The bell is a starting gun, not a mercy. The second it shrieks, the hallway detonates—lockers slamming, voices ricocheting, phones rising like a forest of black mirrors. Shoulder-to-shoulder, sweat and perfume and cafeteria grease pressing in from every angle.

Roran and Kael close ranks instantly, flanking us so tight I can feel their presence like armor. Two more guards block the stairwell at the far end, a living barricade. None of it stops the swarm.

“Is it true you live in a palace?”

“Can you do magic right now?”

“Cassie, are you really a princess too?”

Cassie leans in, muttering through a smile sharp enough to cut glass. “Feels less like dismissal, more like paparazzi training.”

I force my mouth into something approximating regal composure. “Best damn princess, remember? Head high. Smile fake.”

Cassie answers one of the braver voices, sharp as her grin: “Yes, she does live in a palace. No, you don’t get an invite.”

I add, before I can stop myself, “And yes, she really is my wife. So maybe stop asking.”

The ripple of shocked giggles and frantic typing that follows makes me want to sink into the tile.

We move, but every step grinds against my ribs, each inhale a knife sliding between bone and lung. By the time we reach my locker, the weight of my bag feels like a boulder chained to me. I plant one hand against the metal, fighting the urge to crumple, and drag the other over the lock. My fingers shake, the combination slipping once, twice.

Behind me, Roran’s voice rumbles, low and steady. “Let me carry it.”

“No.” The word snaps out too fast, brittle as glass. I wrench the locker open, books thudding into my arms like they’re made of stone. “I can manage.”

“You can’t,” Cassie cuts in, voice crisp as frost. Her hand darts out, steadying the pile before it topples. “You’ll never heal if you don’t let people help you. I thought your mother already broke you of this, you stubborn princess.”

The title lands like both a scold and a caress, and saints, it burns more than the ribs do. My three-beat tap starts against the locker door, frantic.

Somewhere in the crowd, a whisper carries, too loud to miss: “She smells like marshmallows.”

Another answers, awed: “Told you it wasn’t perfume.”

Heat races up my neck. The marshmallow warmth in my scent flares brighter without permission—sweet, cloying, undeniable. If they’re going to whisper about me, let them drown in it. Cassie snorts so hard she almost doubles over, her laugh citrus-bright and merciless. Roran flicks her a look that says not helping.

My arms wobble under the weight. My ribs scream. Pride hisses don’t give in, but Cassie’s glare is sharper than steel, and Roran just waits, steady as a wall. My grip falters.

“Fine,” I grind out, shoving the stack toward him. “But only because if I break something else, you’ll both never let me hear the end of it.”

Roran takes the load like it weighs nothing. “Correct,” he says, deadpan.

The crowd titters. Phones flash. My cheeks burn. And me? I square my shoulders, force the fake smile wider, and let go of the weight.

Not just of the books.

Ashlyn Dannon glides out of the chaos like she’s been rehearsing her entrance in the mirror all morning. Glossed lips, hair tucked just so, student council badge gleaming on her lapel like it’s a coronet. She sweeps close, palms together like she’s about to curtsy.

“Princess Mira,” she says, pitched so everyone within three lockers can hear. “Allow me to carry those—a show of unity from student council.”

My ribs ache, but not half as much as my jaw does from keeping the smile in place. I dip my chin, warmth stitched into my tone, every inch of me polished princess. “That’s thoughtful of you, Ashlyn. But unnecessary. Roran has it handled.”

Her smile flickers, just for a beat, before snapping back into place. “Of course,” she purrs, stepping aside. The crowd hums approval, not for her, but for the fact that I thanked her. Optics cut both ways.

Cassie’s fingers brush mine, brief and grounding. “Best damn politician,” she mouths. I almost laugh. Almost.

But then Nate Ashborne barrels in, all too-practiced grin plastered across his face. “So, Princess,” he drawls loud enough for the phones to catch, “still planning to cheer at Friday’s game?”

Cassie stiffens beside me, scent sharpening like citrus and steel. My ribs are screaming, but my patience snaps first.

“If I do,” I say, voice pitched sugar-sweet, smile sharper than glass, “it won’t be for you.”

The crowd erupts. Laughter ricochets down the hall. Phones catch every second of Nate’s jaw tightening, his smirk collapsing like wet paper. Cassie exhales a laugh bright enough to spark a riot, and for half a second the ache in my chest feels almost worth it.

And then Jace Withers drifts by, phone raised like a scepter, recording everything with that smirk that makes me want to incinerate his eyebrows. “History project just got easier,” he says. “Princess footage, extra credit guaranteed.”

Cassie rolls her eyes so hard I swear I hear them click. My three-beat tap hits my thigh in rhythm with my mutter, low enough for only her: “If looks were daggers…”

She finishes it for me, dry as sandpaper: “He’d already be dead.”

