The bus reeks of industrial-grade air freshener and over-sugared coffee, which is exactly how I know I’ve made a terrible decision agreeing to this field trip.

Even worse?

I’m already seated when Cassie Fairborn climbs aboard like she owns the goddamn sky. Hair immaculate. Skirt crisp. Eyeliner winged sharp enough to slit a throat. She doesn’t even scan the rows—just glides past three empty ones and the desperate stares of half the football team.

I stretch my legs into the aisle, petty and deliberate.

She stops in front of me, head tilting like she’s assessing a problem she already knows how to solve. “Really?”

I blink up at her. Innocent. Deceptive. “Didn’t realize this was assigned seating.”

“It is now.” Flat as a judge’s gavel. A flick of her fingers dismisses me like a peasant. “Move.”

Instead, I cross one leg over the other—slow, deliberate, absolutely not school-appropriate. “You’re welcome to sit. But I bite.”

Cassie doesn’t flinch. Her lips twitch—barely, but enough. “If I wanted rabies, I’d pet a raccoon.”

Someone behind us snorts. Jace Withers, probably. He’s never recovered from the time Cassie made him cry during debate tryouts.

With a sigh like a storm warning, Cassie slides in beside me. She tugs her blazer into perfect order, every motion crisp and contained. Her knee bumps mine.

She doesn’t move it.

Neither do I.

Heat pools between the contact points, slow and insistent. My skirt’s fabric shifts against my thigh with each breath, brushing hers. The air feels too warm suddenly. Or maybe it’s me. Or maybe it’s her. Or maybe it’s the fact that my leg is pressed to hers and she’s pretending it means nothing.

“I heard you elbowed a sophomore in the face during cheer warmups yesterday,” she says, voice light, like she’s commenting on the weather.

“She got in my way.”

“She was tying her shoe.”

“She shouldn’t have done it in my blind spot.”

Cassie hums, glancing sideways. “You really don’t care what people say, do you?”

“Nope.”

“That’s a lie.”

I shrug, letting my hair spill over my shoulder like a curtain, catching faint sparks of my own Summer Court heat. “You’d know all about lying, wouldn’t you?”

She doesn’t take the bait this time. Just leans back, arms folding—tight enough to lift her chest so it brushes mine for a second longer than it should.

My breath catches, shallow, betraying me. My scent shifts with it—marshmallow warmth singed sharp, ozone sparking under my ribs.

“You could’ve sat anywhere,” I murmur, pitched low enough for her alone.

“Maybe I didn’t feel like being bored,” she murmurs back, not looking at me.

Her leg stays pressed to mine. Her shoulder stays against me.

The bus lurches forward, a slow, rocking rhythm settling in.

Hell. This is hell.

And yet I don’t move.

Because whatever this is—this charged, impossible game—it’s addictive.

Dangerous.

Outside, Baretree blurs in streaks of half-golden leaves and dull gray sky. The sun smears behind clouds, too tired to show up. Most students are scrolling, chatting, dozing. Mr. Halloway is already snoring three rows up, neck at an angle that should be outlawed.

Cassie is still there, warm and steady against me.

Or she was.

Somewhere between the third traffic light and the turn onto Route 8, the shift happens.

Her arms loosen.

Her shoulder leans.

Her head tilts.

And now?

Now the Queen of Ravenrest is asleep on my shoulder.

I freeze. Muscles locked. Breathing shallow. Every nerve screaming don’t move. Don’t ruin it. Don’t admit you like it.

This is the girl who’s tormented me since freshman year. The one who called me a pyromaniac freak in front of the whole cafeteria. The one who took the last bottle of vanilla oat milk from the vending machine and stared me down as she drank it.

And she’s curled into my side like we’ve done this a hundred times.

Like I’m… safe.

Her cheek is warm through my blazer, the faint press of her jaw a constant reminder. I can feel her breath—measured, soft—tick against my collarbone. Her perfume, sharp citrus and white camellia with that whisper of chilled vanilla, threads into the industrial haze until it’s inescapable. My own scent pushes back—wildfire spice over rain-wash calm—mixing until I can’t tell where mine ends and hers begins.

One hand is tucked under her chin, the other loose in her lap, fingers twitching like she’s chasing something in a dream she’ll never tell me about.

Move, I think.

Don’t move, I think harder.

And I sit there, caught between the two, wondering when breathing got so damn difficult.

It would be easy to push her off.

It would be smart to push her off.

But instead, my head tilts—just barely—until it rests against hers.

