Cassie’s Diary — Gloamrise 11

Three weeks vanish fast when every morning starts with bruises.

Tharion wakes us before dawn, voice like gravel and iron. He drills Mira until she’s spitting sparks—literally—then pivots to me like I’m another recruit dumb enough to volunteer. I didn’t. I never signed up for this. But I’ve stopped reminding him. Complaints don’t stop the fists. What stops the fists is learning to throw one back. My knuckles are no longer soft; the skin is tight and raw, but I can punch without wincing, block without folding. He hasn’t said good yet, but the absence of scorn is its own kind of medal.

Mira fares worse. Or maybe better, depending on how you count it. She has speed, instinct, fury—an arsenal I don’t possess—but still Roran drops her to the mat again and again. His glamour says cousin; his weight says soldier. She hates losing to him. She’ll claw her way up, eyes blazing, pride hotter than her fire, and charge again. Some mornings she glares at him like she could light his lungs from the inside out. Some mornings I almost hope she does, just to see if the wall can crack.

School is another battlefield. Roran dogs us down every hall, geometry perfect: half a step behind, one to the right. Always watching. Always looming. Glamoured as Mira’s “cousin,” though no one with eyes believes it. They whisper anyway. Boys still try to ask us to Gloamhearts, like rings on our fingers and matching exits mean nothing. Mira roasts them alive with sarcasm. I slice them apart with frost. We’ve made a game of it—who can reject faster, cleaner. We always win.

And then there’s Bree Halden. New hair, new polish, new confidence she hasn’t earned. She poses in the halls like a queen without a crown, tries to needle us in front of crowds, spreads whispers like perfume she bought too cheap. It never sticks. Mira meets her with fire, I meet her with frost, and Bree leaves gnashing her teeth in the locker-room mirrors.

The Shroud has been silent since Silverrow. No more missing students, no shadows creeping into our routines. That should comfort me. It doesn’t. Silence this loud is strategy.

But what gnaws at me isn’t the quiet. It’s what I overheard in Emberhall—Seara and Tharion speaking of Mira when they thought no one was listening.

Cinderborn. Scion.

Words like prophecy. Like burden.

Mira doesn’t know I heard. She doesn’t know the weight sitting in my chest every time she laughs, every time she stumbles and forces herself up again. I don’t know what those words mean. I don’t know if they’re crown or curse. I can’t decide which frightens me more—what they demand of her, or what it will do to us when she finds out.

Tomorrow is Gloamhearts. The whole city will blaze with lanterns. At Ravenrest, every student will bare their choice in front of the crowd.

Tomorrow, Mira and I stop pretending.

And everything changes.

—C

The academy smells like sugar and electricity.

Streamers scallop the archways in Ravenrest blue and silver; paper lanterns dangle from locker banks on invisible wire, bobbing whenever the hallway tide surges. Every door wears a ribbon. Someone’s blasting a playlist under their breath—bass thumping through a backpack—so the floor vibrates like a shared heartbeat. Perfume rides over chocolate; the combination is nauseating and perfect.

Cassie parks the coupe with surgical precision and slides out like she’s stepping onto a runway. The winter sun threads her hair with white-gold. I follow, blazer crisp, pulse unruly. Behind us, Roran performs the miracle of unfolding from the coupe’s tiny back seat without swearing. His glamour holds—edges softened, soldier filed down to “transfer student.” It fools exactly no one.

Phones rise the way they do for celebrity sightings. I pretend not to see the first flashes.

“Soft launch,” Cassie murmurs, owning the sidewalk with her stride.

“Soft launch,” I echo, rolling my cuff—one, two, three—because my hands need a job if they aren’t allowed to find hers.

Inside, the lobby’s been skinned for the holiday. A marquee in looping script declares: GLOAMHEARTS DANCE — TOMORROW NIGHT with a line of smaller text: Court Elections • Lantern Ritual • Formal Attire Required. Below it, a table bristles with sign-up lists and helpfully condescending pamphlets about “chaperone-approved transport.” Ravenrest’s war on teen autonomy continues.

