applause spreading awkwardly across the hall. But it didn’t feel earned. It felt… restrained. Perfunctory. Hollow.

  Around me, the whispers crept in like smoke under a locked door.

  “Her? Seriously?”

  “She’s the Sunflower Widow, right?”

  “Is Landeskog trying to get them all killed?”

  My skin prickled.

  I didn’t look for the voices. The doubt was thick enough to taste—metallic, bitter, and familiar.

  But none of it mattered the second my eyes found his.

  Okami hadn’t moved.

  But I felt him move. Like gravity shifting.

  He stared at me from across the mess hall, his expression carved from stone. But the fury in his eyes wasn’t cold.

  It was blazing.

  A controlled burn. White-hot and barely leashed. Like if he blinked, someone might die.

  And maybe they would.

  He wasn’t angry I’d been chosen.

  He was angry I hadn’t known. That he hadn’t been told. That he hadn’t been the one to decide.

  I held his gaze, my stomach turning to ice.

  He didn’t look away.

  Not when Landeskog finished his speech.

  Not when the professors stood.

  Not when the clapping faded and the eyes turned elsewhere.

  I felt nailed to the floor by that look—like he could see straight through me, past my resolve, to the panic fluttering just beneath it.

  And then⁠—

  “Congratulations, Willow, Piper!” Kira’s voice broke through, bright and brittle as glass. A smile stretched across her face, too tight to be real.

  “Yeah, that’s amazing!” Mei echoed, pulling me into a brief hug—tight, warm, and more grounding than anything she could’ve said.

  I hugged her back, barely. My smile was a ghost, nothing but a muscle reflex that didn’t reach my eyes. Their excitement scratched at something raw inside me. I didn’t feel amazing. I felt like I’d been tossed into a shark tank and told to smile for the crowd.

  Willow was buzzing beside me, her words tumbling out in excited bursts. Plans, theories, speculation about the mission. But they barely registered. Her voice was a low hum in my ears, distant and muffled—like I was underwater, trying to breathe.

  All I could think about was Okami’s face.

  That look.

  Fury so tightly leashed it felt like it might snap and take the entire mess hall with it.

  I kept waiting for the floor to drop out from under me.

  The mess hall emptied slowly, the thunder of applause long faded, replaced with footsteps and hushed murmurs. The weight of what had just happened didn’t lessen with the noise. If anything, the silence made it worse.

  Mei and Kira stuck by me, anchoring me with their presence, but even their support couldn’t mask the feeling that I had just been turned into something… symbolic. Not a cadet. Not a healer. Just a piece of Landeskog’s power play.

  And Okami would not take that lightly.

  By the time I got back to the dorm, my entire body felt tight with unease.

  The second I walked in, Willow launched into an animated retelling of the announcement for our other roommates. Kira offered to braid my hair. Mei suggested a strategy study session to calm our nerves.

  I couldn’t stay.

  I changed into my training gear without a word, my hands moving on autopilot, and grabbed my bag.

  “I’m heading to the library,” I said. A lie. But a convenient one. The kind no one questions.

  They nodded and waved, too caught up in the whirlwind of the evening to pry.

  But I didn’t head toward the library.

  I went to the place I knew I’d be found.

  Our place.

  The one Okami had chosen for us to train in secret.

  As I walked, every step tightened the knot in my stomach.

  Part of me thought about not going. Letting him cool off. Letting myself breathe.

  But I knew better.

  If I didn’t show, he’d come looking.

  And a storm like the one brewing in his eyes tonight? I wasn’t about to let it catch me off guard.

  I reached the darkened corridor that led to the abandoned wing. The only light came from the moon cutting through the cracked windows, casting long, fractured shadows across the floor.

  I paused at the door. Rested my hand against the wood.

  Then exhaled—and pushed it open.

  The cool evening air kissed my skin, but it couldn’t compete with the heat curling beneath it—anxious, electric. I was still stretching when it happened.

  No footsteps. No warning.

  Arms locked around me from behind, sharp and unrelenting.

  Instinct roared to life. I twisted hard, dropped my weight, and drove my elbow back toward the ribs I hoped were his.

  He caught it.

  Spun me.

  And I came face to face with Okami.

  His expression was unreadable—cool, controlled—but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. Whatever this was tonight, it wasn’t just training. It was punishment. Or preparation. Maybe both.

  He struck first.

  I blocked.

  Barely.

  Then he came again, faster, harder. I matched his movements with a desperation that surprised even me, meeting every blow with teeth-gritted precision. We moved like shadows—silent, vicious, breathless. No words, no hesitation. Just the clash of bodies and intent.

  I hit him once.

  He hit me twice.

  And then I was on the ground—flat on my back, limbs pinned above my head, his body straddling mine in one fluid, brutal movement. The air left my lungs in a sharp exhale, stolen as much by the impact as by the closeness.

  His grip didn’t loosen.

  His eyes didn’t look away.

  For one long second, the fight stopped—but the war didn’t. Not between us. Not inside me.

  His breathing was shallow. Controlled. Rage flickered beneath it.

  The silence stretched taut.

  “Tell me,” he growled, voice low and taut with fury, his eyes locked onto mine like a loaded weapon.