The sheets are a battlefield—white silk caught around my ankles like snares, a pillow half off the edge, Cassie’s thigh thrown over mine as if annexation were a love language. She sleeps like she wins: aggressively. The curtains are cracked just enough for dawn to slip in, bossy and gold, striping the bed and the ribbon of bandage snug around my ribs.

I stretch. Pain answers—dull, traitorous. A hiss escapes before I can cage it. Cassie’s arm tightens over my waist on instinct, protective even in sleep. Of course.

“Morning,” she murmurs, voice rough and smug. Her breath is warm against my shoulder. I can smell her already: frosted citrus and white camellia, a chilled vanilla undertone that always makes something in me go soft.

“You know what’s worse than cracked ribs?” I mutter into my pillow.

“Waking up married to me?” The corner of her mouth lifts against my skin.

“Waking up early for school when I could be in training.”

She laughs—clean and bright, like a blade raised to sunlight. “Don’t pretend you don’t want to show off your first-day princess strut.”

“Strut requires working ribs. These are currently traitors.”

“Tragic.” She shifts, the mattress dipping as she props herself on an elbow. “Tharion excused us from dawn drills so your ‘traitors’ can rejoin the realm of the living.”

“Tharion excused us,” I echo, scowling at the ceiling. “I didn’t excuse me.” I tap a three-beat rhythm against the sheet to keep from spiraling—tap-tap-tap—then force my hand still.

We peel ourselves out of the tangle. Cute pajamas weren’t designed for tactical extraction; mine are soft green shorts and a little cami I bought because Cassie said the color made my eyes “dangerous.” Her set is silk with a razor-clean trim she claims is “accidentally” couture. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand too fast. The room flares white at the edges and my ribs speak a new dialect of profanity. I breathe shallowly and ride it out.

Cassie notices—she always does. A half step closer, not quite touching, but there if I tip. “Shower?” she asks, already untwisting her ponytail, the citrus in her scent brightening with wakefulness.

“Would if I wanted to cough up blood in the steam,” I say. “So… no.”

“Quick rinse for me.” She kisses the corner of my mouth in passing—careful of the way I stiffen when pain spikes—and disappears into the bath. Water hisses to life. I stand in the doorway for a heartbeat, listening. It’s absurd how grounding the mundane can be: the thrum of pipes, the glassy hush of water on marble, the clink as she sets her ring in the little dish we keep by the sink.

I turn to the mirror over my vanity and freeze.

Emerald eyes. Natural ginger hair, silky and stubborn. Rounded human ears peeking through. No glamour. No mask. Just me.

First day I’ve ever gotten ready for anything as a human on purpose. My stomach tilts. The air near me tastes like rain before it breaks and the sweetness of toasted marshmallow—my baseline—wavers, thinned by nerves. I roll the seam of my pajama strap between finger and thumb until the texture overrides the urge to bolt.

“Hey.” Cassie’s reflection appears behind mine—damp hair combed sleek, skin flushed from steam. She slides her hands to my shoulders, thumbs skimming the curve just above the bandage’s edge, not pressing, just present. “You’re thinking so loud I can hear it over the water.”

“I hate feeling naked,” I say. “And not the fun way.”

Her eyes meet mine in the glass. Crystalline, steady. “You’re not naked. You’re honest.” A beat. “And we’re going to weaponize it.”

“Weaponize honesty,” I deadpan. “Bold strategy.”

“It’s optics.” Her voice goes captain-calm. “Ravenrest expects pageantry. Give them the kind that says we choose what they see.”

I swallow. My scent steadies—marshmallow warmth reasserting, stargazer bloom threading through—and I nod, once. “Fine. Let’s make the uniforms bleed royalty.”

“Atta girl.”

We raid the wardrobe like we’re planning a siege. Underwear first—because my mother would have an aneurysm if a Firebrand heir left a room in anything less than curated. I move gingerly, easing out of my cami and shorts, hating the way the bandage drags when fabric brushes it. The underthings she picked for me are soft and supportive, sea-glass green satin with tiny flame-stitching along the edges that only we will notice. I breathe easier once they’re on, like my body has been reassembled with gentler lines.

Cassie tosses me a fresh pair of knee-highs and slides into her own set—ice-white with a clean silver edge. She looks unfairly gorgeous simply existing. I roll my eyes at her on principle and she pretends not to be pleased.

Uniforms: standard Ravenrest blazer and skirt, crisp blouse, regulation tie. Mortal cotton. Mortal shapes. Not enough. We lay them out on the bed and start altering by inches.

