The air in the suite was thick—heavy with heat and aftermath—smelling faintly of molten metal, smoke, and the lingering emberwood-and-citrus signature that still hummed faintly on my skin. Even with the power gone, the room itself kept pulsing, a slow, exhausted Veillight gold. The magical equivalent of smoking wreckage.

I was tangled in Cassie, nude and half-asleep, radiating the kind of smug exhaustion that no shield could ever replicate. My arm was flung over her ribs; her leg hooked across mine like she was anchoring me in place. Our breathing had synced without effort—slow, even, the only rhythm left in a universe that still hadn’t caught up with us. I was still floating on it—the afterglow, the release, the absolute freedom of having finally let go. Letting the fire run had burned everything unnecessary away, and what was left of me felt new. More.

A familiar rune light flashed green by the door, followed by the low, decisive click of the lock overriding. No knock—because Lady Althaea Drennath didn’t do courtesy when efficiency existed.

Her scent reached me first: cool starlight and pressed linen, with that faint ozone edge that always came off her when she was in command. The smell of discipline walking headfirst into the wreckage of our anarchy.

She entered with her usual precision—shoulders square, boots silent on the marble—and stopped dead halfway in. Althaea Drennath, unflappable combat cadet, professional perfection incarnate, froze. The tilt of her stance gave her away, just barely—a crack in the marble façade of self-control. Her steel-grey eyes, sharp enough to cut glass, swept the room.

I could almost see what she was seeing: curtains scorched and torn into ribbons. The great mirror spider-cracked down the middle, still vibrating faintly from leftover energy. The Veilsteel bedframe warped along the edges. Jacuzzi tiles fractured, steam still rising like breath. The armoire gone completely—reduced to a thin, dignified layer of ash. And in the middle of this gleaming disaster zone: two women wrapped in each other, radiating the kind of contentment that didn’t apologize for collateral damage.

Althaea finally spoke. Her voice came out low, flat… almost reverent.

“By the Veil… what happened in here?”

I didn’t even open my eyes. Just let the corner of my mouth curl into a lazy smile.

“Scientific breakthrough.”

Cassie groaned, muffled and mortified, her face disappearing under the pillow still caught beneath my arm.

“Please tell me this is a nightmare.”

Althaea shifted her weight, clasping her hands behind her back—professionalism snapping back into place like armor.

“If it is, it’s one with impressive structural damage.” Her eyes flicked upward. “The chandelier is missing.”

My grin widened, teeth flashing in the faint gold light.

“Oh. We relocated it. Upward.”

Althaea didn’t dignify the chandelier comment with a response.

She began a slow, deliberate sweep of the room—each measured step radiating disciplined judgment. Her clean leather boots crunched faintly over marble, cutting through the silence, navigating scorch marks and the glittering remains of the shattered Veil-map table. The quiet professionalism made the chaos feel louder. Like a scolding delivered in perfect form.

She stopped at the bedpost, steel-grey eyes narrowing as she examined the warped Veilsteel. A faint flush—pale pink, almost invisible under her perfect poise—crept up the tips of her pointed ears. The only part of her body that ever betrayed her.

“Your Majesty,” Althaea said at last, her voice crisp as polished armor, “this is, empirically, the most thorough… event I have ever encountered outside active combat scenarios.”

She adjusted her braid—a tell so subtle most people would miss it—and continued, tone clinical, detached. “The Veillight resonance in the walls indicates sustained magic over a six-hour period.” Her gaze flicked back to the molten curve of the bedpost. “Was… was that molten?”

I stretched languidly against Cassie, luxuriating in the ache. My muscles protested beautifully. My skin still thrummed, faintly hot with leftover magic.

“You could say the friction got… enthusiastic.”

Cassie made a strangled, mortified sound from beneath the pillow. “Mira!”

Althaea didn’t even blink. Her eyes stayed on me, that same sharp analytical focus she used when reviewing battlefield schematics.

“Six hours of sustained, unshielded power flow,” she murmured, the faintest flicker of admiration breaking through her stoicism. “…I’m actually impressed.”

The words escaped before she could stop them. Realizing it, she coughed sharply and pulled herself back into rigid alignment, the pink at her ears retreating.

“I mean—deeply concerned. For your safety, and for the structural integrity of this installation. I have logged the incinerated armoire and the failure of the secondary thermal wards.”

I tilted my head, grinning up at her with unrepentant satisfaction.

“Safety achieved. Multiple times.”