We share a glance, quick and wicked. And the crowd? They eat it alive.

The cheerleaders descend in a wave of perfume and glitter gloss, trays clutched like props in some half-rehearsed skit.

“When’s the fundraiser?” one of them chirps, bouncing like she’s auditioning for her own commercial. “With you two headlining, we’ll triple our haul!”

Another, bolder, blurts without shame: “Lucien should come too—shirtless, obviously.”

Lucien, who’d been minding his own business two lockers down, chokes mid-sip of water. He sputters and coughs like he’s inhaled fire instead of cafeteria tap, eyes going wide as the gaggle of cheerleaders giggles.

Alina, unlucky enough to be standing next to him, combusts. Her cheeks flare scarlet, hands flying up in frantic flutters. “He doesn’t even—he doesn’t—oh gods—” Her words collapse into mortified silence.

I nearly fold in half, ribs stabbing as laughter claws its way out. Cassie braces me with a hand at my back, but she’s laughing too, voice bright and merciless. “Oh, that’s priceless.”

Lucien wheels on me, water still dripping down his chin, glare promising blood. “Don’t. Say. Anything.”

Which, of course, is the worst thing he could have said.

I lean an elbow against my locker, smirk sharp as a blade. “Double date Saturday night. Slumber party at the palace after.” My voice carries, just enough for the departing cheer squad to hear and titter. Then, to really finish him off: “Tell me, little brother—are you two official yet, or is Alina still waiting for you to grow a spine?”

Cassie wheezes beside me, collapsing into the locker like she can’t hold herself upright. The citrus tang of her amusement floods the air, sparking against my own marshmallow-sweet delight.

Lucien’s face goes volcanic. “Mira!”

Alina covers her face with both hands, but the sound that escapes is unmistakable: a strangled little laugh. When she peeks out between her fingers, her eyes are bright, mortified, and just a little hopeful.

Cassie fans herself like she’s dying of heatstroke. “Saints, Firefly. That was cruel even for you.”

“Effective,” I correct, fighting to keep my ribs from splitting as I grin.

Lucien groans loud enough for the whole hall to hear, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re insufferable.”

Alina lowers her hands just enough to mumble, soft but certain: “He hasn’t asked yet.”

The hallway explodes. Laughter ripples through the crowd that hasn’t stopped circling us since the bell. Phones flash, whispers cascade.

Cassie leans into me, smug as sin. “Oh, I really like her.”

My smirk sharpens, wicked and unrepentant. “Then Saturday it is. Don’t be late.”

Lucien mutters a curse under his breath and storms off toward the stairwell, ears blazing. Alina scurries after him, still pink but smiling now, like she’s carrying a secret she doesn’t mind keeping.

Cassie hooks her arm through mine, steady and smug. “Best damn sister.”

I let the marshmallow warmth flare brighter in my scent, enough that the whispers shift from scandal to delight. My ribs hurt, but saints—it’s worth it.

“Take notes,” I murmur.

Laughter is still clinging to the lockers when the air turns chemical. Not perfume. Scrubbed-clean detergent, sharp as a bleach-flash behind the eyes. Under it: a thin bite of antiseptic citrus that doesn’t belong anywhere near teenagers. And beneath that, the aftertaste of a storm that never happened—an ozone prickle that makes the tiny hairs along my arms lift.

Bree.

She doesn’t walk so much as glide, tray tucked against her ribs like a prop, blazer pressed to surgical precision. Two satellites draft in her wake, all glossed lips and folded arms. Our little hallway court goes hush around her like she’s just dropped a decree.

“Enjoy the spotlight while it lasts, Princess,” she says, syrup-sweet over steel.

Phones tilt up. The crowd leans in. Roran goes statue-still at my shoulder; Kael’s gaze tracks Bree’s hands, her exits, everything.

Cassie doesn’t give her the second she’s hunting for. “Funny,” she says, smile bright enough to cut, “coming from someone who couldn’t even be part of the court at the dance.”

The oooh rolls through the hall, hungry. Bree’s smile tightens a millimeter. The detergent-bright on her skin spikes, citrus slicing thinner—like a wipe-down before surgery.

I tip my head, ribs throbbing, and let the marshmallow in my scent bloom deliberately, warm and soft and mine. “Spotlight isn’t borrowed, Bree. It’s earned. And you don’t earn it by making freshmen drop their books so you can feel tall.”

A ripple moves through the students—a living thing. Someone near the lockers says “seriously” under their breath. Another whispers “she helped me pick mine up.”

Bree’s eyes flick to the phones, back to me. “Please. You two are cosplaying sainthood because cameras are out.”

