The second the car door cracks open, the world explodes.

Noise—too loud, too close.

Flashes—white spots that don’t fade fast enough.

Voices overlapping, dozens at once.

“Princess!” “Mira!” “Is it true?” “Smile for the feed!”

I freeze halfway out of the seat. The air hits me like static—perfume, deodorant, burnt coffee, rain-soaked pavement, all of it shoved up my nose at once until my head starts to hum.

My hand grips the doorframe; the metal is cold, grounding, the only thing that makes sense. I rub the inside seam of my sleeve with my thumb—three beats, repeat, three beats, repeat—until I can feel my pulse settle just enough to breathe.

Phones are everywhere. Screens glint like tiny suns. Someone’s chanting “Eversea!” like it’s a victory march, and for half a heartbeat I think maybe we’re under attack—because why else would there be this many people yelling my name?

Cassie moves first. She’s out of the car in a breath, sliding between me and the mob with that effortless, camera-ready grace she was practically born with. Her hand finds my back—warm through the thin fabric of my jacket—and she draws slow, steady circles just above my spine. The motion cuts through the noise a little.

“Easy,” she murmurs, barely moving her lips. “In through your nose. Out through your mouth.”

I try. The air tastes like rain and rust and sugar from someone’s spilled latte. My heartbeat still stutters in my ears.

Questions hit like hailstones.

“Princess, is it true you spent last night at Grimwall Hollow?”

“Was that gloss Fae-made or mortal brand?”

“Will there be a follow-up visit?”

I blink, disoriented. “What—what are they talking about?”

Cassie doesn’t answer, not yet. Her smile is all poise and polish, the public-relations shield that says she’s completely in control. She isn’t. I can feel the tension running through her fingertips against my back.

Rori and Kael fan out in front, their tone flat and practiced.

“No comments today.”

“No interviews.”

“Make way for Her Highness.”

And then, under their breath—Rori muttering just loud enough for me to hear—“Pretty sure ‘personal space’ isn’t in the curriculum here.”

Kael snorts. “Add it to the next safety briefing.”

They start clearing a path, the crowd reluctantly parting. A few students shout my name again, hoping I’ll wave, but I can’t make my face cooperate. My skin feels wrong—too tight, too bright.

Cassie leans close, her whisper brushing my ear. “Eyes on me, Firebrand. Just walk.”

I do. One step, then another, sleeve seam still rolling under my fingers. The buzz of voices presses in on every side, and I have no idea what any of this means—only that I wasn’t ready for it, and whatever’s happening, it’s already spiraling out of my control.

The stone bench near the courtyard fountain glistens with dew, an island of calm in the chaos. Cassie steers me toward it like she’s done this a hundred times—one hand still pressed against my back, steady pressure keeping me tethered to something real.

“Eyes on me, Firefly,” she says again, softer this time, voice a low hum that cuts through the static in my skull. “Just breathe. I’ve got you.”

The fountain’s splash is steady, rhythmic—white noise that helps untangle the crowd noise into something I can survive. I focus on it. Then on Cassie’s hand finding my wrist, thumb drawing that small grounding circle against my pulse point.

Kael and Rori are working the perimeter now, their voices sharp and unbothered.

“Our princess and her consort are unavailable right now,” Kael announces.

Rori adds, “Please check back later—or preferably never.”

Some students laugh. Others back off. The wall of bodies thins enough that I can finally breathe without counting it out loud.

Cassie waits until my shoulders drop a little before crouching so we’re eye level. “Firefly, I know you don’t do much social media,” she says gently, “but it can be a very powerful tool when used right.”

I blink at her, confused. “What are you—”

She pulls out her phone before I finish. The screen is a blur of light and motion: VeilTok clips, VeilNet reposts, comments scrolling faster than I can read. My name, Cassie’s, the orphanage’s—all trending.

One video loops: me kneeling beside Abby, showing her how to swipe on lip gloss. Another—Ben’s skateboard jump. Then the water balloon fight, frozen on Cassie and me, both drenched and laughing like idiots.

My throat tightens. “How did—who filmed—”

Cassie’s tone doesn’t change. “Someone saw something worth sharing.”

I stare at the screen, the world shrinking down to that glow. My breath goes shallow again. I can’t tell if the pounding in my chest is panic or fury or both. “I didn’t do it for this,” I whisper. “I didn’t want this.”

Her thumb traces the inside of my wrist again, slow, sure, until I match my breathing to her rhythm. “I know,” she says softly. “But think of all the extra good this did for the orphanage. Those kids get to be celebrities for a little while—get some brightness in their lives that wouldn’t have existed otherwise.”

She hesitates, a small, knowing smile curving her mouth. “And it’s going to put Bree right back in her place. That alone should be worth it.”

Despite everything, a weak laugh escapes me. The kind that trembles at the edges. “You’re insufferable.”

“Effective,” she corrects, tucking her phone away.

The fountain splashes, steady as a heartbeat. Around us, the crowd starts to disperse, voices softening to background noise. My pulse finally evens out—until the next wave inevitably hits.

The next wave hits in the form of clicking heels.

Bree cuts through what’s left of the crowd like she’s walking a runway, her pastel entourage flanking her like well-trained sycophants. The sound of her shoes on the stone path is too sharp, too deliberate—like punctuation marks on her outrage.

“Unbelievable,” she declares, voice pitched to carry. “You hijack my charity cause and make it about you?”

