The end of the day always feels like an evacuation. Lockers slam. Backpacks hit the floor. The air smells like floor polish, wet pavement, and a cloud of too much body spray.

Cassie’s phone rings through the noise—one sharp chime that slices through the chaos. I glance up from my locker just in time to see her expression harden. The screen flashes Mother, and my stomach sinks.

She steps away from the stream of students, pressing close to the wall near one of the stone columns by the stairwell. Her voice drops low when she answers. “Hi, Mother.”

The crowd around us is too loud for normal hearing to catch what comes next—but my senses slip into that sharper edge they get when I’m not paying attention to the glamour’s limits.

Helena Fairborn’s voice is smooth and precise, carried to me under the hum of lockers and chatter. “If you’re going to use our family’s resources to uplift Eversea, the least you can do is pay us the courtesy of visibility.”

Cassie exhales through her nose. “I’m not selling my wife’s privacy for airtime.”

“Oh, you misunderstand,” Helena says. “This isn’t about you. It’s about family.”

Cassie stiffens, her free hand curling into a fist at her side. “I’m not agreeing to an interview. End of discussion.”

There’s a pause, then Helena’s voice again, quieter, deadlier. “Then allow me to reframe the discussion. Elliot’s back in the hospital.”

Cassie goes still. The hallway keeps moving—laughter, footsteps, the squeak of sneakers on tile—but the sound dulls around me.

“You’re lying,” she whispers.

“I wish I were,” Helena replies, her tone softening to something almost kind. “They won’t let you see him until the interview is scheduled.”

Cassie’s voice trembles. “You can’t do that.”

“I can.” Another pause. “You don’t get to be a Fairborn only when it’s convenient. You may have married into the Firebrand and Quinveil families, but your bloodline still means something. Time you remembered that.”

There’s silence—long enough to feel heavy. Beneath Helena’s perfect composure, I can hear something raw. Not power. Not pride. Fear. A mother’s grief warped into control.

Cassie’s reply comes out small. “That’s not fair.”

“Life rarely is.” Then the faint click of the call ending.

Cassie lowers the phone slowly, the hallway’s noise rushing back in around her. Students bump past, shouting goodbyes, unaware that something in her has cracked. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Her silence is too still, too clean.

I know that silence. It’s the kind people use when they’re trying not to shatter.

My fingers find the seam of my sleeve. Roll. Three beats. Again.

The air smells like polish and ozone and regret.

Helena Fairborn’s timing was perfect.

And her aim, as always, devastating.

Cassie pockets her phone, the motion too sharp, too final. Around us, the hallway’s still crowded—students half out the door, the end-of-day chaos a mix of chatter and slamming lockers.

She starts to move toward me, expression composed like she can pretend nothing happened.

“You didn’t tell me you had us recorded,” I say.

The words cut straight through the noise.

Cassie stops dead.

Conversations around us start stuttering, one by one, until even the laughter down the hall falters.

She doesn’t bother to ask how I know. “You heard the call,” she says flatly.

“Hard not to,” I shoot back. “You planned it. The video. The upload. The whole thing.”

Cassie exhales, tilting her head like she’s trying to keep her temper. “I had to, Mira. Bree’s been tearing us down for months—someone had to end it before she hurt the school.”

“By hurting me?” My voice is louder than I intend. It echoes down the corridor. Heads turn.

Cassie steps closer, trying to keep her tone even, but her eyes are flashing. “By protecting you. By showing them who you really are when you’re not hiding behind perfection.”

“You don’t get to decide who I am!”

The words rip out of me, sharp and hot. I’m aware of every sound—the click of a phone recording, the metallic clang of a locker door shutting too slowly, my own pulse roaring in my ears.

Cassie’s jaw tightens. “You think people see the real you? They don’t! They see what you let them. You hide behind control, behind this—this need to be untouchable, and I—”

“And you thought you’d fix it by betraying me?” My fingers are twitching at my sleeves now, rolling the fabric, three beats, four, five, faster—trying to ground myself and failing. “You took away my choice, Cassie. You know how much that matters to me!”

The crowd murmurs. Someone whispers my name like it’s gossip.

Cassie flinches but doesn’t back down. “I know! And I’m sorry, but I did it because I love you, because you deserve to be seen, not feared!”

I laugh—too loud, too brittle. “You don’t get to decide how I’m seen.”

The hallway hums with that uncomfortable stillness that happens before a storm breaks. Kael and Rori have stopped dead near the end of the corridor, scanning the edges, unsure whether to step in or let us burn it out.

Cassie’s voice drops, not quiet, just dangerous. “If you want everyone to think you’re heartless, fine. But I won’t apologize for showing them the truth.”

For a second, no one breathes. Even the air feels electrified.

Then I find my voice again, low and shaking. “You wanted to protect me? Congratulations. Now the whole world knows I can bleed.”

Cassie opens her mouth, then closes it again. For once, she has nothing left to throw back.

