The orchestra shifted into a softer melody, strings humming like a tide turning. For a brief breath, the ballroom eased—lanterns glowing low and gold, sequins and silk whirling across the floor like embers caught in a current.

Naomi moved first. She caught Kess by the wrist before the panther could make some quip and dragged her cleanly into the pattern. Her frame was soldier-precise, every step measured, posture commanding enough that Kess had no room to wrestle control.

“Bossy,” Kess muttered, golden eyes bright as she tried to twist the rhythm into chaos.

“Efficient,” Naomi returned without missing a beat.

Kess laughed—real and loud, the sound ringing over the strings—and let herself be steered. In the turn of a dip, frost shimmered faintly at Naomi’s cuffs like a secret only they knew; Naomi’s mouth curved into something rare and devastating: an unguarded smile.

I let myself watch them a moment longer, warmth threading tight in my chest, before my gaze snagged on Lucien.

He stood stiff at the edge of the floor, ears already pink under the lights. Alina tugged at his hand, coaxing him into the line of dancers. He resisted, awkward as always, tugging at his collar like the tux might strangle him. But Alina only laughed, curls bouncing, and the warmth in her laugh cracked his armor.

“Fine,” I could almost hear him mutter as she spun him clumsily into step. And then—miracle of miracles—he laughed. Soft, startled, but real.

For once, he wasn’t hovering in my shadow, braced for the weight of my crown. For once, he was just a boy with a girl who saw him.

My smile hurt, sharp in my chest.

Cassie tugged my hand, pulling me away from the floor entirely. We slipped onto the balcony, the cold night rushing against my skin like a balm. Below, the city’s lanterns scattered across the dark like galaxies.

“Hands,” she ordered softly.

I obeyed. Her palms wrapped mine, cool at first, then warming as her perfume shifted—citrus sharp deepening into thick vanilla musk. My own scent slipped traitorously, ember-sweet and stargazer bloom unfurling, storm soothed into tenderness.

Her eyes caught mine, crystalline and certain. Then she leaned in, slow but unhesitating, and kissed me.

Not for politics. Not for crowns. Just for us.

Heat curled low in me, dangerous and sweet. I leaned in harder, my hands sliding to her waist, pulling her closer until silk pressed to silk. Her breath hitched against my lips, then steadied as she kissed back, fierce and claiming.

And still Lucien’s words echoed. The quiet admission he’d let slip earlier, the one I’d smiled through because I couldn’t risk unraveling him when we were finally finding our footing again. He didn’t realize how sharp it had cut, how it stirred up parts of myself I hadn’t touched in years.

Now, with Cassie’s lips on mine, it pressed harder. She didn’t know. Not all of it. I told myself it didn’t matter, that I was only ever me, but honesty curled sharp under my ribs. Someday, she’d deserve all of me. But gods, what if telling her meant losing this before it had even begun?

My fingers tapped the three-beat against her waist, my pulse stumbling.

Cassie pulled back just enough to study me, her forehead still pressed to mine. Her smirk was gone; her gaze was razor-sharp and far too knowing. “You’re thinking too hard.”

I froze.

Her thumb brushed my knuckles, grounding, certain. “This is about Lucien, isn’t it?”

The breath caught in my chest. Of course she’d see straight through me. She always did.

“Whatever it is,” she murmured, softer now, “stop chewing yourself alive over it tonight. You’ll tell me when you’re ready. Until then? Just stay here. With me.”

The words unknotted something in my ribs. She didn’t demand. She didn’t press. She just… saw me.

When she kissed me again, I let go of the thought—just for this heartbeat.

When she finally broke away, her forehead rested against mine, breath shallow. “Half the school saw that lantern flare,” she murmured. “They’re already talking. You know what this means, don’t you?”

My heart hammered, tether thrumming in my veins. “That they know you’re mine?”

Her smirk brushed against my lips, sharp as citrus. “That you’re mine.”

A laugh slipped out, shaky and incredulous. The city below glittered; the night pressed cold at my back, but Cassie’s hands kept me warm. Her perfume thickened—vanilla melting over citrus—while my own scent clung traitorously, ember-sweet and stargazer-bloom sharp.

“If nothing else,” I whispered, “I had this. You. Tonight.”

