Ronan doesn't look back to see if I'm following.
He just walks, long strides eating the corridor, shoulders set like he's decided something and the rest of the estate can negotiate with that decision later.
I have to move fast to keep up.
"You just walked away from a scheduled evaluation," I say. "Is that… allowed?"
"No."
"Then why—"
"Because Political Sector doesn't get you first." His tone is flat. "Cassian already broke order. I'm not letting Lysander correct it in his favor."
So it's a fight.Of course it's a fight.
"And the part where I almost had a panic attack in the hallway?" I ask. "That part help your strategy?"
He glances sideways. "You were already shaking before we started arguing."
He's not wrong.
We cut through a junction where two guards stand, facing forward, motionless. Their eyes flicker when they see Ronan, then drop again.
He doesn't acknowledge them.
"Do you just get to walk wherever you want?" I ask.
"Mostly."
"Because you're a Blackwell?"
"Because I know where they don't want me," he says. "So I go everywhere else."
He takes a left where I expect a right, down a narrow service corridor that smells like dust and cold metal. Pipes run overhead, humming softly. No cameras that I can see, but that doesn't mean anything; they could be hidden.
"Thought you said we're going somewhere without surveillance," I mutter.
"We are. We're on the way."
He doesn't explain. I don't push.
We pass an unmarked door. Another. A third with a reinforced frame and no handle. Ronan doesn't look at any of them. His attention stays ahead.
"Lysander's going to report what you did," I say.
"Yes."
"He said the Council would sanction you."
"They might."
"You sound like you don't care."
He finally stops.
Just like that, abrupt enough I almost crash into him. He turns to face me fully for the first time since the hallway clash.
Up close, his eyes are darker than I thought. Not black, not exactly, but deep enough that the pupils disappear in the gloom.
"It's not that I don't care," he says. "It's that I don't accept their version of consequences."
I frown. "What does that even mean?"
"It means they've already decided how this ends. I'm not pretending I didn't hear it."
I search his face. "Hear what?"
He doesn't answer. He just turns again, pushes open a plain door I hadn't noticed, and gestures inside.
The room beyond is… disappointing.
Small. Rectangular. No windows. Bare stone walls. A single table and two chairs. No fancy wood, no ornate trim. Just emptiness.
"This looks very monitored," I say.
"It's not."
"How do you know?"
He steps in and taps one knuckle against the corner where wall meets ceiling. "Because Blackwell wired this estate before the Council got ambitious with their toys. There are gaps they don't know about. We keep them that way."
"We?" I echo.
He looks at me. "My family. Cassian. Me. People who don't trust the Council with total information."
"So… criminals," I say. It comes out more tired than sharp.
"If that helps you categorize us," he says.
He closes the door behind us. The sound is soft, but it cuts the outside noise clean off.
For the first time since I arrived, I don't feel eyes on the back of my neck.
It's almost worse.
Ronan pulls one chair out with his boot and nods at it. "Sit."
I hesitate. "You're very good at ordering people around."
"That's how things stay alive in my world." He takes the other chair. "Sit, Seraphina."
I do.
He clasps his hands loosely on the table. His fingers are scarred, knuckles rough. There's a faint burn mark near his wrist, pale against his skin, like a ring of heat once wrapped there.
"What is this?" I ask. "Interrogation? Counseling? You're not exactly radiating therapist energy."
He huffs out something that might be a laugh, then isn't. "This is information. Before they get to give you their version."
"Of what?"
"Why Cassian saying your name in that report changed your life."
My chest tightens.
"He said my name," I repeat, like I didn't hear it clearly in the chamber. "That's all."
Ronan looks at me like I just told him gravity is a rumor.
"In Enforcement language," he says, "naming is prioritizing."
"You're going to have to translate that into something I understand."
"Cassian handles breaches," Ronan says. "Most of them are numbers. 'Subject attempted to flee.' 'Asset compromised.' 'Contract obstructed.' It's all abstract until the Council gets bored enough to ask for details."
