Page 66 of Angel Lost

I swallow hard and follow the others in, my eyes fixed on the elegant tile floor. I barely register the instruction to sit, only moving when the others do. The chairs are small, intentionally dwarfed by the towering glass desk veined with silver.

Dean Emrick watches from a high-backed Gothic chair so grand it could belong to the king. Behind him, bookshelves stretch across the wall, crammed with ancient leather-bound tomes alongside sleek modern volumes. A candelabra flickers, casting blood red light across his sharp features.

All new. The furniture. The security. And I know who paid for it. But no soldiers lurk in the corners. No P.I.G.

I force my shoulders to relax.

“Miss Bal, certain matters have been brought to my attention,” he says, his voice smooth but heavy.

I open my mouth to argue but the words freeze in my throat. My whole allegiance has been summoned.Why?

My heart slams against my ribs. The Angel King. He knows. Farrell’s father must have broken, told him something—enough to connect us to the rebellion. We're screwed. No amount of knives of potions will save us from the king.

A soft flap of wings announces a hada’s arrival, dragging me from my spiraling thoughts. The tiny fairy dips into a bow in midair. “Pardon the interruption, Dean Emrick, but a secure call has come through from the royal court.” The hada’s voice drops slightly. “They insist you take it immediately.”

A wave of cold rushes through me.

A call. Now?

The dean exhales sharply, already rising. “Stay put,” he orders, straightening his robes before sweeping toward the door. It slams shut behind him.

The moment he’s gone, I turn to Farrell, my voice barely above a whisper. “Your father. He must have told him.”

Farrell’s head tilts slightly, his brows knitting. “Told who?”

I swallow hard. “The Angel King.”

Stillness. A heartbeat of it. Then his pupils contract to razor-thin slits of gold. “Explain.”

The single word is low, dangerous.

I force my voice to stay steady. “The Angel King moved your father to the royal prison.”

Farrell doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. Then, a puff of smoke curls from each nostril, the scent of char thickening in the air. When he speaks, his voice is sharp as a blade. “How long have you known?”

I hesitate. A moment too long.

Fire flashes in his eyes. “Lorelei.”

“Since my aether trial,” I admit.

His breath hisses out. A small sound, but it might as well be a bellow. “Since your trial?” His voice rises, smoke curling faster, hotter. “You knew my father was in that bastard’s hands and didn’t warn me? Warn the rebellion?”

Heat rolls off him in waves, his face hardens, morphs, and suddenly the dean's summons isn't the most intimidating thing I'm facing.

The door swings open, and Dean Emrick strides back in, his expression carved from stone. His gaze sweeps over us, lingering on Farrell—on the faint embers still glowing behind his slit-pupiled eyes—before settling on me.

My stomach twists.

Chano tenses beside me, his fingers tapping against his chair in a slow, deliberate rhythm. Zephyr’s usual glow strains a little brighter, a little whiter. Farrell doesn’t move at all, but the air around him is still heavy with residual heat.

The dean’s hands clasp behind his back. “You’ve had a poor start to the year, Miss Bal.”

The tension in my chest snaps. That’s it? Not execution orders? No king’s guard? Just a poor start?

I let out the breath that was strangling me. Zephyr exhales too, his glow dimming just slightly, and Chano rolls his shoulders. But Farrell stays rigid, his jaw tight.

“I know,” I say quickly. “I’m sorry. My Aeternum’s little sister—”

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