Cassie pulled back just enough to meet my eyes, softer than I’d ever seen her. “You’ll have me tomorrow, too. And after. Stop pretending this ends at midnight, Firebrand.”

Something caught in my throat—fear, hope, maybe both. I kissed her again before I could answer, desperate and sure, holding her like she was the only star in my sky.

Then the call bled through the ballroom like a ripple: “Courts, take your places!”

The music shifted—strings swelling into something stately, deliberate. Conversation folded inward; bodies angled toward the center. The Eight of us were drawn under the lantern dome, circlets catching and glinting the way they always did, like small suns.

I slid to Cassie’s side without thinking; our gowns whispered, our steps fell into the same cadence. Naomi and Kess fell in behind us, frost and shadow making a dangerous line. Lucien wasn’t part of this procession—junior schedules, adult rules—but thinking of him laughing with Alina tugged at my chest all the same.

We began to move.

The processional wound through the ballroom slow and precise. Students parted in glittering waves. Above us the glamour stirred and the lanterns began to descend, one by one, like falling stars. Each perfect sphere drifted down until it hung at kissing height, bathing the room in a soft, holy light.

Gasps scattered. Phones rose like a flock, desperate to pin each angle. Couples leaned under the glow, silhouettes etched sharp in gold. Cheers rose, clapping in time with the music, everyone caught in the illusion of a ritual that felt older than any of us.

I looked at Cassie. Her crescent diadem caught the light, nightglass cool against her hair. Her eyes found mine, steady and sure, and for a breath the noise and the hundred phone screens didn’t matter.

We made it through the night, she said with that look. Not yet, I thought, and let myself believe it for a single, fragile heartbeat.

The corridor funneled us narrow between velvet ropes and glass doors. The air grew cooler; the music became a distant thrum. Overhead chandeliers buzzed faintly, too bright against the polished tile, everything gleaming like it was holding its breath.

Then the lights hiccuped.

Once. Twice. Long enough that voices stuttered and heads tilted up. Laughter thinned into a nervous rustle.

“Old wiring,” someone behind us snorted, trying to laugh.

“Projector glitch,” another said, like a charm to ward off the small panic.

I did not believe it. My skin prickled in a way wiring never made it. This skittered along my nerves like the Veil brushing too close.

The hush widened with every step. You could feel the awareness crawl—students sensing wrongness, teachers’ smiles tightening into panes of practiced calm. One of the chaperones, Mr. Drell, whose jaw rarely betrayed him, stilled and his hand went to his radio with fingers that didn’t quite tremble. That small, human break in the adults’ surface made everything worse.

And then the mist bloomed.

It didn’t float up in polite curls. It poured—an ugly rush against the tiles that split into lashing, reaching tendrils. Silver rimmed each strand, too clean, too fine—like someone had stitched moonlight into smoke and animated it.

It fanned wide, a net unfurling.

Gasps cracked the silence. Somebody shrieked; I heard the high keening like glass. A boy fumbled his phone up, flash snapping before the screen fizzed into static and died. The air hummed, heavy and wrong.

The net flexed once, like a predator testing its spring—and lunged.

Straight for Marisol Vega.

Her rose gown spun as she staggered backward, almost tripping on the hem. Hair slipped from its pins, hands rising uselessly as if to wave away smoke. Her face—wide hazel eyes, palm-prints of lanternlight—went white with something that wasn’t just surprise. It was the look of someone realizing she’d been singled out.

For a heartbeat I thought it would take her.

And then the mist snapped.

It jerked sideways, as though someone invisible had yanked a leash, and every tendril curved in unison.

Toward Cassie.

The corridor lights guttered again, plunging us into strips of shadow. Her silver gown caught what light remained, flashing molten-white as her crescent diadem burned at her brow like a signal flare. The net locked onto it. Onto her.

I couldn’t breathe.

The mist surged, curling high, widening, stretching for her shoulders, her crown, her throat. The crowd screamed, bodies surging back, shoes scraping over tile, perfume thickening as people collided in blind panic. Phones dropped, clattering useless to the ground.

Cassie didn’t move at first. She froze, body seizing tight like an animal scenting the trap too late. Her fingers twitched against her skirt, the smallest reflex, and then her eyes snapped to mine.

