The ballroom air hit like perfume and static at once.

Black-and-silver banners draped from the vaulted ceiling, chandeliers—cut crystal with a whisper of Veil-bleed—splintering constellations across lacquered parquet. Balcony doors stood cracked to the winter-blue night, city lanterns glittering from the cliffside like a second audience. The press stayed outside, but their rumor storm had already breached. You could feel it in the way heads snapped as one, in the hush thinning to whispers that skittered like frost across glass.

Cassie and I crossed the threshold side by side.

Phones tilted. The word the press had rammed into my ribs surged ahead of us like a tide—princess—already spilling from mouths that didn’t know what they were saying. My glamour held: emerald eyes, autumn-ginger hair knotted severe, but the gown couldn’t be hidden. Flame stitched every seam, ember red at the hem shading to molten orange, to gold, to near-white fire across my shoulders. Every step shimmered like I was walking in a blaze. Cassie’s hand brushed mine once—quick, hidden—and the heat steadied.

Her scent steadied me more—frosted citrus, camellia, chilled vanilla threaded with steel. She was a blade in silver satin, neckline sharp as command. She didn’t look left or right. She didn’t need to. The room bent anyway: captain composure, the girl who could decide.

“Is that—”

“She came with Fairborn.”

“The dress—gods—”

“Real royalty or cosplay?”

Bree’s voice slid through the cluster like a poisoned needle. Velvet black, smile honed to a point, jasmine and spun sugar choking the air.

“Funny,” she said sweetly, “how some people need fairy tales to make them matter. This is Ravenrest. Crowns don’t mean anything here.”

Her clique tittered like trained birds.

I rolled a coil of hair until my fingers stung. Cassie didn’t so much as glance her way—she looked through her. “If crowns don’t matter,” Cassie said, voice flat and crystalline, “you can stop circling mine.”

The laughter faltered. Bree’s smile pinched, just a shade.

“Careful,” I added, too sweet. “You keep staring at my throat, people might think you’re jealous Cassie picked me.”

Citrus spiked bright in the air. Cassie’s lips curved, a knife of a smile. Bree’s clique coughed laughter they couldn’t quite hold, brittle and sharp.

The boys tried next. Nate Ashborne leaned lazy in his midnight suit, cufflinks catching light, smirk polished to perfection. “Royalty in homeroom,” he drawled. “Hope the DJ knows the anthem.”

I didn’t miss a step. “Sure. We’ll request it right after your solo performance of Clown Parade.”

Cassie didn’t even hide her snort. Vanilla warmed under the citrus. Nate’s ears flushed; his orbit’s laughter was thinner now, strained.

Jace Withers drifted, all cedar-cologne and smug eyebrows. “Do we curtsy left or right?” he murmured, baiting.

Cassie didn’t glance at him, either. “Neither,” she said. “We don’t dance for you.”

By the rose buffet, Michael Sandalwood met my gaze without flinching. Peppermint and clean linen steadied the air, his nod careful, neutral. No hunger. No mockery. Just decent. For a heartbeat, it was almost startling.

Lucien hovered at my left in his charcoal suit, fingers at his pocket square, pine resin and cold iron sharp with nerves. Whispers curled—that’s her brother, right?—and he stared at the parquet like it might open beneath him. His jaw ticced, ears pink, but he stayed.

Roran loomed two armspans at my right, black suit moving like armor, heat shimmer steady. Smoldering iron and burnt cedar held the space—no one dared brush him, let alone me.

Naomi and Kess stormed the room like colliding weather. Naomi: midnight tux sharp enough to cut, frost thread at the lapel, scent of pine and cold steel. Kess: liquid black, back bared, grin wicked. Jasmine, amber, ozone curling. She prowled, Naomi braced. A whisper of a smile ghosted Naomi’s mouth when Kess leaned in to murmur something daring.

But the attention didn’t scatter. It circled, tightened. Chandelier shimmer buzzed, Veil-bleed prickling like static before a strike. I tapped once, twice, thrice. A Small Folk tug at my braid reminded me: don’t flare.

“Princess of—what did they say?”

“Eversea.”

“That’s from those weird old maps.”

“Is she actually—”

“Is Cassie—are they—”

The words weren’t knives yet. They would be. The crown no one could see had already been set back on my head, and the ballroom wanted to toss it like a toy.

Cassie’s wrist brushed mine—deliberate. Her pulse steady, citrus sharp, vanilla musk curling like a promise only I could breathe. Breathe, it said.

So I did.

Let them stare.