We push into the main corridor and the hive swallows us—roses tucked in textbook straps, glitter drifting like pollen. Campaign posters crowd the walls: FROST COURT: ARIA DEVEREUX in icy serif; BLOOM COURT: PARKER LI with peonies printed along the border; SUN COURT: NOT A COMPETITION (VOTE SANTIAGO) in gold foil; DREAM COURT: ELLERY VANCE with a soft-focus moon. The human world loves a metaphor. It has no idea how closely it mirrors the thing underneath.

“Quinveil!” someone sings out, too bright. A junior with an armful of carnations materializes like a florist’s ghost. “Who are you going with? Did you get the text from Student Life about the Lantern pairs? Are you doing coordinated colors?” His eyes flick to Cassie. “You two, like, matched outfits in the fall for Homecoming, right? So—”

“We have coordinated values,” Cassie says smoothly. “We’ll be dressed in those.”

The junior blinks like that short-circuited his brain. He turns to me, hopeful. “So… not telling?”

“I don’t owe the internet a trailer,” I say sweetly.

Roran looms half a step behind me, one to the right—bodyguard geometry that reads as shadow to anyone paying attention. The questions multiply, hydra-bright.

Another student veers in, thrusting a box of truffles under our noses. “Vote Harvest! Also—who are you taking? Is Ronan single?”

Roran blinks once, owlish, like he’s translating. “Single what?”

“Status,” Cassie supplies, not bothering to look at him.

“Unavailable,” he answers, perfectly neutral. His gaze doesn’t waver, but the corner of his mouth tics—so slight I nearly miss it. I’m not sure if it’s irony or mercy.

I bite the inside of my cheek to hide the smile. My scent threatens to flare—burnt sugar, spark-prone—so I drag it down by the scruff and keep moving.

The tide parts on its own as we pass. It never used to do that. Some of it is Roran’s presence—the invisible heat of him, steady and immovable. Most of it is us. Even in a “soft launch,” Cassie and I carry a weather system now.

We make it nearly to our lockers before the brick in heels steps into our lane.

“Darlings.” Bree Halden, sophomore, curated to within an inch of her GPA, plants herself like a decorative guardrail. She’s wearing a sash that says GLOAMHEARTS HOSPITALITY COMMITTEE and holding a clipboard bursting with sticky notes. Her hair is glossy and aggressive. Two girls hover behind her carrying a basket of heart-shaped pins that pulse faintly as if alive. “Big day tomorrow. Last call for serenity. You must be overwhelmed, but if you need help finding—oh, any dates at all—we have a concierge service.”

She says it so loudly that three separate conversations stop so they can pretend not to listen.

Cassie’s smile is immaculate. It is also a blade. “Bree. You look… coordinated.”

“Theme drives engagement,” Bree chirps, already extending a pin toward me. It’s pink and branded SHADOW COURT in little black letters. Of course she’d pick Shadow. It flatters her sense of mystery without requiring substance. “These are for students who believe in subtlety and taste. We’re advising the underclassmen on their aesthetics for the night. Wouldn’t want anyone to confuse this elegant occasion with a quinceañera.”

My fingers itch to light the pin on fire.

“Underclassmen like you,” I say, voice sugar-glazed.

Color doesn’t touch Bree’s cheeks. “I’ve been asked to help by Student Life.” (Translation: inserted herself.) Her hazel eyes glint as they slide from me to Cassie, then down to our glamoured rings—harmless mood bands, not the political leash or the promise they truly are. “It would be so tragic if you two turned up looking… uncoordinated. Or alone. Again.”

Cassie flips her ponytail with criminal precision. “We’ll risk tragedy.”