I’d seen her eyes sharp with rivalry. I’d seen them soft with laughter, molten with heat. I’d seen them cutting, icy, perfect.

But this was different.

They were wide, startled — not with fear exactly, but with the raw realization that she was the target. That whoever had planned this hadn’t come for me, not first. They’d come for her.

My chest locked. Fire screamed under my skin, thrashing for release. Sparks cracked off my fingertips before I even moved, tiny flares licking the air.

The net was close enough now that I could hear it — a thin, keening hiss like breath drawn through teeth, wrong and deliberate. It scraped at the edges of my senses, Veil-tainted, reeking of ozone and copper, like a forge gone sour.

Cassie took half a step back, not elegant, not deliberate. Just human. Just flesh and bone with a crown on her head, and the mist wanted her.

Students shoved harder against the velvet ropes, crying out, tripping over each other in glittering gowns and polished shoes. One of the teachers shouted for calm, brittle and unconvincing. The air itself vibrated with panic, rising, cresting.

And through all of it, the mist kept stretching.

Closer.

Her perfume hit me — not just citrus anymore, but the thick vanilla that only came when adrenaline ripped through her composure. It slammed into me like a bell, like a warning.

My body moved before thought. Instinct, rage, training — I didn’t know. Just that I would not let it touch her.

Not her.

The mist surged. The hooded figure stepped free of it — tall, lean, their mask a sliver of steel carved with shallow runes that pulsed sickly red. In their hand, a charm like a shard of bone-black glass twisted in symbols I didn’t recognize, bleeding power into the net.

Cassie was the target. I could feel it in the way their head snapped toward her, in the predator flex of their stance.

Roran slammed his bracers forward, and a heat-shield burst to life, the air warping like molten glass. The mist hit it hard, hissing and spitting, but the shield held, shoving the tendrils wide.

Naomi struck next, palm sweeping down. Frost exploded across the tile, racing out like a river frozen in an instant. Tendrils that touched it crackled, froze solid, and shattered into glittering shards.

Kess darted low, dagger a silver flash. She spun past Cassie, teeth bared, and slashed through the writhing edges of the net until smoke bled thin and screaming.

The corridor still howled with panic, students surging back, phones clattering and shattering. The teachers’ voices vanished beneath chaos.

And the figure came through anyway.

They shoved a hand against Roran’s shield. The heat warped, shimmered, buckled under the strain of runes biting at its surface. His jaw clenched, sweat beading as he locked it firm. “Move,” he growled.

I moved.

I lunged straight for the figure. Sparks bled off my fists as I struck, fire spitting with each impact. My foot planted sharp, hip turning clean, elbow slicing into the mask with a crack that jolted up my arm. Heat shimmered where I connected — and left a scorch mark glowing faintly on the steel.

They staggered but didn’t fall. Their free hand shot out, lightning-fast, fingers clawing for my throat.

I caught their wrist, twisted, shoved my knee into their gut. Fire flared at the contact, fabric of my gown ripping where it caught, hem smoking. They buckled but rolled with it, slamming a shoulder into me so hard my back cracked against the velvet-roped post. The circlet on my head nearly slipped, hair tumbling free.

Cassie’s gasp cut through the noise, sharp and too close.

I shoved off the post and swung again. Fist, elbow, strike after strike — each one sparking, tiles scorched where I missed. Tharion’s voice echoed in me: precision, not rage. End it clean. But they fought like smoke, absorbing, twisting. My blows landed, but never hard enough to finish.

They lashed the charm across the air. A tendril of mist snapped free, lashing around Cassie’s waist. She cried out, wrenching against it, her gown flashing silver as fabric tore.

Something in me broke.

I tore forward, flame trailing from my palms, low and vicious, sweeping their legs. They crashed to the tile, the charm skidding away, red light guttering. I dropped on them, pinning their chest with my knee, elbow at their throat. Sparks crackled down my arm, singeing the collar of their cloak.

“Not her,” I snarled, voice raw. Fire licked the words. “You don’t touch her.”

They writhed, fingers clawing for the charm. Kess’s dagger slammed down, pinning it to the tile before they could reach. The figure hissed, alien and muffled behind the mask.

Roran barked orders, his shield straining as cracks spidered through the molten barrier. Naomi’s frost spread again, sealing tendrils into brittle shards that shattered underfoot. Cassie pulled free of the smoky coil, staggering back to the wall, clutching her diadem with one hand, reaching for me with the other.