The chandeliers hummed overhead, sharp as bees in a glass jar. Cold from the balcony doors bled into the glittering heat. Roran’s shimmer anchored steady at my right. Naomi mapped. Kess smiled like she could punch holes in a constellation and redraw it. Lucien stood his ground even as the parquet begged to swallow him. Nate smirked. Jace drifted. Michael kept being decent.

And Cassie and I walked forward together into the fishbowl court, all eyes turning, the room holding its breath like a coin between fingers—waiting to see which way it would flip.

Kess didn’t ask—she stole. One heartbeat her arm was lazy over Naomi’s shoulders, the next she’d dragged her into the ballroom spotlight with a grin wicked enough to catch a dozen stares.

Naomi stiffened, tall and broad in midnight wool cut to kill, pixie cut catching the chandelier light like frost under glass. She looked like she’d rather be guarding the exits than displayed on a parquet stage.

“Kess,” she muttered, flat and warning.

“What?” Kess spun her anyway, smoky perfume curling. “Someone’s gotta give them a show. Better us than Mira.”

Naomi’s jaw locked, but her hands slotted into textbook frame, exact and unyielding. The bassline threaded down through the room, a slow pulse thickening into rhythm, and Kess rode it like smoke, coaxing her partner with every sway of hip and tilt of shoulder. Naomi resisted, posture all drill-ground steel—but when Kess leaned close, daring, Naomi shifted. Precise. Controlled. Unstoppable once she chose to commit.

“You’re stiff,” Kess teased, amber eyes glinting.

“You’re sloppy,” Naomi returned, steady as stone.

Kess laughed and snapped her into a harder spin. Naomi caught her weight without missing count, pivot clean, frame snapping back into perfect alignment—then Kess dipped her.

Gasps cracked like firecrackers. Naomi arched flawless, pixie-cut halo gleaming, a draft whispering through collars—nothing visible, nothing they could name, just winter sliding under skin. The room erupted—applause, whistles, half a dozen phones rising. To them, it was only two girls in suits ripping the floor with a viral-worthy move.

My chest loosened. The scrutiny searing my skin veered away, siphoned into their spectacle. Relief tangled with pride sharp enough to sting. Naomi hated attention, but saints—she’d stolen it clean.

Cassie’s hand brushed mine, citrus-bright. “They’ll be talking about that for weeks.”

I let out the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. “Good. Let them.”

But the tide shifted again. I felt it before I saw it—the whispers pivoting, cutting sharp toward the boy at my side.

That’s her brother, right?

Quinveil? Look at the jaw.

Why didn’t anyone notice?

Lucien stiffened, fingers plucking the hem of his charcoal jacket like he could tear seams loose. Pine resin and cold iron spiked sharper with nerves. He hated the spotlight. No escape this time.

Jace Withers slouched forward, tux perfect, grin smug. “So what’s it like,” he pitched too loud, “living in a shadow that size? You gonna start calling her Your Highness at breakfast?”

Snickers rippled.

Bree slid in, velvet gleaming like oil. “Or maybe she kept you hidden. Embarrassing, being the ordinary sibling.” Her clique tittered like puppets.

Lucien’s jaw worked, teeth clenched. He didn’t look at me. He never did in moments like this.

A boy from the rope-line piped up. “Come on, man—spill. What’s she really like? We want the dirt.”

My braid jerked—Small Folk fists warning me back from sparking. My cuff seam burned under my fingers. My fire snarled to bite—

And Lucien snapped.

“She’s my sister,” he shot back, voice ringing clear over the music. “The one you’re all whispering about because none of you matter enough to be noticed.” His hazel-green eyes cut through Jace like glass. “So if you’re jealous, own it. Otherwise—move on.”

The laughter cracked. Whispers stalled. Even the music hiccupped.

Jace blinked. Bree’s smile twitched. Around them, students reeled the words in, spun them as gossip, flung them out again.

Did you hear? He defended her.

Guess blood sticks after all.

Lucien flushed pink, jaw set, scent sharp with embarrassment. He yanked at his cuff, tugging until the button strained. But he didn’t take it back. Stubborn as stone.

Guilt and pride knotted tight in my ribs. He shouldn’t have had to fight that battle. He hadn’t asked for my crown to become his cross. And yet, when it mattered, he’d drawn the line.

I wanted to thank him. I wanted to tell him I saw him.

But his eyes slid past me, needing distance more than my fire.

And I let him have it.

The ache sat heavy, pressing at my ribs. It would have rooted there—splintered into another fracture in a bond already strained—if Cassie hadn’t moved.

