“Wow. Isn’t this a little big for a dorm room?”

Aidon’s hand flies up to his hair, and he turns to look out the peaked, ceiling-height window.

“Is it? My memories of university are hazy.”

“It’s not a dorm,” pipes up Syn from behind us, setting some of my luggage up against the wall. “It’s the old dean’s quarters, from before they did renovations.”

“Damnit, Syn,” grumbles Aidon. But the Synthe just shrugs.

“She’d have figured it out as soon as she saw one of the actual dorms,” he says.

“Yes, but not while I’m around to answer for it.”

I frown. “I’m just worried the other students will resent me for all this special treatment.”

Syntrofos comes up to stand beside me. “They’ll expect it, Kore. You’re a queen.”

“Besides,” says Aidon. “They won’t resent it so much when you share the spoils. Your friends will be able to enjoy this place with you. You could throw a party or something.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “My friends?”

He swoops in to kiss the top of my head. “It’s only a matter of time.”

Then he lets out a small huff of air as I throw my arms about his waist and bury my face against his chest, breathing deep of his mint and mountain scent and wishing I could bottle it.

“I’m going to miss you,” I say, my words muffled but still intelligible.

“Even though you’ll see me almost every week?”

I nod against him, squeezing tighter. “Hey,” I say, tilting my head to look up at him. “Leave me something that smells like you?”

He looks thoughtful for a moment before unclasping his cloak and shrugging out of his overcoat and tunic to peel off the thin black shirt he wears beneath it all.

“Hecate will be interested to hear you demanded the very shirt off my back before you’d let me go,” he jokes, handing it over. “You’d better watch out.”

~*~

For a little while after my husband leaves, I feel strangely hollow. I sit on the velvet chaise lounge in front of the main window and just stare out of it, petting Pompom as she snuggles into my lap.

Though it’s got nothing on my new palace home, the room is so much more than I expected. High-ceilinged, with a narrow loft at the outward-facing end that’s lined with bookshelves and opens onto a balcony. I also have a full bathroom to myself, and even a miniature kitchen and bar. The bed is four-posted, circled in heavy curtains of old, bluish-black brocade. Something to block out the perpetual neon glow of Styx and her namesake city.

There’s an old-fashioned feel to the space that’s quickly growing on me. Some of the furniture is even made of actual wood.

Syn busies himself with unpacking my things even though I told him I’d get around to it myself at some point. Overkill sits on a nearby chair, looking hilariously oversized and staring blankly at a wall.

“Um,” I hedge, eyeing the new Synthe. “Is he alright, do you think?”

“Oh, he’s fine,” calls Syn. “He’s just catching up on some reading. Or maybe some viewing. Not sure what he’s on, right now.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” says Syn, finishing up in the closet and trotting out to where he can see both of us. “He’s got one of those basic starter personalities for now. But it’s adaptive and develops over time, so I’ve given him a kick-start by introducing him to some of my favorite material—since I’ll be spending so much time around him—and all of yours.”

“Oh.” I say again, looking back over at my new guardian. “What, um...what kinds of materials, specifically?”

“Oh, you know. Old Earth classics. A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Some Sherlock Holmes. Pride and Prejudice. Terminator 2: Judgement Day.” He waves a hand dismissively.

“I see.” I raise an eyebrow, twisting my lips as I regard the zoned-out Synthe. “That sounds like it should be pretty, um...interesting.”

“Yes, I think so. In any case, we should head down to the amphitheater for the opening ceremonies in a few minutes.”

“Right.” I trot over to the bathroom to frown at myself in the mirror and smooth my hair before deciding I’m presentable enough. Then I take a deep, shaky breath. “Let’s go.”

~*~

At Syn’s insistance, Overkill accompanies us to the assembly in his full form—drawing every pair of eyes within range. A few of the others have small Guardians, but there’s not another Companion like mine in sight.

I try not to focus on all the attention, instead directing mine outward to the school itself. My new home-away-from-home. There’s an air to the entire campus of being out of place in time. But it wouldn’t fit in any of the periods or places of old earth it echoes, either. It’s a mixture of nineteenth century Sikh and a handful of European architectural styles ranging from medieval to Victorian that shouldn’t work, but do.

Most of the buildings seem to be carved of stone in varying shades of gray. About a third of the windows are stained plexiglass, their elaborate panes and iridescent colors depicting Old World scenery and the Daimon. Parts of it remind me of Aidon’s caldera home. The courtyards, pathways, and stone gardens between buildings are shielded from the harshest winds by panels and rooftops of force-field grids—as is the amphitheater Syn leads us to.

With a silent Overkill to one side of me and Syn to the other, I feel almost entirely cut off from the other students. For the third or fourth time, I catch myself wondering just how long that feeling might last. Maybe people will be too intimidated to talk to me.