The bell for after-school announcements buzzes overhead—shrill, pointless, breaking the silence like a mercy.

And in that jagged pause, all I can think is that Helena Fairborn would probably be thrilled.

The bell finishes shrieking, but no one moves. The hallway’s still thick with bodies and whispers.

Cassie’s voice cuts through it, clear and raw. “I can’t fight your monsters, Mira. I can’t swing a sword at your mother or the Shroud. I can’t burn down half of Dominveil to protect you. But I can win a PR war. I can protect you in the only way I know how.”

The crowd goes silent again. Every phone is still up, every set of eyes fixed on us.

And it hits me—she doesn’t get it. Not yet.

“You don’t need to protect me,” I say, my throat burning. “You need to trust me. I don’t do the right thing so people will clap for it. I do it because it’s right.”

Cassie’s face tightens. “You think I don’t know that?”

“Apparently not,” I snap. “Because you turned something that was supposed to be private—sacred—into a headline.”

A few students gasp, but I keep going. My voice shakes, but I don’t care. “Do you know what it’s like having every act of kindness turned into a performance? Every mistake magnified until it’s the only thing people see?” My fingers twist the edge of my sleeve, the fabric rolling tight between them. “I’ve spent my whole life being watched, judged, used. I just wanted one thing that belonged to me. And you—”

“I was trying to help,” she says, too loud, voice cracking under it.

“By taking away my choice?” I ask. “You know that’s the one thing I can’t stand.”

Cassie blinks, her shoulders sagging, the anger leaking out. “I know. You’re right.” Her voice breaks into something hoarse and honest. “I was desperate, Mira. I can’t fight your kind of battles, but I can fight this one. I thought—if people saw what I see—they’d stop treating you like some cold, dangerous thing.”

The words echo, ricocheting off lockers and silence. And then something in me softens.

Because she’s not wrong. She just didn’t understand the cost.

I take a breath, slow, grounding. The scent of floor polish, paper, too many bodies—all of it swimming together. “You don’t need to fight them for me,” I say finally. “You just have to stand with me.”

Her eyes flick up, wet now. “I won’t do it again. Not without telling you first.”

“Good.” I take her hand—let everyone see it, because this isn’t shame. “Because next time, I might just set the camera on fire.”

A ripple of laughter breaks the tension; even Rori smirks from down the hall.

Cassie huffs out something between a sob and a laugh. “You’d look amazing doing it.”

“Obviously.”

The laughter spreads, softer this time. The sharpness between us melts into something else—tired, human, real.

I squeeze her hand tighter. “We’ll do the interview.”

Cassie blinks. “What?”

“Once,” I say. “For your family. But that’s it. After that, they earn their access like everyone else. I’m doing this because I love you, not because I want the attention.”

Cassie stares at me, the fight gone from her eyes. “That’s more than I deserve.”

“Maybe. But it’s enough.”

Then she pulls me in, tight and unguarded. Phones flash, students whisper, but I don’t care.

Because this isn’t a show anymore.

It’s a promise.

And for once, I don’t mind that the whole world is watching—because this time, I chose it.

The courtyard empties slowly, the buzz of gossip trailing behind us like smoke. Cassie and I walk hand in hand toward the motorcade, Rori and Kael flanking us as the late-afternoon sun glints off the glass doors. The air hums with cicadas and leftover summer heat—thick, golden, relentless.

Rori tugs irritably at the waistband of her plaid skirt. “Two days in this glamour and I already miss pockets.”

Kael doesn’t even look up from scanning the perimeter. “It’s more than a glamour,” she says. “You’re an eighteen-year-old girl right now. Glamour doesn’t change bone structure or body chemistry.”

Rori groans. “Don’t remind me. My center of gravity’s all wrong. And the hair—” she flicks at the glossy braid Cassie insisted she keep “—won’t stay out of my face.”

Cassie smirks. “You’re doing fine. Half the school already thinks you’re adorable.”

Rori narrows her eyes. “Wonderful. Just what every bodyguard wants to hear.”

Kael grins over her shoulder. “Could be worse. Skirts are breezy.”

That earns her a glare. “Easy for you to say, you still have your original…everything.”

I can’t help the laugh that escapes me. “You know,” I say softly, “you might even like it if you let yourself.”

Rori stops tugging at her hem long enough to glance at me, suspicious. “Like what, exactly?”

“Being her,” I say simply. “It’s not a disguise anymore, Rori. Not for now. You’re living as her. That’s real. And if you ever decide you like it…no one here’s going to judge you for it.”

Cassie hums her agreement. “Least of all Mira.”

Rori’s bravado flickers. She looks at me for a moment too long, something uncertain and wistful in her expression, then clears her throat and mutters, “Let’s just focus on the mission before you lot start picking out nail polish.”

Cassie snorts, Kael chuckles, and the tension cracks into warmth. The small, ridiculous normalcy of it steadies all of us.

By the time we reach the motorcade, sunlight bounces off the chrome so hard it makes me squint. Kael opens the rear door, waiting for the next order.

