The quad always goes too quiet this time of day.

Right before dinner hour—when the underclassmen vanish into dorms and the staff retreat behind enchanted faculty doors—Ravenrest Heights becomes something else entirely. Less school. More stage.

Perfect for someone pretending to belong.

My shoes click along the stone path from the library toward the upperclassmen lot. Not loud. Not rushed. Just enough to be heard by anyone still lingering.

The sun’s dipped behind the west courtyard, leaving the manicured lawns washed in sharp gold shimmer—lamp-lit statues casting shadows longer than they should, bronze plaques winking like secrets. The breeze is warm for early Baretree, but it carries that dry, electric edge that means Dominveil’s about to turn cruel. I tug my blazer tighter—not for warmth. For control.

My uniform is perfect. Tailored to flatter without technically breaking code. Pleated skirt swinging clean against my thighs. Blouse tucked, top two buttons undone—not enough to be cited, just enough to make the Dean’s assistant twitch.

The shoes are mine.

Patent leather, black with blood-red straps. Rounded toe. High arch. Soft tap against the walkway, each step deliberate.

They taught me to walk like a lady.

So I learned to walk like a weapon.

The boys near the gym see it. Their laughter dies when I pass. No words—just eyes.

The kind that say they know you’re watching them too.

The kind that assume they’re the only ones allowed to look.

I don’t give them the satisfaction. But the burn of their gaze crawls down my spine. Let them want. They’re not what I came for.

The last stretch curves past the back hedge toward the upper lot, lampposts sputtering with early-year enchantment glitches. The trees here are older, more gnarled. The silence absolute.

And there—tucked in the farthest space like it’s hiding from everything else—is my car.

Sleek. Black. Beautiful.

A handcrafted Summer Court import—low, sharp, built for shadows. Custom-stitched leather bleeding red-gold inside, shimmer glyphs pulsing faintly against the Veil. A tiny flame charm sways from the mirror, shaped like the mark behind my left shoulder—the one no one sees.

She purrs when I touch her. She knows who I am. Even when I don’t.

I reach for the handle—cool metal against overheated skin—and my glamour slips.

Just a flicker.

Just a breath.

But enough for someone watching.

And someone is.

I don’t hear her. I should.

But my pulse is still loud in my ears from the library. From the way Cassie looked at me like I was a sentence she couldn’t finish.

So I miss the soft engine hum two rows over. The glint of a gold ring on a steering wheel. The shift of a figure leaning forward—just enough to see. Just enough to be seen.

Cassie Fairborn. Still here.

Her luxury coupe is tucked beneath the old sycamore, passenger window cracked, radio off. She’s been here a while. Hands still in her lap. Shoulders tight in her blazer. Her eyes—not red, not puffy—but rimmed in a way she’d never let anyone catch.

She doesn’t move at first.

Then my glamour stutters again.

Not enough for the average human to notice.

But Cassie isn’t average. And she isn’t looking away.

She sees it—

The molten shimmer where ginger should be.

The pointed tip of an ear.

The starlit glint that doesn’t belong in human green.

Her lips part. Not in shock.

In recognition.

And for a breath, our eyes lock.

It’s not an accident. Not a glance.

It’s a pull—heat and curiosity and something I can’t name yet, stretched tight across the space between us.

Her gaze doesn’t flinch. Mine refuses to.

It feels like she’s peeling something back that I didn’t mean to offer.

I break it first, slipping into my seat, shutting the door. Glamour corrected. Heat sealed tight under skin.

By the time I look up again, her eyes are forward, hands on the wheel like none of it happened.

I tell myself she didn’t see.

I tell myself she wouldn’t believe it if she did.

But as my engine growls to life, I catch the quick, practiced motion of her wiping her face with her sleeve. And the set of her jaw—furious, not fragile.

Then she pulls out, smooth as a queen, disappearing down the east drive.