Or maybe they just won’t like me.

I lean against Syn, worrying at my lip with a fang as the seats fill up. At least I have my artificial friends.

As the last of the students arrive, a curvaceous figure with pale skin and an abundance of coppery locks strides out into the center of the amphitheater stage. Her cloak—made in the same ashy tones as her dress—drags behind her. As she comes to a sweeping halt, a small Synthe with a fluttering golden form flits out to hover in front of her face, amplifying her voice.

“Good evening! For those of you who don’t know me yet, I am Cyrisa Hestia, your dean. And on behalf of all the faculty of the University of Styx, I welcome you back! To our newcomers—welcome home.” She pauses, her smile radiating a brilliant warmth that’s striking against her backdrop of icy stone. “Without further ado, let us proceed to the matter I’m sure you’re all most eager to address: fraternity assignment! Presidents, please gather.”

While a handful of students rise from the ring of seats nearest the center to join her, Dean Hestia goes on.

“Your fraternity is your family for the duration of your five years here at university. Your successes are their successes, and it is they to whom you’ll turn in times of difficulty. When you win a duel, the points you gain are granted to your fraternity as well yourself individually. It’s these points which determine the order of choosing when it comes to new fraternity members, though their choices may be challenged. And so it is this year that Fraternity Orchidéa chooses first.” She steps back and clasps her hands behind her back, inclining her head to one of the five presidents standing behind her.

Focusing on the strawberry-blonde Variant for the first time, my heart constricts as recognition hits.

It’s Minthe, Aidon’s old “friend” from our wedding.

The hovering Synthe darts forward to amplify her voice now, and her acid-green eyes go straight to me.

“We claim the queen, Kore Demeter Hades.”

Immediately, one of the other presidents strides forward, and the Synthe flits to him. Though he’s tall, he hunches just a bit—but there’s a fluid power to the way he moves, his body all lean muscle. His golden eyes seem to glow against the darkness of his skin, and there are coiling patterns shaved into the sides of his close-cropped hair.

“Fraternity Lýkos challenges that claim,” he says.

Dean Hestia looks around at the other fraternity presidents.

“Anyone else?”

None of them moves or says a word, so she turns back to addressing a bristling Minthe and the Lýkos president—baring his fangs in a big, insolent smile.

Minthe snarls something at the other Variant. The force fields don’t entirely block out the roar of the wind, and I’m far back in the rows, so I can only catch a few words, like “how dare” and “ranking.” But then the dean calls for them to take their positions, and they move to opposite ends of the sunken stage while the other presidents retreat.

The hovering Synthe returns to magnify Dean Hestia’s voice again as she lifts one hand in the air, three fingers raised. “A dual is declared between Minthe Kytos, President of Orchidéa and Phoebus Tiber, President of Lýkos. The winner claims Queen Kore Demeter Hades for membership in their own fraternity.” Her gaze travels from the seated students to flick between the ones to either side of her.

“You know the rules.” She inhales slowly, lets out her breath.

“Three.” Now she’s only holding up two fingers.

“Two.” She folds another be-ringed digit to her palm.

“One.” Her hand drops to her side.

Minthe and Phoebus are in motion before the final word’s even crossed her lips. The former brings her forearms up to cross x-like in front of her as the layer of ice coating the stone cracks and comes apart. Translucent shards fly up to hover like wings of shattered glass to either side of her. Then she throws her arms outward before her, hands coming together, and the shards come together too—surging straight for Phoebus as he hurtles through the air in her direction.

Faint electricity crackles around his body as his form warps, and he lurches sideways just in time. Oh great, another Zeus variant. The bolt of ice skims his arm, and blood wells bright and fresh to streak down his sleeve, but his smirk only grows wider. Most of him is growing, actually. His nose and mouth propels outward into a muzzle, his teeth extending and sharpening until he’s got an entire mouth full of fangs—reminding me of some horrible shark-wolf hybrid. His arms lengthen, and he drops to all fours...streaking straight for Minthe once again.

But she’s drawn more ice to herself already, and she’s prepared. Some of it hovers like a threatening halo behind her, while more of it comes forward to meld together into a shield.

I slide forward to the edge of my seat, hands twisting in my skirts as one of my fangs digs into my lower lip enough to draw blood.

His strength must lie in his shape-shifting if he’s relying on that alone so early on.

At first a blur of light and darkness, the lightning-like crackles of energy begin to fizzle out as he slows. His muscles coil, readying himself as if to leap directly over Minthe’s floating shield. But he shifts his weight to his lower body at the last moment instead, tilting backwards and sliding under the ice shield just as it darts upward to intercept him. More bolts of ice glance off his toughened skin, leaving shallow scarlet streaks but little else. Minthe hisses.

And then they collide.