Cassie groaned into the pillow, her voice muffled and desperate. “Please stop talking.”

Althaea finally broke eye contact, refocusing on the room itself. “I cannot stress enough the level of maintenance required to rectify this. The cleanup fee alone will exceed your annual stipend, Duchess.”

I shrugged, the movement pressing me closer against Cassie, who made another strangled noise. “Money’s just numbers, Althaea. Experience is legendary.”

Althaea released the faintest exhale—barely audible, but definitely there. The closest she ever came to a sigh of defeat. She tilted her head, assessing me again with that sharp, impossible mix of command and curiosity.

“Legendary implies a level of control, Your Majesty,” she said finally. She swept her hand toward the wreckage—the warped metal, the cracked tile, the lingering gold shimmer in the air. “This was not control. This was… uncontrolled devotion. It is magnificent.”

She paused, her lips twitching just shy of a smile.

“And entirely against protocol.”

Althaea decided the conversation was over.

With the crisp finality of someone correcting a tactical flaw, she turned on her heel and marched toward the bathing area—one of the few corners of the suite that hadn’t been completely annihilated.

A sharp snap of her fingers woke the enchanted taps. The mechanism hissed to life, and steam rolled across the wreckage like a white flag. The scent followed—clean lavender and sunlight-warm linen, her scent, the one she tried to keep perfectly neutral but always betrayed when she was stressed.

“I’ve prepared the soak,” she announced, her voice half-lost to the rising vapor. “You’ll want the cooling salts. And,” a pause—clinical, detached, pure military—“a muscle-repair infusion. The amount of exertion logged in this space is… medically non-optimal for your musculature, Consort.”

I grinned up at the ceiling, already delighted. The words medically non-optimal were practically a standing ovation in Althaea-speak.

“Oh, bring extra, Althaea! She’s new to this much magic.”

Cassie’s voice came out strangled, muffled against the pillow. “Mira—”

Althaea cut her off without missing a beat, her tone drier than parchment left in the sun.

“If the goal was fusion, Your Majesty, you appear to have succeeded entirely. The Veillight sensors on the ceiling are still pulsing in perfect—irritating—sync.”

She crouched to inspect a fractured tile near the jacuzzi, the very picture of composure as she muttered, “You really should have left a note for the maintenance team.”

We finally began the slow, reluctant process of untangling ourselves. Cold air hit first—sharp, shocking, the reminder that we were no longer a single, molten thing. I hissed at the temperature drop and practically sprinted for the rising wall of steam, dragging Cassie along with me. My Fae body was already healing, recharging; hers moved with an exhausted, entirely human ache that made me want to both tease and cradle her at once.

“We’ll call it art,” I tossed back over my shoulder, stepping into the steaming water and yanking Cassie in with me. The splash hit the pristine back of Althaea’s uniform dead-center.

Althaea didn’t even flinch. She just straightened, expression flat as tempered glass, and withdrew a small sealed pouch from a holster at her hip. “Art is subjective, Duchess. Property damage, however, is not.”

She emptied the pouch into the bath, and the air shifted—menthol, linen, and the sterile edge of healing magic cutting through the sweet smoke of our aftermath.

Cassie sank beside me with a long, unguarded groan, her whole body melting into the water. She glanced back toward Althaea, who was pretending to inspect a smudge of soot on the ceiling as though it were the most fascinating thing in existence.

“We’re never speaking of this again,” Cassie said, her tone carrying the doomed hope of someone begging the gods for mercy.

Althaea didn’t look down. She just exhaled once through her nose—half laugh, half surrender—and said so quietly the steam almost stole it,

“It would be a crime not to.”

The soak felt like three minutes.

Cassie’s soft noises—half groan, half prayer—said twenty. Every sound she made earned a microscopic twitch from Althaea’s shoulders, the kind that screamed “hold formation” in battlefield etiquette. It was glorious.

When the salts had done their work, Althaea snapped back into full command mode. She averted her eyes with military precision but moved through the routine like a ritual: indigo towels, perfect folds, dressing screen aligned to the exact degree. This was her battlefield now. Court service disguised as logistics.

I climbed out first, water trailing down my skin, taking the towel she handed me without ceremony. Privacy was for people who hadn’t been raised by Seara Firebrand. After a lifetime of armor fittings and public duels, modesty wasn’t just optional—it was extinct.