I wait five seconds before flooring it. Tires shriek. Shadows peel away.

Let her wonder. Let her think she imagined it.

I have somewhere to be—and something new to offer.

The Howling Moon doesn’t look like much from the outside.

Just another Dominveil dive—half-sunken into the crumbling brick of old city ruins, one flickering neon sign clinging to relevance on a slanted roof. Most humans walk past it without seeing anything but a condemned pub with bad lighting and worse zoning.

That’s the point.

The magic in the walls makes you forget.

Unless you already know what’s here.

The warped oak door creaks open before I touch it—enchanted, probably, keyed to whoever walks like they belong.

Inside, the air hits first—warm and heavy, rich with woodsmoke and honeyed spice, layered over something sizzling from the kitchen. Old lavender incense clings to the rafters, threaded with faint ozone from whatever spellwork keeps the lights alive.

And—like always—the place has changed.

Last time I was here, the bar ran the length of the east wall. Tonight it curves toward the center, bisecting the room into two uneven halves. The back booth where Naomi and Kess always sit is still in the same corner, but the stairs to the loft have swapped sides entirely. A chandelier I don’t remember is shedding molten gold light over a table of laughing dwarves, while the half-broken jukebox now sulks beside the fireplace instead of the far wall.

The shifts should be disorienting. Sometimes they are. My brain likes patterns—it likes knowing where things belong—but the Moon doesn’t care about patterns. It plays musical chairs with its own bones.

I tell myself I’m used to it.

Mostly, I am.

Tonight, I’m more amused than unsettled. There’s something comforting about knowing even the building refuses to stay in the shape people expect.

Shadows move differently here. The Veil hangs thick, warping edges, softening detail. Even regulars forget how the place rearranges itself between visits.

I don’t forget. I catalogue.

Because this is ours.

And at the back table—beneath the one sconce that always flickers a little too bright—they’re waiting.

Naomi: arms folded, black tank and cargo pants, white hair cropped short like always, looking ready to throw a punch or fix your car without breaking stride.

Kess: sprawled sideways in the booth, boots kicked up on the cushion, grin sharp as her canines, danger coiled loose and easy in every line of her.

My ribs loosen just seeing them.

Naomi looks up first. “You’re late.”

Kess doesn’t blink. “She’s dramatic, not dead.”

I slide into the booth like I belong there—because I do.

“Traffic,” I say, even though we all know I don’t drive slow.

Naomi’s brow arches. “Traffic? On a Tuesday?”

“Emotional traffic,” I clarify. “Backed up since birth.”

Kess laughs, low and delighted—just this side of feral. “Gods, I missed you.”

Naomi pushes a glass toward me without asking. The rim is cold against my fingers. The drink smells like citrus sharpened with something herbal, bright and dangerous—like defiance distilled. I take a sip. The burn blooms warm in my chest.

“Is this the one that almost blinded that guy from Winterreach?”

Kess grins around her own drink. “Only if you drink four.”

Naomi’s face stays neutral, but her foot nudges mine under the table—a quiet I’m glad you’re here.

I lean back into the worn wood, letting the uneven hum of the tavern soak into me. Laughter collides with the clatter of mismatched mugs. Somewhere in the next room, a badly tuned piano is losing a fight with its player. The scents of fried food, smoke, and spellcraft wrap around me like something alive.

No Court voices.

No Cassie.

No mother.

Just us.

Kess is already halfway through a basket of fried something when she points a greasy finger at me. “So. Are you gonna tell us what lit your fuse lately, or are we pretending you’ve taken up brooding for sport?”

“Brooding is an elite sport,” I say, deadpan. “Gold medal material.”

Naomi exhales through her nose—her version of a laugh. “Knew it. She’s in her dark academia phase now.”

“Oh no,” Kess mock-gasps, eyes wide with faux horror. “Not the brooding girl with hidden trauma and perfect eyeliner. However will the city survive?”