“Lose the school tie, use ribbon,” Cassie decides, already sifting through the box of accessories that lives on my vanity like a dragon’s hoard. She picks a ribbon the color of storm-soft slate for herself and hands me one in deep summer-berry. “We anchor with the same knot so it reads intentional.”

“Brooch?” I ask, fishing a discreet crest pin from the tray—a sun-veiled-in-star metalwork piece my mother approved for ‘mortal-safe’ wear.

Cassie tilts her head, assessing. “Left lapel for you. Right for me. Symmetry without sameness.”

I swap the regulation belt for a narrow braided leather one with a barely-there shimmer, nothing that will trip the mortal eye as magic. Cassie shortens my skirt a finger’s breadth—not scandalous, just queen-sharp—and cuffs my blazer sleeves once so the white lining flashes when I move. She tucks a tiny charm—purely sentimental, not active—into my inner pocket: the scrap of ribbon I tied around her bracelet the night we chose us.

“Shoes,” she says, dropping to a knee with a smirk when I hiss trying to bend. “Allow me, Your Highness.”

“Mockery noted.” I brace on her shoulder while she eases my feet into polished loafers with soft arch supports (a miracle my mother will never understand). When I’m upright again, I test a careful breath. The bandage pulls but holds. The burn of earlier settles into ache.

“Blouse,” she prompts.

I reach for buttons, then pause at the third when pain flares. My fingers stutter. Tap-tap-tap against the placket—three beats, reset. Cassie’s hand covers mine, warm and certain.

“I’ve got it,” she says quietly.

“I can—”

“Mira.” One word. Grounding. I let go.

She closes the buttons—light, efficient—and smooths the fabric around the binder wrap without pushing. The citrus in her scent brightens with focus; the camellia edge sharpens, the exact smell of her game face. Mine answers without permission: stargazer bloom lifts, sweet and bold, and the faintest breath of ocean rain threads through, trying to cool my nerves. The charge between us hums. I know she feels it too; her mouth curves, small and private.

“Hair?” I ask, voice steadier.

“Half-up for you,” she decides. “Royal without being pretentious. Keep the length soft.”

“Pretentious is our brand,” I say, but sit on the vanity stool anyway. Lifting my arms for too long makes my ribs complain; she slides behind me and takes over. Her fingers move sure and gentle, comb-through, gather, twist. I roll a silky ginger strand between my fingers when anxiety pricks—one of my stims I haven’t managed to kill—and she taps my pinky with hers, a tiny hook that says here, here, here, without words.

She pins the twist with a slim barrette that looks mortal to mortal eyes and very much not to anyone who knows what summer-worked steel can do. (It’s inert today. Mother’s rule. My rule.) Loose ginger waves fall over my shoulders, catching the light. Human. Honest. Mine.

“Makeup,” I announce, reaching for eyeliner like a weapon.

Cassie arches a brow. “With those ribs?”

“I am not walking in bare-faced on our first day back as Princess and Consort, I—”

The first lean toward the mirror jabs a white-hot line under my wrap. The brush skitters. I curse under my breath, rain in my scent deepening with frustration.

Cassie’s hand closes over mine before I can ruin it. “If you smear eyeliner on your bandages again, I’m divorcing you.”

I glare at her reflection. “You can’t.”

“Technically, I can,” she says, all ice-clean calm. “Your mom wouldn’t allow it, but I can threaten paperwork.”

“Monster.”

“Sit still, Firebrand.”

I sit. She steps between my knees, steadying my chin with a fingertip. Up close, she smells like cool lemon over fresh linen, vanilla musk warming by degrees. My own scent leans toward caramelized marshmallow at the edges, that telltale hint that I’m a little too aware of her mouth so close to mine. She doesn’t comment—saint that she is—but her eyes flick to my lips, then back up with professional cruelty.

She works in quiet efficiency: a clean wing that looks like it could cut; soft shadow to make the green of my human eyes go unreal; mascara, steady and slow. “Blink,” she orders. I obey. She dabs a touch of balm at my mouth, then pauses, thumb hovering like a secret. “You okay?”

“Ask me after first period,” I say, trying for careless and landing somewhere short. A faint singe of lightning lives in the air between us—potential, not threat—then fades when she smiles.

“Fair.” She steps back, assessing the whole package with a critic’s eye. “Almost.”

“Almost?” I echo, affronted.

She opens the drawer and pulls out the ribbon bracelet I gave her—the ember-cord I braided myself. She ties it around my wrist, snug, the knot she taught me sitting neat against my pulse. “Now.” A firm tug at my blazer hem. “Best damn princess.”