My pulse betrays me, pounding so hard it feels lodged in my throat. My thoughts betray me, scattering like embers in a wind. Heat licks up my neck, settling high in my cheeks. Every inch of my skin is alive with static, thrumming with the awareness that I should not—cannot—let this happen.

Gods, what is wrong with me?

And then my mask falters—just for a second.

I feel it slip, like a silk ribbon loosening in my grip, and then—

“Mm.”

Cassie stirs, not fully awake, eyes fluttering open with the lazy blink of someone drifting between dreams and consciousness. Her lashes sweep up, unfocused, then sharpen. Her lips part, a question caught somewhere between sleep and breath.

And she stares.

Right into my eyes.

My real ones.

Not green. Not glamoured.

Starlit brown with gold and silver flecks, like someone bottled constellations and poured them straight into my skull.

Her gaze catches, holds—too long, too searching.

A slow inhale.

A pause that stretches, taut, between us.

Cassie’s expression softens—barely conscious, but disarmingly unguarded. “Your eyes…” she murmurs, voice hushed like a secret. “They’re… really beautiful.”

The words hit like a step too far on a ledge—air gone, stomach lurching sideways. My fingers twitch toward my face, the reflex to hide nearly winning, before I force them still.

The mask slams back into place with the snap of instinct.

Green. Controlled. Safe.

Cassie’s brows crease, just faintly. She’s still half-asleep, and she doesn’t press. Her eyes close again, lashes brushing her cheeks.

I let out the quietest breath I can manage, but my heart’s still going at war-drum tempo, beating hard enough I’m sure she could feel it if she leaned closer. And gods help me—I still don’t move.

Maybe I should. Maybe I’m reckless, stupid, asking for trouble.

But I stay.

Head against hers. Shoulder against hers. Breathing slow, matching the rhythm of hers like I’ve been doing it forever.

The bus lurches to a stop.

Cassie jerks awake with a soft gasp, straightening instantly. She blinks at me—once, twice—like she’s trying to decide if she dreamed the last few minutes. Then her mouth curves into that infuriating smirk.

“You drooled on me.”

I arch a brow. “You used me as a pillow.”

“Not my fault your ass takes up the entire seat.” Her smirk sharpens. “And yet, somehow, I survived.”

She rises, smoothing her skirt with sharp, deliberate swipes, like the fabric itself is the problem. I follow slower, schooling my face into neutrality.

Trying not to think about the weight of her head against mine.

The way her voice wrapped around those words.

The fact that she noticed.

By the time we step off the bus, the mask is perfect again.

But underneath it?

The first crack is already spreading. And deep down, I know this won’t be the last slip today.

The museum smells like lemon polish and bureaucracy.

Too clean. Too curated. Too eager to impress.

Cold white lighting bleaches the air, turning every polished surface into a mirror that reflects nothing real. Footsteps ping off marble—sharp, sterile. Overhead, a vent hums out over-filtered air. Even the cases gleam like they’ve been scrubbed free of anything alive.

I lag a few steps behind the group, arms crossed tight enough to dig my nails into my jacket sleeves. Mr. Halloway drones about the “Glorious Consolidation Era,” and my jaw aches from clenching.

According to the plaques and holo-displays, it was the triumphant moment the fractured city-states “unified under a singular mortal charter.”

It’s not just revisionist.

It’s surgical.

Gone are the whispers of rebellion. Of blood spilled in moonlight. Of beings with starlight in their veins hunted down, cornered, erased like they never existed. The timeline is pristine—scrubbed so clean it burns. Names stripped until they sound like politicians instead of warlords. Instead of monsters. Instead of martyrs.

My mother is fifteen centuries old. I’ve heard her talk about the wars they don’t write down, pacts sealed in blood under fractured moons, what was taken so mortals could claim they’d “won.” And here I am, seventeen and pretending to be human in a place that calls my entire people a myth without ever saying the word.

Heat starts in my palms—slow, then sharp. I jam both hands into my pockets before the air can taste it.

Cassie stands a few feet ahead, head tilted at the biggest mural: the “Founding Congress of Dominion.” A dais of smug, airbrushed suits—every face human. No pointed ears. No impossible grace. No wings, claws, fangs. Just mortals staring down like the rest of us should be grateful we survived.

Her voice slices the quiet, cool and deliberate.

“Wasn’t the city founded during a ceasefire?”

Mr. Halloway blinks. “I’m sorry?”

She gestures at the mural, tone casual; eyes, razor-sharp. “I remember the textbook saying there were ongoing conflicts in the outer territories during the Consolidation. This makes it look… peaceful.”

Students glance over—some curious, some with the classic please stop talking glare.