“I will set this table on fire,” I reply.

Kess shrugs. “Hot.”

Naomi groans.

Gods, I missed this.

No masks. No glamours I have to explain. No walking on eggshells. Just fire-forged friendship with two people who know exactly how much trouble I am and still make room for me anyway.

Kess leans forward, grin fading into something more measured. “Seriously. You’ve got a look in your eye.”

Her tone shifts—less tease, more assessment.

“Like you found something.”

I don’t answer.

Not yet.

Because she’s right.

Because it is something.

And I didn’t come here just to drink and banter and pretend the world’s not sharpening its teeth.

I came here because I need to stop feeling like I’m orbiting my own story.

My hand slips into my bag.

Closes around the shard.

Kess leans back against the booth, licking salt from her fingers, smile easy but eyes tracking me the way a cat watches the slightest shift in the grass.

Naomi notices too—of course she does. Her drink sits untouched now, one hand curled around the glass like she hasn’t decided whether she’ll use it to toast me or break it over someone’s head.

I stare at the scarred table for a beat. Not because I’m uncertain.

Because once I do this, there’s no taking it back.

“I found something,” I say.

Kess raises a brow. “A new kind of trouble?”

“No. Old kind.” My gaze catches hers. “The kind no one wants to talk about.”

That earns me Naomi’s full attention. The bounce of her boot against the floor stops cold. The air between us tightens—thread pulled taut, waiting to snap.

The shard is cool against my palm, smooth but thrumming faintly, like a bird’s heartbeat in my hand.

“Tell me you didn’t steal from a Court,” Naomi says.

I don’t answer.

Not yet.

Instead, I draw it out—slow, deliberate—and set it in the center of the table like I’m placing down a loaded weapon.

It’s jagged-edged, no bigger than a fig. At first, it’s nothing but shadow.

Then it wakes.

The glow seeps out in threads of deep star-silver, racing along fault lines in the stone until the veins hum with light. The wood beneath it warms. The air presses in—not crushing, just present, like the Veil itself has leaned closer to listen. There’s a faint scent of scorched cedar and something sweeter, sharper—like citrus cut with lightning.

And for a moment, watching it flare, I swear I feel the same subtle pull I did when I slid the tome toward Cassie in the library—the air tightening, the hum in my bones, the sense that the world was holding its breath for an answer.

Naomi inhales, just once.

Kess goes completely still.

“Holy shit,” Kess murmurs. “It recognizes you.”

Naomi’s voice is quieter, threaded with something that isn’t quite fear. “It chose you.”

I brace for the lecture. For the accusation. For reckless or stupid.

Instead, Kess’s mouth curves into a slow, sharp grin.

“Well, Firebrand,” she says, “guess the world just blinked first.”

Naomi’s hand hovers above the shard, close enough to feel the thrum but not daring to touch. “It’s Veil-warped. Summer Court work, maybe older.” Her eyes flick to mine. “This kind of thing doesn’t surface without a reason. It’s a beacon. A key. Or a warning.”

“It was buried in my mother’s study,” I say. “Under glamoured ledgers and maps. And the second I touched it…”

I glance at the glow. “…it lit up.”

Kess tilts her head, studying it like a dangerous piece of art. “You realize this is tied to something bigger. The kind of bigger that eats people alive.”

I nod. “I don’t know what it does yet. But I know it means something.”

Naomi folds her arms again—default shield—but I see the calculation in her eyes. “You shouldn’t have it.”

“Good,” I say. “Then maybe someone will finally notice.”

Kess leans in, voice low and edged. “You’ve been waiting for something to prove you’re not just another Court kid playing rebel.”

She’s not wrong.

“I don’t want a throne,” I say. “I don’t want another mask. I want a reason.”

Naomi’s gaze flicks to the shard, then back to me. “You already have one.”

Kess smiles like a dare. “Truth is fire, Firebrand. Sure you’re ready to burn for it?”

