The gates of Ravenrest Heights Academy glint like they’ve been polished by angels and overachievers. Morning light catches on the metal crest—two ravens circling a sunburst—and for a second it almost blinds me. Perfect metaphor, really.

Too bright. Too perfect. Hurts if you look too long.

The air tastes metallic—rain and iron, the tang of Roran’s scent-suppressant bleeding into everything. It makes my tongue itch. I hate it. I hate pretending that this is normal. That I’m normal.

My bones feel heavier in this human skin. No wings, no heat simmering under the surface, no easy hum of power when I breathe. Just dull edges and slow muscles and the faint ache of a body that doesn’t quite fit. Shape-shifting always feels like shoving myself into clothes that belong to someone else.

Cassie bumps my shoulder with hers. “You’re thinking too loud again.”

“I’m existing,” I mutter. “That’s basically the same thing.”

Her laugh slides under my skin like sunlight. It shouldn’t make me dizzy, but it does. Everything about her feels too close, too sharp since last night—the way her hand finds mine without looking, the way my pulse stutters like she’s inside it. There’s a charge between us I can’t name, something electric and magnetic all at once, like static clinging to every breath we share.

I roll my shoulders, wincing. “Remind me never to—uh—push that hard again.”

Cassie arches an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t be sore if you hadn’t tried to win.”

“I wasn’t trying to win,” I shoot back. “I was trying not to combust.”

Her grin goes wicked. “Sure, Firebrand. Next time maybe don’t bite the girl who’s already on fire.”

The words drag a heat across my neck. I rub the spot out of reflex, feeling the faintest tenderness beneath the skin. Two marks. Mine mirror hers. I don’t remember the exact moment it happened—only the taste of her skin, the flare of light, the way everything snapped into focus like a spark catching tinder. Now, when I look at her, the world goes quiet.

Kael saunters ahead of us, her glamoured skirt swinging just enough to draw stares from half the parking lot. “Mortals and their drama,” she sighs. “You two should start charging admission.”

Cassie flicks her ponytail, unimpressed. “You’d pay.”

Kael grins. “Not in mortal currency.”

Roran—currently Rori, according to Seara’s latest brilliant security decree—adjusts her borrowed blazer and mutters, “The things I do for queen and country.” She tugs the hem of her plaid skirt like it’s a death sentence.

I can’t help it; I smirk. “As your queen, I decree you live the rest of your life as a girl. Experience builds empathy.”

Rori groans. “Experience builds trauma.”

Cassie slides her gaze sideways at me, sly. “Maybe you can lend her some tampons when the moon comes calling.”

I groan loud enough for passing freshmen to stare. “Don’t remind me. That’s this week.”

Cassie’s grin turns downright evil. “Can’t wait to see Rori try that one on for size.”

Kael snorts. “Pretty sure the royal guard doesn’t have training modules for cramps.”

“Then they’ll learn,” Cassie says sweetly, slipping her hand into mine as we reach the steps. Her thumb strokes the back of my knuckles—small, grounding circles that quiet the static in my head.

I breathe. In through the nose—smells like wet concrete and cheap coffee. Out through the mouth—tastes like rust and nerves.

Normal day.

Normal school.

Normal lie.

Every shadow near the gate hums just a little too long before fading. I tell myself it’s nothing. Just morning light playing tricks on the human I’m pretending to be.

But my fingers stay wrapped in Cassie’s all the same.

The main hall smells like too many kinds of perfume trying to strangle each other. Somewhere under it—burnt espresso, fresh printer ink, and the faint tang of floor polish. I swear Ravenrest’s custodians use bleach as aromatherapy.

Cassie and I barely make it three steps before a familiar voice rings out like a pop quiz I didn’t study for.

“Well, well, the royal motorcade’s back.” Jace slings an arm over the nearest locker. “Should I bow or curtsy this time, your highness?”

Cassie doesn’t even blink. “You could trip and fall. That’d work too.”

I grin. “The Princess of Eversea will be issuing a royal decree to encourage that possibility. I do prefer my servants on their knees.”

Kael chokes back a laugh that sounds suspiciously like a snort. Rori—our freshly minted eighteen-year-old “transfer student”—pretends to study a motivational poster about excellence.

In this light, she almost sells it. Taller than most girls, long auburn hair pulled into a loose braid, freckles scattered across skin that used to be sun-tanned. The glamour softened the edges of her jaw, added just enough curve to her frame to pass as mortal. Her eyes are still that molten amber, though—they give her away if you look too long.

Jace, unfortunately, is looking.

“So who’s this tall drink of water?” he asks, tone just this side of decent. His grin flashes the same way it always does before detention.

Rori freezes. Kael mutters, “Don’t encourage him.”

I roll my eyes. “Jace, this is Rori. Rori, this is Jace—our resident cautionary tale.”

Cassie leans in, her voice sweet as cyanide. “Careful. She bites.”

Jace winks at me. “Pretty sure that’s your job, Firebrand.”

The air around us shifts. Cassie’s smile doesn’t move, but her eyes go Arctic. I feel the chill bleed into my skin—our tether humming low and sharp like a warning growl.