I breathe. The world rights by a degree. The marshmallow warmth holds; stargazer bloom settles proud and bright; the ocean-rain thread says go on, then. I stand carefully. Ribs complain. I ignore them.

Cassie loops our fingers together for one heartbeat—pinky hook, our smallest promise—and releases. She turns to her own face, going quicker: razor-sharp ponytail; tie exchanged for that slate ribbon; her blazer structured like armor. She pins the mortal-safe crest on the opposite lapel from mine so we mirror without matching. On her, the look becomes command. On me, it feels like defiance.

“Ready?” she asks.

“No.” I smooth the cuff once, twice—cuff glide, reset—and meet her eyes in the mirror. “Yes.”

She grins, bright and lethal. “Then let them stare.”

I snort, which hurts, which I refuse to show. “They were going to anyway.”

From the hall: a measured knock. Not Roran’s cadence. Not my brother’s impatient thump. A new rhythm—cool, exact.

Cassie and I trade a look. My chin lifts all on its own.

“Best damn princess,” she murmurs.

“Watch me,” I say, and reach for the door.

The door swings open to reveal a wall. Or that’s what my ribs think, because the woman standing there radiates presence like stone warmed by sun.

She’s tall, lithe muscle wrapped in fitted black, hair braided back in a no-nonsense line. Amber eyes rake the room, quick as knives, cataloging everything—me, Cassie, the state of our uniforms, probably how many heartbeats a second I’m running.

“Kaelenya Emberveil,” she says, voice flat as steel. “Call me Kael.”

Just like that. No smile, no bow. Not even a flicker when Cassie tilts her head, every inch Consort-captain, and arches a brow.

I glance at Cassie. She glances at me. Same thought, same spark.

“So, Kael,” I begin, leaning into the doorframe like my ribs aren’t screaming mutiny. “Favorite food?”

Cassie picks it up without missing a beat. “Worst fear?”

“First crush?” I add, grinning.

Kael blinks once, slow. Then: “Breakfast. Dying in a ditch. Your wife, unfortunately.”

Cassie chokes on air. My laugh breaks free, sharp and bright, the marshmallow in my scent caramelizing around the stargazer bloom’s sweet spice. “Unfortunate for who?”

“Me,” Kael deadpans.

That’s when another shadow slides up the hall—this one familiar. Roran leans against the wall with the kind of smirk that makes me want to throw something at him. His presence burns steady, protective, smoldering iron and cedar grounding me whether I like it or not.

“Don’t waste your breath,” he says, eyes flicking between us. “She’s worse than me.”

“Impossible,” I mutter.

Cassie groans, already sensing her fate. “Great. Two shadows.”

I cross my arms, ignoring the pull on my ribs. “We’ll find the cracks eventually.”

Kael doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to. Her stare says good luck, princess, without a single word.

And saints help me, I grin back.

The dining hall is a cathedral of light this morning. Gold spills through the east windows, catching on the crystal goblets lined across the long table, glinting off silver service polished within an inch of its life. I’ve sat here a hundred times before and never noticed the way the wood gleams like honey under sunlight, never let myself. But now it feels… different. Less like a stage, more like a home.

Mom sits at the head of the table, tablet angled against a porcelain bowl of berries. She’s flawless, of course—hair braided into a crown, gown the color of late-summer firelight—but the difference isn’t in her clothes. It’s in the way she looks up when we walk in. Her eyes meet mine not with the weight of the High Lady assessing an asset, but with something I’ve craved for seventeen years and almost stopped believing I’d get. Warmth. Concern.

My chest pulls tight. Not pain, not ribs—something deeper.

“Sit,” she says, voice smooth, melodic, but softer than command. Two plates are already laid at our places, steam rising from eggs scattered with herbs, toast stacked golden, fruit sliced into neat crescents.

Cassie and I slide into our chairs, side by side. I can feel the subtle brush of her knee against mine under the table—a grounding press. My fingers toy with the cuff of my blazer, smoothing the seam back and forth, reset, reset.

Mom scrolls once on the tablet, stylus poised. “The convoy will leave in twenty minutes. Routes have been adjusted. Glamoured guards will remain visible. Drivers will rotate. Veil wards have been placed around the school perimeter—no foreign magic without my leave.”

The words are precise, but the tone… not cold. Protective. For me.

I stab a cube of melon harder than necessary. “You make it sound like we’re invading the city, not going to class.”

Her head tilts, elegant, amused, and the faintest smile ghosts her mouth. “The difference depends on whether you behave.”

Cassie snorts into her juice, choking down a laugh. I kick her under the table, but my own lips betray me, twitching upward.