Halloway clears his throat. “There were certainly tensions, Miss Fairborn, but minor skirmishes. Peripheral to the signing itself.”

Cassie’s brows lift—delicate, deliberate, cutting. “So the dead don’t count if they weren’t inside city limits?”

My mouth twitches before I can stop it. Gone before anyone could swear it happened.

Halloway’s jaw tightens. “We’re not here to interrogate artistic license. The mural is meant to inspire civic unity.”

Cassie doesn’t argue. She just glances at me—brief, weighted. Not an alliance. Not quite. But there’s heat there, and focus. The kind you only get when someone’s actually looking.

For half a breath, I hold her eyes.

I don’t look away.

I nod, once. Barely.

Maybe she’s still the enemy.

But gods, her aim is good.

The gaze should break.

It doesn’t.

Even as the group shuffles forward, she keeps pace beside me—silent, unflinching—until the air between us feels stretched enough to snap.

The further we get from the main exhibit hall, the quieter it goes. No pre-recorded cheerleading for the “Glorious Consolidation.” No glowing plaques telling us what to think. Just cold tile and lights that hum like they’re keeping a secret.

She spots it first—an unassuming door in a side corridor. Supplemental Holdings – Authorized Staff Only.

She doesn’t hesitate. Pushes it open like rules were for someone else.

Inside, the air is different—drier, heavier. Old paper and dust and the faint metallic tang of dormant magic. Dim bulbs, shadows too long between them. An ancient ceiling fan mutters overhead. A lone terminal in the corner whirs, the city seal screensaver spinning slow.

Smaller than I expected—fifteen feet across, more library than archive. Rows of filing cabinets stand like sentries. Chipped placards lean in tired stacks against the wall.

Cassie moves like she belongs here, fingertips skimming a cabinet edge before stopping at a faded wall map: Dominveil – Post‑Unification Districts. Her hand drifts toward it, then suspends mid-air.

“That mural back there?” she says, voice low. “It erased four settlements I know used to exist.”

My pulse stutters. “Four?”

She finally looks at me. “I saw their names in the first-edition civics textbook my dad keeps in his office. Then they vanished after the curriculum switch three years ago.”

I fold my arms. “Maybe your dad’s just a hoarder.”

Her gaze doesn’t waver. “You still have that book, don’t you? The one you showed me.”

I blink, flat. “What book?”

Her smile is small, sharp. “Don’t play dumb. You dropped it on the table like you were daring me to react. The one with the alternate Formation.”

“Maybe I was just bored of zoning reforms,” I say lightly.

She huffs a short laugh. “Right. Because nothing screams rebellion like municipal boundaries.”

I drift toward the back wall, fingers brushing an unlabeled drawer. It’s locked—but the metal thrums faintly under my touch. Old wards. Weak enough to coax. “What are you really looking for, Fairborn?”

She shrugs, eyes too alert for it to be casual. “I want to know why there are holes in every story. Why settlements disappear off maps. Why certain names get pulled from records. And why the people who ask too many questions…” Her gaze pins me. “…stop showing up to class.”

That lodges under my ribs like a splinter.

I really look at her. Not just sharp—dangerous. Not because she sees the cracks, but because she cares enough to follow them.

“Careful, Cassie,” I murmur. “Curiosity’s not a great survival trait in this city.”

She tilts her head. “Then why are you still breathing?”

I smirk without warmth. “Maybe I’m harder to kill than I look.”

The lock yields with a soft click. I ease the drawer open. The corner of an old parchment peeks out—edges frayed, ink faintly shimmering like it remembers being touched by magic. Unclassified Incidents – Veil Anomalies, dated pre‑charter. Half the settlements listed are the ones that “never existed.”

I slide it into my bag in one smooth motion, breath steady, like this is nothing.

Footsteps echo in the corridor outside. I shut the drawer.

“Time to play nice,” I mutter.

Cassie’s mouth curves—not quite a smile. “I didn’t realize you knew how.”

I step past her. Her gaze flicks to my bag strap—lingers just long enough to tell me she saw.

Then she looks away.

She doesn’t say a word.

But she knows I took something.

And this time… she lets me.

Outside, the sun slips behind the museum’s angular roofline, gilding the marble columns before surrendering them to shadow. The courtyard is mostly hush—classmates murmuring on stone benches, holo-tablets scraping, and, somewhere behind Chancellor Wrenfall’s bronze, the faint scratch of Mr. Halloway sneaking a cigarette.

Cassie and I sit on the low retaining wall, backs to cool stone, elbows brushing whenever one of us shifts. We haven’t spoken since the records room. The air between us is full, not cold—an awareness that makes every micro‑movement feel like strategy.