I pressed harder at the figure’s throat, flame searing against steel. One more strike and I could end it. One more—

The runes on their mask flared.

They twisted, faster than should have been possible, and shoved a palm to the floor. A pulse of Veil-tainted energy slammed outward, rattling the tiles. My balance snapped; heat roared back into me uncontrolled. The floor seemed to fold — and the figure was up, slipping from my grasp like water.

They darted for the service door. Metal screeched as it blew inward, hinges warping.

Naomi hurled ice, Kess’s blade spun, Roran’s shield flared.

But the figure stepped into the smoke, body shimmering at the edges — teleport, phase, I didn’t know. Just gone.

The charm clattered to ash on the tiles, useless without them. Worse remained: a sigil scorched into the stone, smoking, pulsing with Veil-taint. Each beat landed against my ribs like a hammer.

Cassie stood against the wall, chest rising too fast, hand shaking as it clutched mine the instant I was close enough.

“I’m fine,” she whispered, steady and steel.

Her grip said otherwise.

Marisol crouched nearby, rose gown wilted, coughs rattling her chest but breath returning. Students clustered, voices quavering, desperate to believe the cover story the teachers spread — fog machine malfunction, projector glitch, nothing more.

Roran dropped his arm, shield vanishing with a hiss. “Form perimeter. Eyes open.” His tone cut through, no patience for lies.

Naomi scanned smooth, frost ghosting her cuffs, eyes narrowed violet steel. Kess twirled her blade restless, every line of her posture screaming for a fight denied.

The crowd wanted to scatter, but the teachers forced smiles, waving kids forward, insisting the ceremony continue. A glitch. Just tech. Nothing to see here.

But on the tiles where the attacker had vanished, the lie crumbled.

The sigil pulsed faintly, thrumming Veil-taint, branded deep as if the stone itself had burned from the inside out.

I couldn’t look away.

Cassie’s hand slipped into mine, trembling though her chin was high, her crown straight. Her silver gown was still perfect; her mask of poise uncracked. But her pulse thundered through our joined palms, her perfume sharp vanilla with an edge of smoke. She was forcing stillness, forcing steel, refusing to let anyone see she’d been shaken.

Neither would I.

Even if I looked it.

My glamour had cracked under the strain, shreds of it scattered like broken glass. My hair burned its true firelit red, my starlit eyes bare for anyone to see. My gown was torn across the side and shoulder, fabric ripped and scorched where my strikes had bled sparks. Skin showed in jagged slashes — bare thigh where silk had burned away, shoulder exposed, blood welling sluggish where the claws had caught me. Fae healing tried to stitch it, but not fast enough. Bruises already bloomed purple-dark against my ribs.

The students saw. All of them.

They saw a princess fight.

They saw me.

The teachers kept smiling, spinning their desperate story — fog machines, projection glitches, lighting effects. Their voices rang too bright, too thin, selling safety to a crowd that already knew better.

Because the crowd had watched me throw fire with my bare hands. Watched my gown burn. Watched the mask slip.

A hush threaded under the chaos, different from panic. Students whispering, heads bent together, eyes flicking toward me and Cassie, then away again. Not disbelief. Not denial. A vow. A secret traded on the spot. Their princess was something more, and they would not sell me to the world that would devour me for it.

Except Bree.

She stood near the dais, chestnut hair gleaming under the lantern light, smile fixed but eyes narrowed razor-sharp. Her gaze roved over every tear in my dress, every shimmer of unglamoured fire in my hair, and her nails bit crescents into her palm. She didn’t whisper with the others. She didn’t vow. She only watched. And waited.

Cassie’s hand tightened around mine. “We’re going back in,” she said, steel over the quake in her voice.

I lifted my chin, blood still warm against my collarbone, heat still smoking off the torn silk. I would not falter.

We returned to the ballroom in formation — crowns polished, posture perfect. To everyone else, we were the Eight Courts, stars of the night, untouchable.

Lanterns burned overhead. Strings swelled. Students cheered like nothing had happened.

But every time I blinked, I still saw it: the sigil scorched into the tile.

The lanterns burned for us. The shadows took notes. And I’ve seen that sigil somewhere before.