“Where to, Your Highness?” she asks.

I unlock my phone; Naomi’s latest text glows on the screen. West transit stop, Grimwall Hollow. Found Lydia’s bag.

“Naomi and Kess found something,” I say. “That’s where we’re going.”

Cassie nods, voice firm again. “Then let’s move.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Grimwall Hollow blazes in the afternoon light. The cobblestones shimmer with heat mirage, the air tasting of dust and engine oil. The metallic shriek of the tram lines cuts through the district, echoing off brick.

Naomi waits by the rusted bus shelter at the edge of the block, hood down now, hair damp with sweat. Kess leans against the pillar beside her, half in shade.

“The bag was found here,” Naomi says. “Lydia Dannon’s.”

Cassie scans the platform. “And?”

Naomi shakes her head. “Too clean. No prints, no scuff marks, no trace evidence.”

Kess pushes off the wall. “Whoever left it wanted it found.”

A chill ripples up my spine despite the heat. “Staged.”

Kael’s hand drifts to her blade. “Direction?”

I close my eyes, reaching out. There’s a faint thrum beneath the pavement—old, deliberate magic, pulling east toward the industrial quarter.

“The Shadeworks,” I murmur.

Cassie’s fingers brush mine. “Then that’s where we start.”

Naomi and Kess exchange a look that says trouble.

We move out together, sunlight flashing on metal, the city’s hum rising behind us. The warmth of the day feels heavier now, like it’s holding its breath.

Peace never lasts long.

Not for people like us.

The entrance to the Shadeworks yawns beneath the west transit stop—a rusted stairwell spiraling into darkness. The deeper we descend, the heavier the air gets. It smells of old metal, wet earth, and magic left too long without sunlight.

Rori’s voice echoes down the steps. “I can’t believe we’re doing this. Princesses don’t belong underground.”

Kael follows close behind, blade half-drawn. “Grimwall was bad enough. Shadeworks is worse. I’m filing a complaint when we get back.”

Naomi’s laugh drifts up from the front. “Good luck with that. This is Dominveil’s bloodstream—you can’t know the city until you’ve walked through its veins.”

Kess adds, “Besides, it’s about time your princesses got their shoes dirty.”

Cassie shoots her a dry look. “My shoes are suede.”

“Then they’ll die heroes,” Naomi says.

The walls close in around us, lined with corroded pipes that hiss softly like breathing. A low hum pulses underfoot—faint, rhythmic. My attunement to the Veil catches it instantly, a thread of energy winding east beneath the concrete. I stop, one hand pressed to the wall, feeling it vibrate through my bones.

“This way,” I whisper.

Rori frowns. “You sure?”

I nod. “It’s pulling. The Veil’s current always knows where the rot starts.”

Naomi kneels and presses her palm to the ground. Faint blue light ripples outward, spreading in branching patterns like frost. Footprints bloom into view—small, human, and recent—glowing with her magic before fading again.

“Lydia’s path,” she murmurs. “Or what’s left of it.”

Cassie shivers. “That’s—unnerving.”

“Better than walking blind,” Naomi says. “Follow the glow.”

The tracks twist through narrow corridors and down a tunnel slick with condensation. Voices echo now and then—dealers, thieves, people bartering in languages that sound older than the city itself. The air thrums with danger and currency.

Kael mutters, “Keep your heads down. Nothing good watches from these walls.”

Naomi’s light pulses again, weaker this time. “Almost there.”

The tunnel widens into a storage chamber. Machines rust in the corners; pipes drip steadily from above. In the center, illuminated by the last of Naomi’s glow, sits a table.

A silver charm bracelet.

A single white sneaker.

A phone still faintly lit—Lydia Dannon’s name flickering across the lock screen.

Cassie exhales. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Naomi crouches, eyes narrowing. “No dust. No scuff marks. Too clean.”

Kess’s jaw tightens. “Bait. Someone wanted us to follow.”

Rori glances around the dark chamber, voice low. “We shouldn’t be here. This isn’t a search—it’s a setup.”

“The Shroud’s baiting us,” I say quietly. The Veil hums through my chest, sharp and cold. “They want to see who bites.”

Cassie looks at me. “So we leave?”

“Slowly,” Kess answers. “No sudden moves. If there’s a trap, we don’t trigger it.”

We back out the way we came, Naomi’s frost-light fading with every step until the dark swallows it whole. The pipes creak overhead, whispering like voices following us. My heart beats in time with the hum of the Veil—steady, warning, alive.

When we finally climb back into daylight, the noise of the city hits like a rush of air after drowning.

Rori exhales shakily. “Never again.”

Naomi smirks. “You’ll live. Maybe even learn something.”

“Yeah,” Kael mutters, scanning the street. “Like how not to take the princesses into a death trap.”

Cassie glances at me, her voice soft. “They wanted us scared.”

I nod, the words tasting metallic. “They got what they wanted. The evidence may be false—but the fear it leaves behind is real.”