My backpack rests against my stomach like a shield. Not because I think anyone will open it, but because the parchment feels alive through the canvas—Veil-reactive ink humming against my palm, fingertips tingling. My heartbeat hasn’t slowed since I took it.

“So,” Cassie says at last, dry, almost bored. “That book you definitely didn’t pocket—planning to return it, or is it going to ‘accidentally’ end up in your locker?”

I keep my eyes on the patterned stones. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She stretches her legs with lazy elegance, like the question was a courtesy. “Of course not. My mistake.”

It’s the curl at her mouth that gives her away—barely there. I saw you.

I’m not telling.

And inconveniently, I’m dying to know why.

Silence sharpens. Our elbows brush. Neither of us moves.

“Your shoulder was surprisingly comfortable,” she says, so out of nowhere my head snaps toward her.

“What?”

“On the bus. I might’ve drooled on you.”

“You didn’t,” I say—lower than I meant to.

“Shame. Would’ve been fun to watch you combust.”

Her smirk deepens a fraction, and my stomach knots like she’s scored. It doesn’t feel like losing.

“You ask a lot of questions for someone who supposedly doesn’t care,” I tell her, gripping my bag tighter.

Her head tilts; icy blue locks on. “And you dodge a lot of answers for someone who clearly wants to be seen.”

The air goes taut. My chest tightens. Her gaze flicks—my mouth, then back up—quick, deliberate.

I swallow, and the sound feels loud.

Before I can reply—before I do something I’ll regret—the clatter of boots on stone cuts the moment.

“Back on the bus, miscreants,” Mr. Halloway calls. “If anyone left their brain cells in the World War Hall, now’s your chance to reclaim them.”

Cassie slides off the wall first, smooth and unbothered, leaving the weight of her words behind like smoke.

I follow, a few paces back. The bag bumps against my hip, the parchment inside still pulsing like a heartbeat.

She saw me take it. She didn’t stop me.

She let me keep it.

And somehow, that feels more dangerous than being caught.

The ride back feels longer. Quieter.

I blame the sunset. Or maybe the unnatural hush that follows the day’s chaos—the way half the class has passed out in their seats while the rest mutter into cracked phone screens or slowly chew gum like it’s their last tether to consciousness.

Cassie slides into the seat beside me without asking.

Like it’s hers now.

Like I’m hers now.

Like she’s claimed the space the way she claims everything else—with cold calculation, perfect posture, and that infuriating air of not needing to explain herself.

Her thigh brushes mine. Again. She doesn’t bother pretending it’s accidental this time.

Neither do I.

We haven’t spoken since leaving the museum steps. And I’m not sure what’s more unsettling—the silence, or the fact that I don’t want to break it.

Cassie shifts, just slightly, and the motion sends a strand of her hair tumbling over her shoulder. It brushes against my arm. Static crackles across my skin like a dare.

“You’re twitchy,” she murmurs without looking at me.

My fingers are already rolling the edge of my blazer cuff, back and forth, back and forth, the motion grounding me. “I’m fine.”

She hums—low, skeptical. “You’re also a terrible liar.”

“I’m a fantastic liar,” I bite back.

“Exactly. Which means you only lie that badly when you’re off-balance.”

I still the cuff roll and switch to tracing the seam of the seat cushion, pressing my thumb hard into the worn fabric. I don’t respond. Because she’s not wrong. And I’d rather chew glass than admit it.

The parchment is still in my bag, tucked beneath the false bottom I carved out last summer. I can feel it calling to me. Not in some loud, mystical way—nothing so dramatic. Just… weight. Heat. Importance.

Like the first time someone touches your bare skin in the dark and means it.

Cassie’s gaze flicks to me then—sharp, clinical, curious.

“Whatever you took,” she says softly, “was worth it, wasn’t it?”

I don’t answer.

She nods like I did.

Then: “You didn’t hesitate.”

“I didn’t have time to.”

“That’s not what I said.”

Another stretch of silence. Louder this time. Her leg is still pressed to mine. She still hasn’t pulled away. And I am dangerously aware of the distance between her elbow and my ribs—how easy it would be to lean, just slightly, and feel her whole body along mine.

My stomach twists.

This is stupid. This is Cassie fucking Fairborn. She should be annoying me right now. Or insulting my shoes. Or bringing up the one time in ninth grade I tripped up the bleachers and she cackled so hard she had to fake a coughing fit.

But instead, she’s sitting beside me like we’re allies. Or secrets. Or something worse.

“Your eyes are green again,” she says suddenly.

I blink. “What?”

“They looked different before. On the bus this morning. Briefly.”