Because this—this is what I’ve wanted. A mom who teases. Who makes rules because she cares, not just because it serves the Court. My scent betrays me, marshmallow sweetness rising, bloom steady and bright, ocean-rain whispering soft in the air between us.

“Don’t encourage her,” I mutter, aiming it at Cassie but not meaning it.

Cassie only smirks, crystalline eyes daring me to admit how much I’m enjoying this. She takes another deliberate sip, her citrus-clean scent spiking sharp as victory.

I reach for toast, buttering it one-handed while my ribs protest every stretch. Mom watches, stylus forgotten for a beat, her gaze sharpening—not the political kind. The mother kind.

“Does it still hurt?” she asks, low enough that it’s almost just for me.

My throat knots. Saints, no one ever asks me that. Not like this. Not without expecting performance. I shrug, focusing too hard on cutting my toast into neat triangles. “It’s fine.”

Cassie’s eyes cut sideways at me, calling me a liar without a word. Mom doesn’t press, but she doesn’t look away either. Something unspoken lingers in her gaze, something that says she knows I’m hurting and that she wishes she could take it from me.

I don’t know what to do with that. I want to throw it back at her, scream that it’s too little too late. I want to crawl across the table and fold myself into her like a child who never stopped needing her. I do neither. I just chew toast, three-beat tap against my thigh to ground myself.

She returns to the tablet eventually, though her eyes flick back to me more than once. “Drivers have your bags loaded. Guards will maintain rotation. Kaelenya will shadow Cassandra. Roran remains primary on you, Mira.”

“Two shadows,” Cassie mutters, dry.

“Better than none,” Mom says smoothly, but there’s humor in it. Real humor.

The breath that leaves me is half a laugh, half a sob I choke down. Cloud nine doesn’t begin to cover it. For the first time, breakfast doesn’t feel like politics. It feels like family.

The front doors of Emberhall yaw open, spilling us into morning light so bright it makes my eyes ache. The air smells of dew on stone and the faint perfume of roses curling up from the garden beds. For half a heartbeat, I think maybe—just maybe—today will be normal.

Because there, gleaming like a promise, is my car. Sleek black coupe, polished to a mirror shine, waiting at the base of the stairs. My baby. My freedom.

I take one step down toward it—only one—before the growl of engines splits the air.

Three black SUVs roll into the drive like a miniature invasion force, paint catching sun in hard angles, tinted windows blank as threat. Doors pop open in unison. Drivers step out, suited, impersonal, waiting.

Cassie and I groan at the same time. Perfect harmony.

I lean close, muttering, “Do you think if we run fast enough—”

“No,” Kael says flatly from behind us.

“Absolutely not,” Roran adds, tone all iron finality.

I slump. “Spoilsports.”

Cassie smirks, sliding her hand down my arm as if to keep me from bolting. “Best damn princess, remember? Princesses don’t carjack their own ride.”

“Maybe they should,” I mutter, stomping toward the nearest SUV. The door opens like a waiting mouth.

Cassie slides in first, smooth and unbothered, as if she was born to armored convoys. I follow, ribs aching with every move, my scent wavering between marshmallow comfort and the salt-wet thread of rain. I sink into leather seats that smell too much like politics and not nearly enough like freedom.

Roran and Kael follow without a word, one on each side, boxing us in. Solid walls disguised as people. The door clicks shut and the sound might as well be a lock.

I rest my temple against the cool glass, watching my coupe recede in the mirror as the SUVs lurch forward. My ribs throb with every bump in the road, but it isn’t just the pain. It’s the way I feel contained. Like a human. Like glass instead of fire.

“I hate this,” I whisper, fogging the window.

Cassie nudges her knee against mine—grounding, steady. Her citrus-bright scent softens, a thread of vanilla musk weaving through, warm and stubborn. “Desperate enough to face a horde of gawkers though.”

I sigh, dragging breath shallow against the ache. My fire stirs anyway, sparking faint in my chest, a molten heartbeat I can’t quite smother.

“Desperate enough to be seen,” I murmur, watching the city gates rise to meet us. “Even like this.”

The ride feels longer than it is. Streets blur past in a wash of glass and gray stone, but every turn just knots me tighter. By the time the convoy slows, my ribs ache from bracing against the seat, and the marshmallow warmth in my scent has thinned to something sharper, saltier—storm building over the sea.

The SUVs swing into Ravenrest Heights Academy’s courtyard like a funeral procession. Morning light hits polished windows, ricocheting across brick and glass. Kids cluster in the usual places—by lockers, benches, the wide steps into the lobby. Voices chatter, sneakers scuff, laughter spikes too high.