Bree’s smile shows careful teeth. “You know, some people think it would be kinder to say outright when you don’t have a date, instead of pretending.” She tips her chin, faux-concern sharpened into weaponry. “The Lantern ritual can be so humiliating when you’re empty-handed.”

Roran shifts behind me. The temperature changes a degree, the way a room does when someone lights a match. He doesn’t speak—he’s trained not to—but the air listens to him anyway. A couple kids edge back, nervous.

I hook my pinky with Cassie’s for one heartbeat—small enough the world can’t confiscate it—and let my smile sharpen. “Don’t worry,” I tell Bree. “Humiliation and I are estranged.”

“Occasionally separated,” Cassie murmurs, eyes glittering. “Never divorced.”

Bree holds the pin out again, like she can will it into my hand. “Shadow Court is the obvious fit for you, Mira. You know. Mysterious. Unpredictable. Dim lighting helps.”

I let the silence breathe. The hall’s buzz crowds my skull; the lanterns over the lockers sway as if the building itself is trying to nod along to gossip. I give the pin my most thoughtful look, then tilt my head. “You’re not eligible to be crowned, are you, Bree?”

Her lashes don’t even flutter. “I’m civic-minded.”

“Mm,” I say. “You’d be extraordinary at Dream Court.” I drop my voice half a notch. “You already live in one.”

A ripple of laughter travels outward. Not mean, not loud. But it lands.

Cassie adds, gentle as poison, “And if you want coordination tips, Bree, may I gently recommend you choose one feature to highlight in tomorrow’s look? Eyes or hair. Not both.”

Bree’s smile gets half a millimeter thinner. The girls behind her suddenly busy themselves with the basket of pins, the way seconds go very still when the queen starts to eat. Bree rallies. She has practice at this. “We’re offering pair-matching consultations,” she says, bright again, clipboard at the ready. “Ronan, you’re new. I’m sure you don’t have anyone yet.” She looks him up and down like he’s a winning horse. “I could introduce you to—”

“No,” Roran says, with grave politeness. He could be refusing a second helping of bread. His tone is steady, but there’s a flicker in his eyes—amusement, maybe, or solidarity. Like even he knows this whole pageant is absurd.

Bree blinks. “Don’t be shy. It’s Gloamhearts. No need to be alone.”

“He’s not alone,” I say.

“With family,” Cassie adds, cool as marble.

“Cousins,” Bree echoes, tasting the lie. Her eyes flick to our faces, hunting for a sliver to wedge her way in. All she finds is our delight in denying her oxygen.

A shadow crosses the corridor. Ms. Keene appears with her clipboard, which outranks all other clipboards by divine right. Her heels click in judgment. “Hall flow, please. Save hospitality for after first bell.”

Bree pastes on her best administrator-friendly smile. “Of course, Ms. Keene. Just supporting community spirit.”

“Marvelous,” Ms. Keene says without blinking. Her gaze slides to me. “Ms. Quinveil, Ms. Fairborn—decorum.” The kind of warning that comes prepackaged with plausible deniability. Then she glides on, leaving behind the faint smell of expensive hand cream and authority.

Bree seizes the opening, thrusting the heart pin toward me again. “Shadow Court,” she insists.

I pinch it between thumb and forefinger like a lab sample. Hold it to the lantern light, watch its cheap glow pulse, then hand it back. “I’m allergic to polyester,” I say, turning my shoulder.

The laugh that chases us is louder this time. Bree’s smile doesn’t crack, but the pin trembles in her hand.

We reach our lockers with the relief of soldiers finding a trench. I exhale too hard, my scent threatening to flare—burnt sugar, ozone spark. Cassie slides her fingers down my sleeve seam—one, two, three—and the tether steadies. She doesn’t even look at me; she just stands close enough to be the only thing I can feel for a breath.

“Breathe,” she says.

“I am,” I lie.

Roran takes up position across the hall, feigning interest in a BLOOM COURT poster. To everyone else: a transfer student zoning out. To me: the heat source I can always locate, even eyes closed.