Shit.

I force a laugh. “Lighting’s weird in the morning.”

“Mmm.” Her tone is unimpressed, but she lets it drop.

For now.

Outside the bus window, the shadows of Dominveil stretch long and blurred. Evening fog curls around lamp posts like something alive. The city looks softer through tinted glass. Like even it has masks.

My foot starts tapping against the seat post. I’m barely aware of it until Cassie shifts, letting her pinky brush against mine on the seat—small, deliberate. The tap stops without me thinking about it.

Barely brushing.

Neither of us move it.

The bus bumps over a pothole, and our shoulders knock together.

Cassie doesn’t shift away.

Neither do I.

There’s a weird kind of gravity to it now—this silence between us. Not heavy, not uncomfortable. Just… dense. Saturated with something I don’t have the words for. Something electric and ancient and wrong in the way that makes you want more of it anyway.

I can feel her watching me again. Not with the cold scrutiny she’s known for. Not like I’m a bug beneath a microscope.

No—this gaze is softer. Warmer.

Terrifying.

“You’re quieter than usual,” Cassie murmurs.

I shrug. “Maybe you’re just louder.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Neither do you.”

She huffs a laugh. “You should work on your comebacks.”

I should. But I can’t think. I can’t breathe right now, because her knee is still against mine, her voice is still in my chest, and her scent—cool, crisp, calculated—wraps around me. Frosted citrus zest, sharp enough to wake every nerve. White camellia, elegant and cold. Chilled vanilla musk, lingering and addictive. It’s control, it’s precision… it’s her.

I blink, trying to reset. Trying to remember how to be sharp, untouchable, immune.

That’s when I feel it.

The shift.

Like silk sliding across skin. The faintest twist of air against my temple. A sensation I know too well.

No.

No no no no no.

My fingers dart to my face instinctively, brushing the corner of my eye. Too late.

Cassie’s already looking at me.

And I know—I know—she sees it.

My hair, no longer autumn-ginger, is glowing faintly under the bus’s overhead lights. A firelit braid slipping loose over my shoulder, catching the shadows like copper and flame. My eyes—stars. Not green. Not even close. Starlit brown, raw and real, every fleck of silver and gold bared like an open wound.

Her lips part slightly.

No words. Just… awe.

Not fear.

Not disgust.

Wonder.

Her fingers trail lightly through the glowing end of my braid, cautious, reverent—as if she’s testing whether it will burn her.

Something inside me fractures.

I snap the glamour back in place so fast it’s like slamming a door on a scream. My hair dulls. My eyes dim. The shield returns.

But the damage is done.

I don’t look at her.

Can’t.

My chest is tight, my mouth dry, and my heart is doing something reckless and stupid in my ribs. Cassie shifts beside me, but she doesn’t speak. She doesn’t pull away either.

We sit like that until the bus slows to a crawl, the city’s glow bleeding in through the windows like it’s been waiting for us.

I don’t know what just happened.

I don’t know what she saw.

And worse—I don’t know what I want her to see.

I don’t remember getting off the bus. The world is too loud now—too saturated with light and sound, like someone turned the volume up on existence just to see if I’d flinch. Students shuffle off in lazy lines, laughing, yawning, still half-asleep from the ride.

Cassie doesn’t say a word. She walks beside me, not behind, not ahead—step for step, shoulder to shoulder. The silence between us hums like a live wire. Not awkward. Not exactly. Just… full.

I can still feel her stare—not on the version of me I wear like armor, but on something beneath it. The thing I work so hard to bury under sarcasm, nail polish, and glamour charms.

I wonder if she’ll bring it up.

I wonder if I want her to.

She doesn’t.

But as we reach the front steps of Ravenrest Heights, she slows. Turns just enough that I have to meet her eyes. That same unreadable expression from the bus—icy blue, precise, and holding me there like I’m the only thing worth studying.

“I won’t ask,” she says.

It’s not a throwaway line. Not a dismissal. It’s deliberate, threaded through with a weight I can feel in my bones.

I stop walking. “What?”

“Whatever that was.” Her voice is quieter now. Not soft, but careful. “You’ll tell me when you’re ready.”

Her gaze lingers. Long enough that I almost say something—almost give her a truth I’ve never handed to anyone. My lips part… but nothing comes out.

Cassie watches me for another heartbeat, like she can hear all the words I’m not saying. Then she nods, once—accepting the silence as an answer.

She turns and disappears into the crowd, perfect posture, hair catching the last of the light. As if nothing happened.

But something did.

And no matter how many walls I throw back up, she’s seen it.

And you can’t unsee something like that.