I look down at the shard—its pulse steady, its glow brushing the air like heat from a forge—and feel the answer rise without hesitation.

“I already am.”

The silence after isn’t heavy. It’s sealed.

Naomi nods once. “Then we do this slow. Careful.”

Kess grins wider. “No promises.”

Naomi doesn’t look away. “Especially from you.”

The shard dims, but its heartbeat stays.

It doesn’t need to speak.

It knows where it belongs now.

And so do I.

Kess leans back, elbows draped over the booth’s backrest, but her gaze hasn’t left the shard.

“I’m surprised it hasn’t drawn attention already,” she murmurs. “With how loud the Veil’s been lately.”

Naomi’s head tilts, slow. Her shoulders tighten just enough to pull her tank top taut across her collarbones. “Don’t.”

It’s not a plea.

It’s a warning.

But Kess keeps going.

“They’re stirring again,” she says, voice pitched low now, all trace of humor gone. “I’ve heard it from three different sources in as many districts. The Shroud isn’t just watching anymore. They’re recruiting. Moving through the cracks like smoke. Pulling in people with gifts they shouldn’t be able to touch.”

I blink. “The Shroud?”

The name sits wrong on my tongue. Bitter, like metal and rot. Like tasting blood that isn’t yours.

Naomi’s jaw flexes hard enough I can hear her teeth click. “We don’t use that name lightly.”

“What is it?” I ask.

Kess’s mouth curves, but it’s not a smile. “A parasite that learned patience. A network older than the gangs and smarter than the Courts care to admit. They deal in everything the Veil keeps hidden—drugs, weapons, bodies, experiments—and they do it better than anyone else.”

Naomi cuts in, sharper. “You don’t want to know how far their reach goes. Not yet. All you need to understand is they thrive in what gets erased. In the gaps. In the things no one will admit happened.”

“They’ve gutted whole districts,” Kess adds quietly. “Left families waking up in houses they didn’t own yesterday, swearing they’ve always lived there. Left names scratched out of every registry. Like they were never real.”

Something in Naomi’s expression flickers—gone too fast to pin down.

Not fear.

Something colder. Older.

The kind of memory you bury so deep you pretend it isn’t yours.

She reaches for her glass, then stops, fingers tightening on the rim.

“I’ve seen what they leave behind,” she says finally. “If you’re lucky, it’s just ruins.”

Her tone leaves no question—she hasn’t always been lucky.

The air between us tightens, the noise of the tavern pressing at the edges like the Veil itself is listening in.

I lean back, watching them both. “You sound like you’ve seen them up close.”

Naomi’s eyes meet mine, unflinching. “I’ve seen enough to know you don’t pull at their threads unless you’re ready to burn the whole tapestry—and yourself—with it.”

Kess leans forward now, forearms on the table. “Sometimes burning’s the only way to see what was underneath.”

The shard pulses once beneath my palm—like it heard them. Like it agrees.

“You said I’m in,” I remind them.

“You are,” Naomi says, but it’s measured, reluctant, every syllable lined with the kind of protection that feels like a wall.

Kess smirks faintly. “Just not all at once. You’ll get your first job soon enough.”

Naomi’s gaze is steady, but her voice softens—just barely. “And when you do, you’ll be ready. We’ll make sure of it.”

I glance down at the shard, still glowing faintly against the scarred wood. The hum settles in my bones like a promise.

I’m not sure if it’s the rebellion I’m joining.

Or something bigger.

But either way—

I’m already in.

We don’t linger after that.

The shard dims as I slip it back into my bag, like it knows it’s safer out of sight. Kess cracks some joke I only half-hear, Naomi finishes her drink without tasting it, and the Howling Moon’s walls seem to lean in, listening.

Outside, Dominveil’s night air is damp and metallic, the kind that settles into your clothes and your lungs. The streets hum with distant magic—wards flaring along rooftops, spellfire flashing somewhere across the river. I drive with the windows cracked, the city’s pulse threading through the low purr of my engine.