And then they see us.

Sound dims like someone drew a curtain. Phones appear first, raised like weapons, red recording lights already blinking. Flashes go off before a single door opens.

I catch Cassie’s eye across the seat. Her mouth curves, sharp and dangerous. She’s not just ready—she’s hungry for this.

“Best damn princess,” she whispers, echoing what she told me upstairs.

“Best damn consort,” I fire back, and the door opens.

We step out together. Blazers crisp, ribbons tied, shoes polished, every detail sharpened into armor. Shoulders squared, hands linked for the barest heartbeat before falling to our sides. Every inch the spectacle they expect: the princess and her wife.

Roran and Kael fall into place immediately, shadows at our backs, and the ripple it sends through the courtyard is audible: the gasp of realization, the whispers blooming like wildfire.

“She looks normal…”

“No, I swear I saw wings at the dance—”

“Wait—Cassie’s her wife?!”

Phones click, voices climb, but Cassie and I keep moving, each step deliberate. If they want a show, we’ll give them one.

A low whistle cuts the air. Jace Withers, leaning against a pillar, smirk dialed up to maximum. “Guess study hall’s going to be more interesting this year.”

“Careful, Jace,” Nate Ashborne calls, louder, eager for attention. “Don’t distract the princess. She might put you in the dungeon.”

I stop just long enough to let my lips curl into a smile sharp enough to bite. “Not the worst idea you’ve had.”

Cassie slides the knife in without missing a step. “And you’d look terrible in chains.”

The crowd erupts—half in laughter, half in sharper whispers. Nate flushes, but he doubles down, puffing his chest like the golden boy he thinks he is.

And then—salvation.

Michael Sandalwood edges forward, hands awkward in his blazer pockets, voice steady but kind. “Ignore them. We’re glad you’re back, Mira. Really.”

The bloom in my scent lifts, warmer, grateful, though I school my face into neutral.

Ashlyn Dannon appears at his shoulder, posture perfect, voice smooth enough to pass for official. “It’s good for the school. For everyone. Ravenrest can handle this.”

Does she believe it? Hard to say. But the way her words glide across the courtyard is enough to still some of the whispers, at least for now.

And of course, peace never lasts.

Because here comes Bree Halden.

She glides forward with that polished saccharine smile she’s been practicing since she could talk, posture flawless, uniform immaculate, hair too perfect to be mortal. “You’re so brave, Mira,” she says, tone dripping honey. “Hiding all this time must’ve been so hard. Imagine keeping a secret that big from your friends.”

My fork-tight spine stiffens before I can stop it, the ocean-rain thread in my scent swelling. She knows exactly what she’s doing—sweet enough to sound supportive, sharp enough to draw blood.

Cassie’s response is instant, lethal. “Imagine trying to be relevant and failing.”

The courtyard gasps. Bree’s smile doesn’t falter, but her eyes sharpen, crystalline edge beneath the sugar. The seed of gossip is planted—watered, even—and she’ll let the crowd do the rest.

I’m ready to fire back, flame-hot retort coiling behind my teeth—

—but salvation arrives again, this time in the form of anchors.

Naomi shoulders through the gawkers first, white hair bright against her darker jacket, shoulders squared like she’s clearing a battlefield. Kess prowls at her side, grin wide and teeth bared like she’s already spoiling for a fight.

“Back up, all of you,” Naomi growls. “This isn’t a zoo.”

Kess flashes her teeth, dangerous and delighted. “Unless you want to see how fast I can clear the courtyard.”

The crowd stumbles back, cowed, phones lowering a fraction though not enough.

And then, because fate likes to humiliate me, my brother’s voice cuts through. “You’re worse than reality TV,” Lucien mutters as he squeezes into the circle, Alina shadowing him.

“Compliment accepted,” I shoot back, smirk sharpening as the marshmallow warmth in my scent curls around the bloom, pride layered over irritation.

Alina’s gaze sweeps the courtyard, sharp as glass. “Half of them are staring because they’re scared,” she murmurs, voice calm but cutting. “The other half because they’re curious. Figure out which is which, and the rest will follow.”

Her words strike home. My chin lifts, shoulders set. The weight of every phone, every whisper presses down, but I remember: best damn princess.

The first bell rings, splitting the moment clean. Groans rise as students scatter, reluctant, but the phones stay high. This will be everywhere on VeilNet before lunch.

Cassie’s hand finds mine, fingers curling with quiet command. “Best damn princess, remember?”

My lips curve, heat sparking in my chest despite the ache of my ribs. “Watch me.”