She stepped into my space like she’d always belonged there, her silver gown slicing light with every deliberate shift of her hips. Liquid metal draped sharp across her body, thigh flashing high through the slit with each pace, jeweled pins scattering sparks through her hair. She extended her hand, palm up, nails frosted pearl against the ballroom glare.

“Dance with me,” she said—quiet enough that only I heard, firm enough to cut through the roar of whispers.

My chest stuttered. The crowd’s noise sharpened immediately, eager knives thrown into the air:

“Together? She’s really—”

“No way she’d risk it, not here—”

“Princess and Fairborn—did you see—”

I slid my hand into hers. The tether thrummed alive between our palms, searing, undeniable.

Cassie led me onto the floor, commander-perfect, every line trained since childhood for moments exactly like this. She didn’t falter, not once, as the music swelled into something built for spectacle.

And I followed—because I wanted to, not because I had to.

My gown breathed firelight with every move, ember hem climbing to orange, to gold, to white flame across my shoulders. The chain of sunburst charms draped across my ribs thrummed faintly with magic, each beat syncing to the music, to my pulse, to hers.

Cassie’s hand at my waist, mine clasped in hers, we fell into the rhythm. Her clean counts carved the path; my fae grace set it alight. Every turn poured light through glass, every spin bled fire and silver together until the crowd’s hush felt like worship.

I loved it. Every second. The music, the sweep of her thigh, the flash of silver slit and ember flame, the way the room’s hunger shifted into awe. Dancing was mine. One of the few things the court hadn’t ruined. And now, with her—it was ours.

Then the slip.

My glamour cracked, star-fleck shimmer bleeding at my temples. Gasps scattered like shrapnel.

Cassie didn’t miss a beat. Her thumb pressed to the inside of my wrist, circling steady. Her eyes caught mine, ice-bright, commanding: breathe.

I did. The shimmer sealed. My fire coiled back into rhythm, obedient under her lead.

The whispers surged harder now, frantic:

“They’re too close—”

“Look at them—are they—”

“Princess, and Fairborn—”

Bree’s voice sliced across the floor, saccharine and cruel: “Every queen needs an accessory. Guess Fairborn volunteered.”

The laughter that followed was brittle, desperate for blood.

Cassie’s head turned, slow as frost creeping over glass. Her voice cut cold, clear, merciless: “Better an accessory than irrelevant.”

Silence snapped down. Bree’s smile cracked.

The tide shifted back. Eyes pressed in on us—hungry, desperate—but they weren’t watching Bree anymore. They were watching us.

Silver and fire twined across the floor, the tether humming so loud it drowned even the music. And for once, I wasn’t shielding.

I was burning.

The song dipped into its final refrain, silver and flame still threading flawless across the floor, when the interruption came.

Nate Ashborne swaggered forward, midnight suit cut like a catalog ad, cufflinks flashing, grin polished to entitlement. “Mind if I steal the Princess for a spin?” His voice pitched too loud, designed to draw laughter. It worked—a ripple of chuckles rose around him.

Cassie didn’t even glance at me for permission. She turned her head, honey waves gleaming like steel polished to a shine. “We’re not available,” she said. Velvet steel. Final.

Nate faltered, grin twitching before he smoothed it back on. “Maybe later,” he tried, retreating with a shrug that didn’t hide the sting.

The whispers churned instantly:

“Princess—did you hear?”

“She’s turning them down—why?”

Michael Sandalwood stepped forward next, softer where Nate was sharp. His dark suit pressed, his expression earnest, his voice pitched low. “Mira. If you’d like a turn.”

For the briefest breath, the crowd held theirs.

Cassie’s hand never left mine. Her nails grazed my palm, grip unyielding. “We’re not available,” she repeated, polite but edged like a blade.

Michael inclined his head, accepting the refusal with grace before stepping back into the tide.

The whispers roared sharper now, gossip gnawing at the edges: Two refusals—what does that mean?Fairborn won’t let her—Are they—

I didn’t hear all of it. My fire was rattling the cage under my skin, not from jealousy but from the way Cassie’s grip held me tighter, the way her scent brightened—sharp citrus, crystalline camellia—every time someone tried to wedge themselves between us. It only drew me deeper into her orbit, until my skin hummed like molten glass.

And underneath it all, I could feel the ugly fingerprint of Daevan and Zyrella in the leak that had fed this frenzy. This wasn’t about Nate or Michael. It was about them, punishing me for burning their schemes to ash. For declaring Cassie mine when they’d wanted me chained.