From twenty feet away, Bree’s too-sweet voice drifts: “See you at the Lanterns, darlings.”

Cassie slams her locker shut like punctuation. “She won’t like ours.”

“No one ever does,” I murmur. Inside, my fire purrs like my coupe—revving even while parked.

The common hall looks like Cupid overdosed on glitter and Red Bull. Streamers crisscross overhead, paper lanterns glow faint pink, and every flat surface drowns under campaign posters. Vote Bloom Court!Shadow Court for Change!Harvest Has Your Back! Juniors and seniors prowl with trays of candy and pins, bribing votes like it’s blood sport. Perfume mixes with melted chocolate and teenage desperation.

Cassie threads through like she owns the place—ponytail lethal, blazer unbuttoned just enough to scramble boys’ neurons. I follow a step behind, fire tight in my ribs, trying not to torch flyers out of spite. Roran moves with us, scanning the crowd with patient geometry, silent and steady. The kind of presence that says try it and combust.

“Smile, Firefly,” Cassie murmurs, shoulder brushing mine. “You look like you want to incinerate the candy table.”

“I do want to incinerate the candy table,” I mutter, dodging a freshman with Bloom Court lollipops. “Sugar is a bribe, not a policy.”

Her smirk is sharp. “Good thing we’re not campaigning.”

“Good thing,” I echo, though the eyes trailing us say otherwise.

“Quinveil. Fairborn.” Naomi’s voice slices through, low and amused. She leans against a pillar like she’s been waiting. Her Ravenrest blazer hangs open, tie knotted loose, sleeves rolled high to bare pale wrists. Next to her, Kess sprawls panther-slouch against the lockers, skirt rolled, shirt untucked, tie half-absent. She wears the uniform like it’s a dare, grin sharp enough to slice the campaign posters behind her.

“You two are already shoe-ins,” Kess drawls, voice lazy velvet. “Don’t even need to shake hands. Half this hall’s already writing your names on the ballot.”

Cassie doesn’t slow. “We don’t care about Court.”

Naomi arches a brow, the move precise as a blade. “Funny. You look very much like people everyone else thinks are inevitable.”

Heat prickles my skin. My gaze flicks sideways—clusters of juniors whispering, their eyes bouncing from me to Cassie to Roran. The tether hums faint under my pulse. Soft launch is unraveling, my fire hisses.

I force a smirk. “If inevitability comes with free chocolate, I’ll take a box.”

Naomi’s lips twitch, almost a smile. “Try not to set the place on fire before tomorrow.”

Kess winks, conspiratorial, then both of them melt back into the crowd—black-and-white uniforms turned camouflage in the chaos.

And that’s when Bree strikes.

She glides through like curated venom, chestnut hair glossy, clipboard clutched like a weapon. Two sophomore shadows trail behind, arms full of custom pens. “Oh look, the too-good-to-campaign duo.” Her voice carries, pitched for maximum audience. “I suppose when you can’t even find dates for Gloamhearts, pretending you don’t want to win is the only strategy left.”

A ripple of whispers.

Cassie doesn’t blink. “Better no date than paying one.”

Laughter sparks from the candy table. Bree’s smile curdles. “I’m not paying. I’m investing in school spirit.”

“Spirit,” I echo, tone dripping. My fire licks up, tether between me and Cassie thrumming in answer. “Tell me, Bree—do you bottle it, or does it just reek like that naturally?”

The crowd howls. Someone mutters burn. Cassie squeezes my wrist under the cover of noise—anchor and encouragement in one.

Bree recovers fast, eyes glittering sharp. “Mock all you want. Tomorrow, people will remember who put in the work—and who coasted on… other reputations.” Her gaze flicks pointedly at me, then Cassie.

Cassie tilts her head, smile like glass. “Other reputations seem to be doing fine.”

