STRINGS BETWEEN US

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN: OF CODED FLAGS, TRIGGERED TRAPS, AND THE GIRL WHO THOUGHT

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN: OF CODED FLAGS, TRIGGERED TRAPS, AND THE GIRL WHO THOUGHT SHE RULED THE FIRE

Xythe's POV

Ardent Court Private Channel — Encrypted Line | 01:04 A.M.

"Tofer, what's our pulse?"

"Red—flagged. Codewave's running."

Tofer's voice came first—always calm, always surgical. If the Court had a heartbeat, it was his typing. If it had fangs, it was whatever program he was deploying in the background.

"System hooks have latched onto Sovereign's internal net. Within forty-eight hours, Bianchi's top aides will trigger all three planted anomalies. They'll be caught with unauthorized files, fabricated comms, and illegal access to private seals."

"Perfect," Lyle said quietly from his feed, voice like cold glass. "Let them believe it was sloppy protocol. Let her think she got too ambitious. The second she defends them, we force her into contradiction."

I didn't speak yet.

I just watched. The data pulses. The security sweeps. The slow, quiet collapse of a council that had mistaken fire for power.

Saichel flopped onto his chair, balancing a fork on his nose like we weren't dismantling a government in real time.

"So," he said with mock innocence, "if her vice secretary gets caught with tampered records at precisely 3:04 p.m. tomorrow... do I get to be the one who flips the reaction cam?"

"You flipped the last two," Tofer deadpanned. "Also, don't touch the cam feed. You left it in fisheye mode."

"It adds flair."

"It adds distortion."

"Flair is distortion. Poetic distortion."

"Saichel." Keryn cut in, no-nonsense as ever. "Focus. We're protecting Ari, not filming a reality show."

"Ari's fine," Alexie muttered. "But Bianchi's not going to stop with whispers anymore. She's pushing."

She was right. Bianchi's retaliation hadn't come with sirens. It had come quietly. Through coded phrases in council meetings. Through slow poison slipped into policy drafts. Through side-eyes and shadow threats that never came with signatures.

And yet... she was slipping.

The flags we'd buried into Sovereign Court's faculty cloud were already blinking red.

Every click Bianchi's staff made echoed through Tofer's monitor like sonar. Every step they took—logged. Mapped. Counted.

I leaned back in my chair, flipping a dagger between my fingers. There was a time I respected her. Not liked. Not admired.

Respected.

She'd been sharp. Cold. Surgical with her manipulation. She knew how to survive in a council of wolves.

I once underestimated that. And I paid for it.

She nearly turned the school against Ari once. Almost convinced the world that the Ice President had snapped from power. Almost buried our name in the ashes.

Almost.

But almost doesn't win wars. And this time—we weren't countering.

We were baiting.

"Anything new on the Ice President?" I asked, eyes narrowing.

There was a pause. Then Lyle responded.

"He's watching."

That was all he said. But that was enough.

I could imagine it clearly: Khaizer seated somewhere above us all, probably in the highest floor of Sovereign Court, watching the school he once commanded rot under Bianchi's shadow.

Waiting.

Watching.

Choosing the moment he'd strike.

I didn't envy Bianchi. Not now. Not with Khaizer almost back on the board. He wasn't the type to come back loud. He'd come back calculated. He'd come back... with a plan already moving.

My tablet buzzed. Tofer's feed lit up with a signal code.

"Trigger A pinged," he said. "Vice Secretary just downloaded a file labeled 'Updated Festival Budget.' It's one of ours."

"Clock started," Seb said from the edge of the feed.

"Forty-eight hours," I repeated, slowly.

Then I tapped once on the screen, sealing the encrypted channel.

Let it burn.

Imperium Wing – Vice President's Office | 02:36 A.M.

Bianchi's POV

The room was dark.

Not power outage dark—intentional dark. Like the system itself had gone silent out of respect. I stood in front of the console, back straight, jaw locked, watching as the logs scrolled endlessly.

Forum corruption.Database breaches.

My name—my name—pinned to violations I never touched.

Files I never opened. Reports I never authorized.

But someone had placed me at the center of it all.

Xythe. Saichel.

The mafia chaos duo who'd turned this entire institution into a playground. And yet... it didn't feel like they were leading the charge.

It felt like they were distractions. Strategically placed noise to mask something else. Something—or someone—bigger.

Dylan.

He still wasn't back. No official announcement. No parade. No storming return. But every step they made... every digital signature, every council glitch, every rerouted file—it reeked of him.

I felt his hand in it.

Like he was watching. Waiting.

Not out of hesitation—but calculation.

And for the first time since I took control of the High Chamber, I didn't know what came next.

I leaned against the cold metal table, my hands trembling slightly as I opened the last corrupted report. Redacted headers. Traced edits.

The Court was moving. And I was not three steps ahead.

I hated that more than anything. I wasn't cracked.

Not yet.

But there was a pressure building beneath my ribs—a slow suffocation that came not from failure... but from silence.

His silence.

Because the moment he walks back into this school...

All of this ends. My leverage. My rules.  My control.

I stared at the screen—blinking cursor daring me to make my next move.

But I didn't. Instead, I closed the terminal.

Stepped away.

Took one long breath.

"I'll lie low."

I said it out loud. Just once. To the shadows.

To remind myself that this was strategy—not surrender.

"Let them think I've backed down."

"Let them have their victory lap."

But I was still here.

Still watching.

Still waiting.

Because the moment he returns?

I won't strike first.

But I will be ready.