By the time Emberhall’s gates swing open, the rebellion talk is still rattling in my head, every word stitched to the shard’s thrum. The wards ripple shut behind me, cutting the noise, leaving only the hollow quiet of the estate.

No staff. No mother. Just the long walk through darkened corridors to my room.

The firelight in my bedroom flickers low—soft gold spilling across the carved crown moldings, catching on the warped glass of my vanity mirror. The walls still hum faintly with the estate wards, but it’s quieter here than anywhere else in Emberhall.

I should be asleep.

Instead, I’m sprawled sideways across my bed in silk shorts and an oversized shirt I definitely didn’t pay for, hair twisted up in a knot that’s losing the fight with gravity, one bare foot dangling over the edge like I might just run.

The diary is heavy in my lap.

Not the tome.

Not the ledger.

This is mine—black leather cover, cracked moon pressed into the corner, pages warded so only my hand can open them. It lives under false bottoms and behind drawer wards, and if anyone else ever found it, I’d burn it before I let them read a word.

I uncap the pen, twirl it once between my fingers, and start to write.

✍️ Diary Entry – Baretree 5, 20231

What the fuck even was today.

Cassie Fairborn is a tyrant in lip gloss. I mean that in the most respectful, possibly-horny way possible. I think I hate her. (I definitely hate her.) But then she looked at me like I mattered and I almost forgot how to breathe.

Anyway. Survived cheer practice. Barely. Got called out. Pushed myself harder. She noticed. I noticed her noticing. Ugh.

Library sucked. Except it didn’t.

She actually read the book. The real one. The one I wasn’t even supposed to take, let alone share. And she didn’t laugh. Didn’t scoff. She got quiet. Like something cracked in her.

And I saw it.

Saw her.

That’s probably not good.

But it’s not the worst part.

Because then I went to the Howling Moon and showed Kess and Naomi the shard. The weird Veil-reactive one from the drawer Seara thinks I’m too stupid to open. It lit up. For me.

They didn’t laugh either.

They told me about the Shroud.

I don’t know what the fuck that means yet, but it sounds like the kind of thing that eats people like me alive. Naomi didn’t want to say it. Kess said it anyway. Typical.

And me? I said I wanted in.

Like some dramatic little disaster who thinks she’s ready for rebellion just because the pretty rock glows when she holds it.

...but I meant it.

Gods, I meant it.

I’m so tired of being locked in this body, this court, this fucking role everyone wrote for me before I even had a name.

I want something real.

I don’t want to be safe. I want to be true.

So yeah. I’m probably going to regret all of this. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week. Maybe the second Cassie looks at me again and I forget how to function.

But tonight?

Tonight I burned, and the world blinked first.

So. Whatever happens next?

Let it come.

– Mira

I close the diary with a quiet snap. Not loud. Not final. Just… done.

The room is dim now—just the stub of a candle breathing its last on my nightstand, wall sconces dulled to a sleepy amber. The kind of light that smooths edges and makes shadows feel like blankets instead of warnings.

The diary rests on my chest for a beat before I slide it beneath my pillow. My hand lingers there, fingers curling around the thin chain hidden under the corner seam. The bracelet’s cool against my skin—small, delicate, absurdly dangerous in what it means to me.

I should throw it away.

But I can’t. Not tonight.

Outside the tall window, Dominveil’s sky is starless—choked with clouds, magic, and secrets I’m only just beginning to name. Somewhere out there, the Shroud is moving. Cassie is probably still awake, replaying everything I said. Kess is scheming. Naomi is worrying.

And me?

I’m seventeen, barefoot, wearing a stolen t-shirt, and wondering if this fire inside me is ever going to be quiet again.

Spoiler: it won’t.

But for now, I lie in the flickering dark—

Not asleep.

Not at peace.

But ready.