Page 134 of Kingmakers, Year Three

I don’t know exactly why they’re “escorting” me here, but I can guess what the topic of conversation will be.

Brenner uses a keycard to unlock the door—the only doors at Kingmakers that are electronically sealed, impervious to the students’ lockpicking techniques.

The other groundskeeper shoves me through the doorway.

“Keep your fucking hands off me, or I’ll break your arm,” I snarl. “I can walk on my own, unlike you who barely looks like you can blink and breathe at the same time.”

The groundskeeper clenches his fist, taking a menacing step toward me. Brenner clears his throat, reminding him that, for the present at least, their orders are to transport and not attack me.

The Prison Tower has a squat and ugly shape, the interior damp and cold from the thick stone walls and lack of windows. I can hear water dripping somewhere in an irregular, maddening rhythm. The low ceiling of this bottom floor makes me feel cramped and claustrophobic—I could reach up and touch it without stretching.

“This way,” Brenner says quietly.

He leads me through a weathered wooden door.

On the other side, as I knew he would be, the Chancellor waits.

And worse, much worse—this time he’s accompanied by Professor Penmark.

Lola Fischer stands off to the side, looking simultaneously eager and slightly nauseated. She shifts from foot to foot, fiddling with a lock of her long, wavy hair.

The room is empty of furniture—no tables or chairs, no rug on the floor. The walls are bare stone without any windows. Yet I notice the presence of several metal hooks and rings, bolted to the walls and draped from the low ceiling. The shackles hang in the still air like a hangman’s noose.

The door closes behind me, Brenner remaining in the room with us, the other groundskeepers staying outside.

I stand before my three accusers. Taking a slow breath to calm my heart, I tuck my hands in my trousers so no one will see them shaking.

“Dean Yenin,” the Chancellor says, in his low, gravelly voice. “Do you know why you’re here?”

This is the oldest trick in the world, used by every traffic cop in existence when they pull someone over.

You should never guess at your own misconduct.

“No,” I say mildly. “I have no idea.”

I refuse to look at Lola, or Penmark, either. I keep my gaze fixed steadily on the Chancellor, his eyes glinting like sunken treasure in the wrinkled coral of his face.

“You’ve been accused of a very serious infraction,” the Chancellor says, quietly. “Or more accurately, yourinamoratahas been accused. You have a right to face your informer.”

He nods toward Lola.

I don’t give her the satisfaction of a single glance. She’s nothing to me. No matter how hard she tantrums for attention.

My only concern is discerning what Lola knows, and what she’s told the Chancellor.

The Chancellor waits, the silence thick and cold as fog.

I keep my mouth shut.

He who speaks first, loses.

“Cat Romero killed Rocco Prince,” the Chancellor declares.

Oh, fuck.

I stand perfectly still, hands in pockets, face expressionless. He won’t get so much as a flick of an eyelash out of me.

“Lola Fischer says you witnessed the murder,” the Chancellor says. “She says you’ve been using that information to blackmail Cat Romero for almost a year.”

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