The whispers tilt in our favor. A boy in a Shadow Court shirt passes me a flyer with a grin that says he’d vote twice if he could.

Roran shifts, subtle but deliberate. The air tightens around him, silent warning. Bree flinches—not at us, but at him. The crack shows. She spins on her heel, hair slicing air, sophomores scrambling with their boxes of useless pens.

The hall swallows her whole, leaving only the buzz of voices and the sugar-scent thick enough to choke.

Cassie exhales slow, the edge of her smile reserved for me alone. “She’s going to combust tomorrow.”

I bite back a grin, fire pooling low in my ribs, tether singing hot and bright. “We’ll bring marshmallows.”

By last bell, the whole school vibrates with static.

Lockers slam in percussion, laughter ricochets sharp, perfume clouds drift like someone declared chemical warfare in the sophomore wing. Glitter hangs in the air—literal glitter, because apparently Student Life thought sparkle bombs were festive instead of a war crime. The hum of voices circles the same orbit: tux, limo, lantern, Court.

Cassie leans against her locker like it’s a throne, blazer unbuttoned, hair blade-sharp. Even juggling a stack of books she looks untouchable, the kind of girl you orbit, not approach. Except boys do anyway—half the junior class with fake questions about tomorrow. She cuts each one down with polite frost, never cruel, just cool enough to discourage. And somehow they leave smiling anyway, like rejection was a privilege.

Me? I’m the opposite. The ones who try me leave scorched.

Roran looms on the far wall, pretending to study a Light Court poster like he cares. He doesn’t. He’s mapping angles, scanning for anyone drifting too close, radiating touch them and combust. People get the message. They always do.

I slam my locker shut, the sound cracking through the chaos. Cassie tilts her head toward me, mouth curving, that infuriating knowing smile tugging at her lips.

“You’re humming,” she says.

I freeze. “No, I’m not.”

Her eyes glitter like ice catching fire. “You are. Low and sharp. The tether’s loud today.”

I thrum my cuff—one, two, three—fabric squeaking under my nail. “That’s not me. That’s… ambient holiday static.”

“Mm.” She closes her locker with deliberate grace. “Static doesn’t look at me like it wants to set rules on fire.”

Heat punches up my throat. “I don’t—”

“You do,” she interrupts, stepping close enough that her shoulder brushes mine. Her perfume—citrus over camellia—cuts clean through the sugar-cloud stink of the hall. My fire claws at its leash, aching to answer.

Around us the noise keeps churning—students buzzing about dresses, tux fittings, limos lined up, glitter drifting in the AC draft. But all of it dulls when she tips her head just enough for only me to hear.

“Tomorrow,” Cassie murmurs, voice like a blade sliding free, “we set the rules. Our way.”

My laugh comes out wrong—sharp, hungry. “You mean break them.”

Her smile curves, dangerous. “I mean burn them.”

The tether thrums, hot and bright, singing under my ribs. For a breath the world is only us, fire and frost colliding, inevitability alive between our ribs.

And then the bell rings.

The crowd surges, lockers bang, chatter doubles. Cassie steps back before anyone notices how close we were. My lungs feel too small, my skin too hot.

I turn and catch Roran still watching, steady as a wall. Which means I can’t resist.

“Careful, cousin,” I call loud enough for half the hall. “If you keep staring like that, people are going to think you’ve got a crush.”

Several heads whip. A ripple of laughter. Roran’s jaw ticks, his expression blank as granite—but the tips of his ears flush red. Victory.

And then, without missing a beat:

“On you?” he says evenly. “Tragic. You’re not my type.”

The laughter doubles. My fire sparks under my skin, half-offended, half-delighted. Cassie outright laughs, sharp and bright, her hand brushing mine as if to say he got you.

The tether hums louder, tangled now with mischief and grudging affection.

Tomorrow, we stop hiding.

Tomorrow, the lie breaks.

And I am ready to burn with it.