“Try again,” Cassie says, voice all frost. “Also try packing your character with your pom-poms. As captain, I’m suspending you from the squad. Effective now.”

A gasp. Even the phones wobble.

Bree laughs, bright and brittle. “You can’t.”

“I can,” Cassie answers, crisp. “Code of conduct. Ask Coach if you forgot the clause about demeaning other students.”

I let the knife twist. “And as co-captain, I’m backing it. Knock another book out of someone’s hands and you’re out, not suspended. And you can stop hovering by the gym pretending you belong there.”

For a heartbeat, Bree’s mask cracks. The antiseptic citrus curdles sharper; that wrong, storm-bit trace flickers like a spark in dry air. She glances past us—at Roran, at Kael, at the two guards locking the stairwell—and then at the phones, and stitches her smile back into place.

“This isn’t over,” she says softly, smile fixed, eyes gone flat.

“No,” Cassie agrees, just as soft. “It’s audited.”

The crowd feels that. A few kids actually clap. Bree’s jaw ticks once; she pivots, hair slicing the air, and glides off with her satellites snapping to follow.

I exhale slow. The detergent-on-concrete tang thins as she disappears, like the hall itself is relieved to breathe again. Cassie’s fingers brush mine for one second—pinky hook, our smallest promise—and the heat in my cheeks cools enough to let me stand a little straighter.

“Best damn princess,” she murmurs.

“Best damn captain,” I return, and let the marshmallow warmth hold while the phones keep recording and the buzz rolls on.

The echo of Bree’s heels hasn’t even faded before the next sound cuts through the hall: click, click, click. Not stilettos. Clipboard.

Vice Principal Keene.

Her stride slices straight down the center of the chaos, pen poised like a dagger, mouth drawn taut. The crowd actually parts for her—not out of respect, but the same way they’d part for a scalpel.

“Orderly dismissal, please!” she barks, voice carrying sharper than the bell ever did. “Phones down, move with purpose. Royalty doesn’t exempt you from safety rules.”

Half the students scatter immediately, lockers slamming shut in retreat. The other half keep their phones up, whispering and buzzing, but at least they pretend to shuffle toward the exits.

I lean toward Cassie, muttering, “Pretty sure she hates me more than Bree does.”

Cassie’s citrus-bright amusement cuts through the disinfectant air. “No, she hates me. I’m the one she can’t control with a clipboard.”

The image almost breaks me—Cassie versus Keene in some clipboard duel—but my ribs are too raw to laugh. I smother it in a smirk instead.

Keene’s gaze spears through us, lingers, then snaps to the guards like she wants to discipline them. Roran’s jaw doesn’t so much as twitch. Kael stares back like a stone wall. Keene huffs, writes something on her clipboard that I know isn’t good, and stalks off.

The air doesn’t lighten until she’s gone.

The tide of dismissal swells again, and this time Roran and Kael take over. They press forward, shoulders and presence cutting a clear path toward the double doors. I follow, head high, smile set, though every step feels like I’m bleeding energy into the floor.

Phones keep flashing. Whispers lap at my heels. Someone mutters, “She even walks like a queen.” Another: “Cassie looks scarier than the guards.”

Cassie squeezes my hand just once, smug enough to confirm the rumor for them.

The doors yawn open at last, spilling us into air that tastes like freedom: crisp evening light, cut grass from the practice fields, exhaust curling from the idling caravan. Three black SUVs gleam in the lot, doors already swung open like hungry mouths. Drivers stand stiff as statues, scanning the gates.

Of course, there are still kids at the courtyard fence, phones shoved through the bars, desperate to catch the spectacle.

Roran shoulders the last stragglers out of the way. Kael covers the rear, eyes flicking over every movement, every angle. For a second, I can almost imagine we’re slipping through an enemy city instead of a high school.

The leather seat sighs under me when I finally collapse into the SUV. My ribs howl from the long day, my bones buzzing like tuning forks. Cassie slides in beside me, sharp edges melted into something softer as she tugs me against her shoulder.

“Day one,” I mutter into the cool glass of the window, “and I already want to set the lockers on fire.”

Cassie smirks, tugging me closer, her voice pitched for me alone. “Then tomorrow, Firefly, we make them hotter.”

From the opposite bench, Roran groans. “…please don’t.”

Kael doesn’t even blink. “Definitely don’t.”

I grin anyway, the fire sparking low and dangerous in my chest. Let them warn, let them worry.

Tomorrow, I’ll still walk back into those halls.

Tomorrow, I’ll still burn if I have to.

The caravan pulls away. The phones at the gates shrink in the mirror. My reflection in the glass looks back at me: not just a student, not just a princess.

Something sharper. Something simmering.

And saints help anyone who thinks they can put out that fire.