Cassie leaned close enough that her breath brushed my ear, her words for me alone. “Let them try. They won’t win.”

I swallowed the fire down, letting it thrum into the tether instead of the air. I wasn’t jealous. I was consumed.

And Cassie had already made the choice for both of us: we weren’t available.

The music swelled brighter, faster, couples spinning out to fill the floor in a rush of satin and laughter. Cassie steered us cleanly toward the edge, her silver gown slicing through the tide, her hand never once leaving mine.

The whispers followed, sharper than the music itself:

“Not available?”

“She turned both of them down—”

“Then who is she available for?”

Let them gnash. Cassie’s spine stayed straight, her jaw set. Her grip said everything they wanted answered. The message had been delivered: I was hers, she was mine, and no one else was allowed in.

The buffet glittered along the side wall, crystal towers stacked with sugarwork so delicate it looked sculpted. At the center, roses spun from sugar into translucent petals rested in chilled glass bowls. Students plucked them with jeweled tongs, laughter snapping sharp as the petals dissolved on their tongues in bursts of honey and spice. A whole theater of indulgence, meant to distract from the gossip storm still circling us.

I snagged one bloom between my fingers, the sugar already tacky against my skin. I bit down—crack, then melt, rose-sweet fire flooding my mouth, almost too much.

Cassie didn’t bother with candy. She leaned against the table like it was hers, captain’s poise in every line, eyes scanning the room as if each whisper was a move she’d already countered. Her hand brushed mine again, grounding as she murmured, low enough only I heard, “Don’t let them take it from you.”

“I won’t.” My fire still thrummed, too bright under my skin, but her words cut cleaner than sugar. Cooling me. Claiming me.

Movement flickered at the edge of my vision—the Small Folk.

They perched among bowls and glasses, unseen by anyone else. One wrestled with a sugar rose half its size, tumbling backward into a scatter of petals. Another perched on a crystal flute, tilting its tiny head in perfect mimic of Cassie’s, like the gesture was sacred. Two more tugged at my hair, braiding and unbraiding the same lock in nervous solidarity.

Cassie’s lips twitched—not quite a smile, but close enough. She saw them too. She always did now. A queen and her consort, marked by a crown no one else could see.

The balcony doors pulled at me like gravity. The ballroom pressed too close—gossip gnawing sharp, chandeliers beating heat down like a cage. Cassie caught the same breath I did and tilted her chin toward the doors.

We slipped out into the night.

Cold air sliced through perfume haze. The city spilled below, lanterns burning along the cliffside like a second sky. My fire curled low and tight, soothed by the chill, soothed by her hand still twined with mine.

For a heartbeat, there was silence. Real silence. No whispers. No cameras. No court. Just us, and the night, our breaths fogging white into the dark.

It wouldn’t last. I could already feel the ritual humming in my marrow, the weight waiting to slam down.

But for that single breath on the balcony, we belonged only to each other.

Cassie leaned against the rail, crystalline blue eyes catching lanternlight, our hands still linked, our lungs pulling in rhythm. For a moment it felt like the city below was ours—lanterns scattering like spilled stars across the cliffside.

Then the music inside cut sharp.

A microphone popped. The swell of voices faltered, hushed.

“Lantern partners to staging!” the MC’s voice boomed.

The words carried even through the balcony doors. They fell like a spell.

Cassie’s hand clenched around mine, instant, unbreakable. The tether between us thrummed so hard it hurt, as if the magic itself had been waiting for this moment.

Inside, the ballroom erupted—chairs scraping, voices spiking, bodies colliding as students scrambled, shouting for partners. A flood of satin and tux, eager hands clasping, desperate not to be left untethered.

Cassie never looked away from me. Her crystalline gaze locked mine, her grip a promise and a warning both. The tether sang, alive and merciless.

Whispers bled through the balcony doors, already sharpened:

“Who’s she going with?”

“It has to be Fairborn—look at them—”

“If they walk in together, that’s it. It’s official.”

The doors loomed like a threshold. Beyond them, the ritual waited. Daevan’s shadow, Zyrella’s smirk, every ounce of pressure threaded into what came next.

Cassie’s fingers laced tight with mine, binding, unbreakable.

“Ready?” she asked, low, only for me.

My heart pounded against the cage of my ribs. My fire rattled, begging to spill. The tether hummed until I swore it might tear the Veil itself open.

I swallowed hard, lifted my chin. “Let them watch.”

Together, we turned back toward the ballroom, the black-silver doors yawning wide like a mouth, the ritual about to begin.