Cassie doesn’t even blink. She shifts her weight, arms loose at her sides, the faintest curve tugging at her mouth. “Maybe people respond better when it’s real.”

Gasps scatter across the courtyard like sparks. Bree’s expression tightens—perfectly lip-glossed fury. “Real? You staged a PR stunt!”

My pulse jumps again. I can feel the crowd edging closer, their curiosity pressing in like humidity.

I straighten, still half behind Cassie but unwilling to hide. “We didn’t invite anyone,” I say, forcing my voice past the static in my throat. “We just showed up.”

There’s a pause—a ripple of whispers, a few quiet nods.

Phones rise higher. Every angle captured. Every breath a potential headline.

Behind us, Rori mutters just loud enough for me to hear, “Permission to escort the lady back to irrelevance?”

Kael doesn’t miss a beat. “Denied. Too many witnesses.”

Bree hears the laughter that follows and stiffens, eyes flashing toward them, then back to me. “You think this is funny?”

Cassie steps forward, the smile still painted perfectly on her face but her tone dropping to something cool, lethal. “Next time, Bree, don’t try to out-PR a Fairborn.”

It lands like a blade.

The laughter that follows isn’t cruel—it’s relieved, like the whole courtyard’s been holding its breath for months and finally lets it out. Bree’s mask falters; she swallows, chin tilting up in a fragile imitation of dignity.

“Enjoy your spotlight,” she spits, voice trembling just enough to betray her.

Cassie just shrugs, sunlight glinting off her hair like a halo made of smug victory.

And for a fleeting second, it almost feels like the noise, the attention, the cameras—might actually be worth it.

The laughter doesn’t stop.

It swells. Builds.

Every sound ricochets inside my skull until I can’t tell where the world ends and I begin.

Flashes—too bright.

Voices—too many.

The air thickens, heavy with perfume and static and heat.

My chest locks up. Breath stalls halfway. My vision tunnels, color bleeding out at the edges until everything looks like it’s underwater.

The seam of my sleeve’s under my thumb, but the rhythm won’t come. My hands won’t obey. I can’t find the pattern, can’t find the count.

Cassie’s in front of me before I can fall apart completely. Her body shields mine from the press of students, her voice cutting through the noise like a thread of light.

“Focus on me, Firefly. Count it out. One. Two. Three.”

I can’t see her face clearly—just light and motion—but her tone anchors me.

“One.” Her fingers trace the edge of my wrist.

“Two.” She presses her palm to my shoulder, firm and steady.

“Three.” Her forehead leans against mine, the whisper of her breath grounding me in a way no magic ever could.

Kael and Rori move fast, their bodies forming a human wall around us. Kael snaps at a cluster of students who won’t lower their phones.

“Show’s over. Move along.”

Rori’s voice follows, quieter but sharper. “Give the princess space.”

The static starts to thin. I drag in a breath—wet air, iron, sugar. Again. Then again. The world reassembles itself, edges returning one by one: Cassie’s hand on mine, the stone bench under my knee, the rhythmic fountain splashing nearby.

Then my phone buzzes.

Once. Twice. A vibration deep enough to rattle the breath I just found.

Naomi: We found something. Lydia Dannon’s bag turned up near the west transit stop. Meet after school.

I blink hard, reread it twice, then hand the screen to Cassie.

She scans it, her tone dropping low. “We’ll handle it.”

Her thumb brushes the edge of my hand again—gentle, deliberate—and the world finally steadies, though the tremor in my fingers won’t stop.

Somewhere beyond the courtyard, laughter still lingers, but my mind’s already moving toward something colder.

A missing girl. A pattern repeating.

Peace never lasts long here.

Bree hovers at the edge of the crowd while I’m still fighting to pull myself back together.

For once, she’s quiet. Watching. Calculating.

Her expression flickers between triumph and hesitation—as if she can’t decide whether to gloat or retreat. Even she seems to realize now isn’t the time to poke the princess having a very public meltdown.

So she waits.

Lets the silence stretch until my breathing evens and the tremor fades from my hands.

Then, right on cue, she exhales a sharp huff, red-faced and trembling with the effort to hold herself together.

“Enjoy your fifteen minutes, Your Highness,” she spits. “It’s clear you can’t handle the attention.”

Cassie’s jaw tightens, but she doesn’t answer. Neither do I.

Bree’s heels snap against the stone as she spins and storms toward the main doors. Her entourage scrambles to follow, tripping over their pastel shoes and whispered apologies.

The courtyard starts to empty again—students scattering back toward class, murmurs fading into the steady splash of the fountain. I’m about to look away when Bree passes beneath the arch of the entrance.

The fluorescent strip light above the door buzzes and flares—too bright, too sudden.

For a single heartbeat, Bree’s outline ripples.

Not shadow. Not reflection.

A shimmer.

My breath catches.

Then the smell hits—ozone and cardamon, the faint tang of glamour residue. Wrong.

No human should smell like that.

Impossible.

Bree’s human.

Always has been.

And no glamour, no illusion, should ever slip past my senses.

But I know what I saw.

And what I smelled.

Bree disappears into the building, the door swinging shut behind her like a held breath.

The light flickers once more, then steadies.

Cassie’s still talking softly with Rori and Kael, but I barely hear her. My stomach twists, a cold knot forming under my ribs.

“Either I’m imagining things,” I whisper, “or somebody’s rewriting rules.”