"And this time?"
"This time," he says slowly, "he attached a name. Yours. Voluntarily. In a situation that didn't require it."
"He told them I had nothing to do with it," I say.
"He told them you were relevant to it," Ronan corrects. "That's what they heard."
I swallow. "Relevant how?"
"That's what today is about," he says. "They're going to build a story to answer that."
"And you?" I ask. "What do you think?"
He leans back slightly. The chair creaks. "I think Cassian started choosing sides when he should have stayed neutral."
"You're supposed to be neutral?"
"We're supposed to be functioning parts of a machine," he says. "Not people."
The way he says it makes something cold knot in my gut.
"So him giving his name to me wasn't… normal," I say.
"No," Ronan replies. "It was a declaration. Even if he didn't mean it that way."
"A declaration of what?" My voice comes out thinner than I want.
"That you're under his protection," Ronan says. "And people like Lysander are going to treat that as an attack."
I let that sit.
"Is that why you interfered?" I ask. "Because you don't like Lysander? Or because you don't like Cassian picking me?"
He doesn't speak for a moment.
"I interfered because Political Sector rooms are designed to break people," he says finally. "Gradually. Quietly. So they don't notice until they've already agreed to something they can't get out of."
"And Enforcement rooms?" I press.
"Enforcement rooms don't pretend," he says. "You walk in, you know you're bleeding on the floor before you walk out."
The bluntness makes me flinch.
Ronan watches it, but his expression doesn't change.
"You think that's better?" I ask.
"For me? Yes. For you…" He exhales through his nose. "I don't know yet."
"That's not comforting."
"I'm not here to comfort you," he says. "I'm here to make sure you don't go into the one place that will map your weaknesses for Lysander's benefit."
My mind snags on something.
"How do you know so much about Political rooms?" I ask. "You said you avoid the Selection."
"I avoid being used," he says.
"That's not an answer."
He studies me for a long moment, deciding whether I deserve more.
"I spent a year in their hands," he says finally. "As a case study."
My breath catches. "Why?"
"Because the Council wanted to know if Blackwell blood could be… redirected," he says. "If loyalty could be reprogrammed with enough subtle pressure."
My stomach twists. "Could it?"
"You tell me," he says. "I'm sitting in a Blackwell blind spot, shutting down their protocol, and telling you more than I should."
So no.They failed.
I blow out a shaky breath. "You're making enemies for me."
He snorts. "You had enemies the second they stamped your name on a summons."
"That's not what I mean," I say. "Lysander. Cassian. Whoever else thinks I'm—" I break off. "What am I to you? To them?"
Ronan's gaze sharpens. "Collateral. And a variable."
"Great."
"Your father made you collateral," he says. "You make yourself the variable. That's the only leverage you get."
"And you?" I ask. "Where do you stand in that equation?"
He hesitates.
It's a small thing. A blink too long. A breath too slow.
"I'm trying," he says, "to make sure you survive long enough to decide if you even want leverage."
"That sounds almost… considerate."
"Don't romanticize it," he says. "This helps me, too."
"How?"
"Because," he says, "if you get broken down in Political hands, you're easier to bind where they want you. And I don't want you bound where they want you."
"Where do they want me?" I whisper.
"Anywhere Cassian isn't," he says.
The words land heavy.
"Lysander mentioned jealousy," I say.
"Lysander weaponizes whatever lies close to the surface," Ronan replies. "If Cassian starts caring about something he shouldn't—someone he shouldn't—Lysander will touch that nerve until it becomes a problem worth voting on."
"Voting on?" I repeat.
Ronan's jaw works. "Ignore that."
"No," I say. "Explain it."
He stares at me. "You are not ready for how many ways they can carve you up on paper alone."
"I'm already here," I snap. "I'm already… owned. How much worse can knowing make it?"