Cassie was slower, wrapping the towel tight like it could shield her from both exposure and last night’s memory. She avoided Althaea’s gaze completely. The cadet, to her credit, pretended not to notice, suddenly very interested in reorganizing the wall closet she definitely, definitely stocked herself. The woman had prepped for our chaos. I could tell by the redundant line of first-aid elixirs and spare shirts labeled Emergency Diplomacy Attire.

“Consort,” Althaea said, speaking directly to the closet door. “Your replacement garments are ready. Your previous attire was, to use the vernacular, unsalvageable.” She laid out two indigo-and-silver uniforms, crease-perfect, and added, “The wardrobe team asked if they should reinforce the next set.”

I tugged the silk undershirt over my head, the cool fabric an indecent shock after the bath. “Yes. Dragonhide, maybe. Or titanium weave.”

Cassie’s voice came from somewhere inside her towel. “We’re going to school, not battle.”

“Same thing,” I said easily, crossing over to help her with the silver clasps on her jacket. Her fingers were trembling from fatigue; I caught her hands, steadying them, letting my warmth bleed into her skin.

Althaea ghosted in beside me, silent as a blade, and started on my hair. She didn’t ask. She never asked. The familiar pull of her fingers through the curls, the twist and braid—functional, flawless, almost tender. It was her language for I still respect you even when you terrify me.

“You realize,” she murmured, her tone perfectly neutral, “that due to the localized elemental event in this room, you are now a diplomatic incident in a dorm suite.”

“Minor incident,” I countered. “No diplomats injured.”

She finished the braid with a decisive pin. “Next time, sign the maintenance forms before igniting the décor.”

In the cracked mirror, Cassie caught my reflection. I gave her a grin that was half exhaustion, half triumph. “You hear that? She said ‘next time.’ That’s approval.”

Cassie, adjusting her tie with grim determination, shot back, “That’s fatigue, Duchess.”

Althaea produced a chrono-bead from some hidden pocket; its red light blinked 5:25 A.M. The expression on her face was pure command.

“That’s realism. Now lift your chin. Envoy leaves in thirty minutes. No time for emotional processing.”

Althaea had already moved on, pulling a tiny, ornate vial from her medical kit—a quick-acting tonic, likely containing every restorative property short of a full Fae sleep cycle. She handed it to me first, then Cassie.

"Consumption is non-optional," she stated, sweeping up the final discarded towel. "We need high function for Dr. Lyra Vale's Literature seminar."

I downed the tonic—it tasted vaguely of cinnamon and regret—and turned back to Cassie, who was struggling to align the perfect knot of her uniform tie. The formal wear looked crisp, professional, and utterly disconnected from the nude, sweaty wreckage we had just created.

Althaea gave us a final, comprehensive visual sweep. Her eyes lingered on the faint, lingering shine on Cassie's skin that even the rigorous bath hadn't removed—the residual starlight sheen from my own power.

"I will see to the maintenance report," Althaea said, her hand reaching for the rune pad by the door. "Do not open any new structural fissures before noon." With a final, sharp click of her heels, she was gone, leaving only the scent of ozone and order to dissipate in the warm, chaotic air.

The silence settled, heavy and immediate. Cassie's tie was still slightly crooked.

I leaned in, brushing my fingertips over the back of her neck, then adjusted the tie myself. My fingers lingered, tracing the clean line of her collarbone beneath the starched fabric. Her blush was fading, replaced by a glow of genuine warmth and satisfaction.

"Admit it," I murmured, my voice soft, letting my raw pride show, "it was legendary."

Cassie's eyes met mine—blue, exhausted, and utterly honest. She didn't look ashamed anymore. She looked impressed.

"I admit nothing," she whispered, her lips twitching, "except that I currently look forward to signing the divorce papers from my old self."

I threw my head back and laughed, the sound loud and unrepentant in the shattered suite. The mirror, cracked down the middle, perfectly reflected my grin—a grin that was slightly too wide, slightly too gleeful, and entirely my own.

I leaned in, meeting her gaze. The exhaustion in her eyes was profound, but beneath it was a deep, settling certainty. We had minutes.

I adjusted her tie one final time, pulling her forward for a swift, deep kiss—a promise more than a comfort.

We moved instantly, efficiency born of shared necessity. Our boots hit the marble at the same time, already running toward the corridor exit.

“I love you, Firefly,” she hissed, the words tight with urgency and affection.

“I love you too, Cass,” I replied, my voice thick with exhaustion, adrenaline, and lingering love.