I rub the seam of my sleeve between my fingers, a three-beat rhythm until the static drains from my chest. “Moving on,” I say lightly, forcing the words through the fizz in my brain. “Some of us have classes to attend, reputations to maintain, maybe a kingdom or two to run.”

Jace chuckles, hands raised in mock surrender, and melts back into the tide of students.

Normal hallway chatter swells around us again—lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking, the distant bell screaming too bright for the hour. My pulse keeps stuttering anyway.

Cassie brushes her thumb against my wrist, grounding me back into the noise. “You’re fine,” she murmurs.

“I know.” I don’t. But I keep walking.

The bell hasn’t even finished screaming when I feel arms snake around my waist.

Too tight.

Too sudden.

The sound in my head goes white.

“Hey, sunshine,” Nate Ashbourne’s voice hums low by my ear—smug, practiced, dipped in the kind of confidence that always comes from never hearing no in his life. “You disappear for weeks, and this is how you say hello?”

My body locks before my brain can catch up. He’s taller, broader, radiating heat like a furnace. Lacrosse-captain swagger and cologne that smells like cedar and arrogance.

I try to move—polite laugh, easy exit—but his grip just tightens.

“You know,” he murmurs, leaning down like he might kiss my temple, “you and Cassie could use a king to balance that whole two-queen thing you’ve got going.”

The hallway goes muffled.

I stare straight ahead—eyes on a poster about teamwork, of all things—and run through every lesson Selene ever taught me about composure. Shoulders back, smile soft, don’t flinch, don’t set anything on fire. I can’t even feel my hands; they’ve gone numb at my sides.

“I’d treat you both right,” he adds, his breath brushing my jaw. “Royal arrangement, right? One king. Two queens.”

My heart stutters hard enough to hurt. I can’t find my voice. Every instinct screams burn him, but in this human skin the fire won’t come.

Then Cassie’s voice—calm, razor-sharp—cuts through everything.

“Take your hands off my wife.”

Not loud. Not angry. Just absolute.

The air temperature drops ten degrees. Even without magic, I feel it: the warning hum beneath her tone, the stillness that comes before ice shatters.

Nate freezes. So does everyone else.

Rori shifts her weight beside us, stance widening—ready. Kael’s fingers twitch near her sleeve, eyes narrowing. One step from turning this hallway into a crime scene.

Cassie doesn’t move toward him. She doesn’t have to.

Her gaze flicks sideways—once—to Rori, then Kael. It’s a look sharp enough to draw blood. Stand down.

Rori freezes mid-step, fists still half clenched. Kael exhales through her nose, tension coiled but waiting. The air hums with restraint. They’ll obey. Cassie’s claimed the space.

Only then does she look back at Nate.

Whatever grin he had evaporates under that stare. His hands drop, his shoulders curling in. He laughs once—thin, nervous, wrong. “Hey—okay, okay, no harm meant.”

He backs away with the kind of smile people wear when they’re already losing.

When he finally disappears into the crush of students, sound floods back in—phones buzzing, locker doors slamming, whispers scattering like sparks.

My pulse doesn’t get the memo. It keeps sprinting, erratic, trapped under my ribs. My scent spikes before I can stop it—ozone and burnt sugar, sharp enough that even I can taste it.

Cassie’s hand finds mine, firm, grounding. Her thumb starts those soft, steady circles over my pulse point—our unspoken signal to breathe.

In. Out. Three beats.

“I’m fine,” I whisper, voice too thin to be convincing.

Her eyes stay on me—steady, protective, dangerous—and I can tell she’s still one breath away from chasing him down the hall.

I should feel humiliated that she had to step in, that I froze. But all I can think about is the way her voice sounded when she said my wife.

How it burned and soothed all at once.

The tether between us thrums once, warm citrus cutting through the ozone before it fades.

I swallow hard, finding a laugh somewhere deep enough to sound like mine. “Guess chivalry’s not dead.”

Cassie’s smile curves slow, sharp, proprietary. “No,” she says quietly, “but it knows who it answers to.”

The hallway keeps spinning around us, but her hand doesn’t let go, and that’s the only reason I’m still standing.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The rest of the period drags like wet cement. I take notes without seeing them, underline the same sentence three times, and pretend the tight coil in my chest is just caffeine withdrawal.

Cassie keeps glancing over—small looks, quiet checks—but she doesn’t say anything. We both know words would make it real.

By the time the bell rings again, I’m halfway convinced I can fake normal. The hallway crowds swallow us, a blur of chatter and perfume and locker clangs. The static in my head is fading. Almost.

Then the tide shifts. Conversations drop in volume, eyes flick our way. The kind of hush that means something is about to happen.

Of course it’s Bree.

She’s waiting near the trophy case, sunlight haloing her like the universe itself decided to spotlight the drama. A small entourage fans out behind her—cheer captains, debate kids, a few from the student council. They move like bodyguards in pastel sweaters.

“Speak of the queen,” Kael mutters.

Cassie’s thumb gives one firm stroke across my wrist—our quiet signal for steady.

Bree’s voice rings clear, practiced for maximum reach. “I was just wondering where our royal saviors have been,” she says, loud enough for the whole hall. “Student council could’ve used their help with the charity drive. Guess saving the world takes precedence over saving the local food bank?”