"Much," he says. "Information is a weapon. They count on you being ignorant so when they wield it, you won't see the blade until it's in you."
I go quiet.
He watches me. "If you want comforting lies, this isn't the Council for you."
I don't know what that means, but the tone is clear enough.
"So what now?" I ask. "We wait here until they send guards to drag me out?"
"They won't," he says.
"How can you be sure?"
"Because Lysander wants to argue process before they escalate," Ronan says. "He'll make his move on paper first. I'm moving on ground."
I rub my hands together under the table, trying to stop the trembling. It doesn't work.
Ronan's eyes drop to the movement.
"You're allowed to be scared," he says. "You just can't afford to freeze."
"What's the difference?"
"Fear slows you," he says. "Freeze stops you. They only win when you stop."
"And you?" I ask. "When do you win?"
He's quiet for a long time.
"I don't," he says. "Best I get is losing slower."
It's too honest. It makes my throat burn.
A knock sounds, sharp against the door.
I jolt.
Ronan's head snaps toward the sound. His entire body goes still.
"Who is it?" he calls.
A muffled voice answers. Female. Clipped. "Mara."
He stands, moves to the door, presses his palm flat against the wood like he can feel through it.
"How did you find this room?" he asks.
"I didn't," she says. "They told me where you were."
He swears under his breath—quiet, vicious.
"So much for blind spots," I mutter.
"It's still blind to their cameras," Ronan says. "But not to their people."
He opens the door a crack.
Mara stands there, face drawn tight.
"You have to move her," she whispers. "Now."
"Where?" Ronan asks.
"Anywhere visible," she says. "They just changed her rotation. If she's missing, they'll treat it as a second breach."
My heart slams into my ribs. "Second—"
Mara cuts me off with a look. "You don't want them to use that word in connection with you."
"What did they change?" Ronan demands.
"Lysander filed an objection to Enforcement interference," she says. "The Council approved Political oversight with… shared observation."
Ronan's eyes narrow. "Shared with who?"
"Corporate," she says. "And Security."
Corporate. Security.
Two sectors I haven't faced yet. Two heirs whose names I still don't know.
"They're setting up a combined room," Mara rushes on. "Three sectors, one collateral. If you don't walk her into that hall willingly, they'll drag both of you."
Ronan exhales once, slow, then shuts the door again.
"This is bad," I say.
"This is the Council," he replies. "They don't like being denied their first choice. When that happens, they overcompensate."
"What happens in a combined room?" I ask.
He looks at me. "Nothing gentle."
"Can you stop it?"
"No."
He doesn't offer comfort. He doesn't lie.
He just offers his hand.
Not like a romantic gesture, not like a prince.
Palm up. Practical. Steady.
"Stand up," he says. "If we go on our feet, we walk in instead of being dragged in."
My legs tremble when I rise.
I don't take his hand.
I want to.I don't.
His fingers curl back without offense.
He opens the door for me.
Mara waits in the hall, anxiety written all over her face. "They expect you in five minutes," she says. "Ronan, you can't be in there."
"I know," he says.
"Then why are you—"
He looks at me instead of her. "Because if they're putting three sectors in one room with you, Cassian won't be the only problem."
My mouth goes dry. "Who else?"
"Corporate will want numbers," he says. "Security will want control. Political will want something to exploit. That's three different angles. You need someone who knows where their lines are."
Mara stares at him. "You're going to get yourself removed from the Selection entirely."
He shrugs, as if that doesn't matter. "Maybe that's what I want."
Her eyes flick to me, then back to him.
"Don't lie," she whispers. "Not to yourself, and not in front of her."
He doesn't respond.
He just nods down the hall.
"Time's up," he says. "Walk."
I do.
Because the Council adjusted the game again.Because my refusal in the hallway didn't save me—it doubled the pressure.Because three sectors in one room is not evaluation.
It's a test to see how fast I crack.
And for reasons I don't understand yet, Ronan Blackwell decided he's not going to watch that from a distance.