Chapter 22 Registered
The registration document is three pages long and written in the specific language of something that was drafted several centuries ago by someone who wanted it to be unambiguous, which means every sentence is approximately forty words and says the same thing four different ways.
I read every word of it.
Rhydan reads every word of it.
Corvyn sits quietly on the other side of the desk and lets us read without interrupting, which I appreciate, and the fire burns down slightly and she adds a log without getting up, which is its own interesting piece of information about what she is supernaturally, and I note it away for later.
"This clause here," I say, pointing. "It says the registered bond supersedes academic house classification for both parties."
"Ember House," Corvyn says. "Your classification changes upon registration."
"To what?" I ask.
"Tamer Bond classification," she says. "Northveil has its own designation for it. You would still attend your current classes but your administrative classification changes, which affects certain privileges and protections."
"What about mine?" Rhydan asks.
"Yours remains Pack designation," Corvyn says. "But with the registered bond notation attached, which limits what pack authority can do within academy jurisdiction."
He nods.
I pick up the pen from the desk.
Look at the signature line.
Look at Rhydan.
He's already looking at me, and the look is the honest unguarded one, not performed, not controlled, just Rhydan without the layers he usually keeps carefully in place, and it's the look that I'm starting to understand is the real version of him, the one that exists underneath the hockey captain and the pack heir and the boy from the coffee shop.
"You don't have to like it," I tell him. "You just have to sign it."
Something moves in his expression. "I know," he says.
"And it doesn't change," I say carefully, "what you said in the coffee shop. Or the fact that I haven't forgotten it. Or the fact that we're not..." I stop. "It doesn't change things between us personally. It's a supernatural protection measure."
He looks at me for a long moment.
"I know," he says again, quieter.
"Good," I say. "Just so we're clear..."
"We're clear," he replies.
I sign the document.
He signs beside me.
Corvyn countersigns at the bottom and presses the academy seal into the wax and it's done, quietly and completely, and the room feels different after, the same way the forest felt different after my hand on his arm, like something shifted into a new position and has no intention of shifting back.
"I'll file this today," Corvyn says. "The Elder will be notified through official channels within forty-eight hours, as the founding charter requires."
"He's going to know we moved against him," Rhydan says.
"Yes," Corvyn says simply.
"And he'll react," Rhydan adds.
"Yes," she says again. "He will."
We leave the office and take the stairs down and emerge into the main corridor and it's mid-afternoon now, the academy busy with Sunday life around us, students everywhere, none of them knowing anything has changed.
We stop in the corridor.
Stand there.
"Cassian is going to have questions," Rhydan says.
"Petra is going to have more questions than Cassian," I reply.
Something almost-arrives in his expression. "Probably," he agrees.
We're quiet for a moment.
"Your father," I say carefully. "When this comes out, because it will come out, he's going to have to deal with it too."
"I thought about that too," Rhydan replies.
"Are you okay?" I ask.
He looks at me like I've said something in a language he doesn't usually hear directed at him.
"No," he says, and it comes out honest and plain.
"Okay," I say. "That's fair."
"Are you?" he asks.
I think about my mother. Nineteen years old, running from this school, carrying a bond that never got to finish, and somewhere out there right now knowing I'm here and waiting for me to be ready to find her.
"No," I reply.
"Okay," he says. "That's fair."
We stand in the corridor for a moment longer and the afternoon light comes through the windows at a low angle and somewhere outside someone is on the ice, the distant familiar sound of skating carrying through the walls.
"Rhydan," I say.
"What?"
"You're going to have to be less cold with me now," I say. "For appearances if nothing else. People will find it strange if bonded individuals are visibly hostile."
He looks at me with a flat expression. "I'm not cold with you."
I stare at him.
"I'm reserved," he says.
"Reserved," I repeat.
"There's a distinction," he says.
"There genuinely isn't," I tell him.
The almost-expression gets very close to arriving.
"I'll work on it," he says.
"Appreciated," I reply.
We go our separate ways down the corridor, and I'm almost at the Ember wing when my hand burns, sharp and sudden, and I stop and look at it and look back down the corridor where Rhydan just disappeared around the corner.
Still warm.
Getting warmer.
Stage two, the archive said, is when the abilities begin communicating without conscious direction.
I flex my fingers slowly.
"Okay," I say quietly, to nobody, to my hand, to whatever is waking up in me that has decided Rhydan Valecrest is its reference point.
"We're doing this then."