Laughter ripples outward, thin and eager.

Cassie’s smile freezes into something crystalline. “We didn’t realize it was a competition.”

Bree tilts her head, feigning innocence. “Everything’s a competition with you two, isn’t it? Titles, attention… hero complexes.”

I keep my expression neutral, mask in place. Any reaction feeds her. First rule of court life: never give your opponent the satisfaction of seeing the flame catch.

Behind me, Rori leans close enough that only I can hear. “Permission to remove her from the gene pool?”

Kael, dry as ever: “Denied. Would make paperwork messy.”

Rori sighs. “I do hate paperwork.”

The sound pulls a startled laugh out of me—too sharp, too human. Bree catches it, of course she does. Her smile flickers into something feral.

“You can laugh, Mira,” she says sweetly, “but some of us actually work to make a difference instead of playing dress-up with crowns.”

Cassie steps half a pace closer until our shoulders brush. The message is clear: Don’t rise to it.

I roll the seam of my sleeve between my fingers—three beats, steady rhythm—until the buzz in my head settles.

“Good to know the council’s in such capable hands,” I say, calm, practiced, diplomatic. “We’ll try not to overshadow your bake sale.”

A few students snort; others glare. Lines drawn.

Bree’s comeback lands crisp. “Oh, don’t worry. You already did.”

She pivots with her entourage, leaving perfume and murmurs in her wake.

The hall slowly exhales. Cassie squeezes my hand once. “Ignore her.”

“I’m trying.”

“Try harder,” she murmurs, eyes still on the crowd.

And as the noise swells back to normal, I realize this kind of battle doesn’t leave scorch marks—but it burns all the same.

~~~~~~~~~

The last bell of the day hits like a mercy kill.

Folders slam shut. Chairs scrape. The air tastes like old pencil lead and impatience.

I pack up slower than usual, letting the room empty before Cassie leans over my desk. “You good?”

“Define good.”

Her mouth quirks, that tiny almost-smile that means you’re still standing, so close enough.

We file into the hallway, Rori and Kael a few paces behind us, the picture of casual security.

The end-of-day rush feels different than morning. Louder. Edgier. The kind of noise that hides bad news inside it.

Cassie nudges my shoulder. “You’re still thinking about Bree.”

“I’m trying not to.”

“Try harder.” She grins, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. We both know how fast one rumor turns into wildfire here.

We’re halfway to the front doors when a muffled sob cuts through the noise.

Two girls huddle near the bulletin board, backpacks hanging loose, mascara running. I recognize one of them—Tessa Valen, dance club vice president, queen of mid-tier popularity and pastel hoodies.

“She didn’t come home,” Tessa says, voice cracking. “She texted me after practice, said she was stopping by the vending machines, and then… nothing.”

My feet stop moving. Cassie does too.

“Who?” she asks quietly.

“Lydia,” Tessa sniffles. “Lydia Dannon. You know, Ashlynn’s cousin? She’s a senior.”

My stomach drops.

Not because I knew her well—just enough to nod in the hall—but because it sounds too familiar.

Cassie meets my gaze. No words. We don’t need them. The spa. The missing girls. The ones who never made it home.

Eight months is too long to call coincidence, too short to call safety.

“It’s starting again, isn’t it?” Cassie whispers.

I nod once, pulse already spiking.

We move toward the doors, slipping into the thinning crowd. My phone’s already in my hand.

To Naomi & Kess:

Student missing. Feels wrong. I hope it isn’t the Shroud. Name is Lydia Dannon, Ashlynn’s cousin. She’s a senior here at Ravenrest Heights Academy. Don’t know if you knew her.

The response from Naomi comes fast.

Naomi:We’re on it.

Kess follows a minute later.

Kess:Tell your guard dogs to keep leashes tight on you. We’ll start digging and let you know anything we find out.

“Guard dogs?” Rori mutters behind me. “I prefer guardian angel.”

Kael snorts. “You’re more like an overworked babysitter.”

“Semantics,” Rori says dryly, adjusting the strap of her bag.

We step out into the late-afternoon air. The parking lot gleams with rain puddles and dying sunlight. The motorcade waits at the curb, engines humming low.

Then—just for a second—the air ripples near the far lamppost. Like heat distortion, except the day’s too cool for that.

My breath catches. Cassie’s hand finds mine automatically, her pulse syncing with mine in that uncanny new rhythm.

The shimmer vanishes as fast as it came, leaving only the faint taste of metal on the wind.

I swallow hard. “Rori, Kael—eyes up.”

They move instantly, scanning the perimeter. Nothing.

Still, the hollow in my chest doesn’t ease.

As we reach the car, I slide my hand into my bag until my fingers brush the Veil-reactive shard. Warm, steady pulse under my touch.

It hasn’t done that in months.

“Guess I’m keeping you close again,” I murmur under my breath.

Cassie gives me a sidelong look but doesn’t ask. She doesn’t have to.

The door shuts behind us with a solid click, sealing in the hum of engines and unspoken dread.

Something is shifting in Dominveil again.

And this time, it’s starting at home.