The Veilstorm hums against the windows, soft but insistent—like the world’s trying to whisper something I can’t quite hear. Every few minutes, lightning flickers through the curtains, silvering the edges of Mira’s room before retreating again.

I read to fill the silence.

My voice isn’t steady—it wavers, catches on certain words. The book’s an old one I pulled from her nightstand, the cover worn and soft from use. The Song of the Silverbloom. I remember her mentioning it once, saying she used to read it when she couldn’t sleep. I cling to that memory like it’s a map. If I can trace the same words she loved, maybe I can guide her back to me.

My throat’s raw, but I keep reading. The story’s about a girl who planted a flower in the middle of winter and sang to it every night until it bloomed beneath the snow. I don’t know if Mira can hear me. I want to believe she can.

She lies still, lashes dark against her cheeks, hair tangled against the pillow. There’s color in her face again—barely—but it’s enough to keep me breathing. Earlier, she’d burned so hot I thought I’d lose her. I still don’t know if the fire was hers or the Veil’s, and I don’t care. I just know I never want to see her like that again.

The candles gutter with each distant crack of thunder. Their scent—starlight wax and summer blossom—mixes with the sharp edge of ozone seeping through the half-open window. Rori insisted on leaving it cracked “to let the storm breathe.” She and Kael are shadows by the window now, silent sentinels.

Rori’s cleaning her sword again. It’s pointless, but it gives her hands something to do. Kael’s pretending to read a file, but her eyes haven’t moved from the same paragraph in twenty minutes.

I glance at them, then back to Mira. “You two can sit,” I murmur. “You’re making the room nervous.”

Kael huffs a faint laugh. Rori doesn’t answer, just keeps rubbing the same spot on the blade until it shines.

The candlelight catches on Mira’s skin, turning it to gold for a heartbeat before shadow swallows it again. She looks peaceful. Too peaceful. It’s the kind of calm that follows collapse.

“I shouldn’t have let her go,” I whisper, mostly to myself.

Kael’s head lifts. “She would’ve gone anyway.”

“I could’ve stopped her.”

“No,” Rori says from the window, voice low but certain. “You couldn’t have.”

I want to argue, but the truth’s a weight I can’t shake. Mira never does what anyone tells her to—not even me. Especially not me. And gods, that’s part of why I love her.

Another rumble rolls through the sky. The book trembles slightly in my hands. I look down at the page, at the neat rows of words blurring under my gaze. “The flower sang back,” I read softly, “because even in winter, it remembered the warmth that planted it.”

My chest aches.

I reach for Mira’s hand, careful not to wake her—not that she’s close to waking. Her fingers are warm now, pulse steady beneath my thumb. A thin wisp of light flickers across her skin, faint as a dream. Not magic, exactly—just the Veil responding to her. It always does.

“She’s going to be fine,” Kael says. Her tone is clinical, almost detached, but I catch the crack underneath.

“She has to be,” I answer.

Rori shifts, setting her sword aside. “She will be. Mira doesn’t break. She just… burns through things until there’s nothing left to hurt her.”

That sounds too familiar. Too much like all of us.

I keep reading until my voice grows hoarse. The rhythm of the words becomes a lullaby, something to fill the gaps between Mira’s shallow breaths. My fingers trace idle circles over the back of her hand, counting heartbeats, matching them to the rise and fall of her chest.

Lightning flashes again, this time bright enough to paint the room in silver. For a second, I swear I see something shimmer above her—the faint outline of wings made of light and smoke. Then it’s gone, leaving only the sound of rain and her quiet breathing.

I close the book, rest it against my knee, and let my head fall back against the chair. “You owe me for this, Firefly,” I murmur. “Next time you want to collapse in public, at least wait until I finish my popcorn.”

No answer, of course. Just the faintest twitch of her fingers under mine, like she heard me and decided not to dignify it.

I smile, small and tired. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

Outside, the storm keeps humming—low, steady, endless. Inside, the only sound is her heartbeat and the whisper of pages as I start the story again.

The storm doesn’t let up. If anything, it’s worse now.

Thunder crawls across the sky like something alive, lightning flashing in the shape of veins that spiderweb through the clouds. The windows rattle in their frames, but I don’t move. Mira’s hand is still in mine. The air smells like rain and something electric—Veil energy bleeding through the cracks.

The door opens with a burst of cold air and command.

Seara doesn’t knock. She never does.

She sweeps into the room like she owns the storm, robes snapping at her heels, eyes sharp enough to cut through the low candlelight. Two healers follow in her wake, one court and one mortal, both trying to look competent and terrified at the same time.

Elias comes after, softer in every way—same height, same quiet authority, but his presence feels like warmth instead of lightning. He shuts the door carefully, as if noise alone might hurt Mira.

Seara takes one look at her daughter, pale and still against the pillows, and the crack in her mask is visible for half a breath before she buries it under control. “What happened?” she demands, already moving closer.

“Veil backlash,” Kael answers from the window. Her tone’s clipped, professional. “Some kind of resonance reaction between Mira’s natural energy and an artificial enchantment. The field at Ravenrest destabilized. We evacuated her as soon as she collapsed.”

Seara doesn’t waste time on anger—at least not yet. She gestures, and the healers rush forward, hands already glowing faintly. “Run diagnostics. Magical, physical, emotional—all of it. I want results before I take my next breath.”

They bow quickly and begin their work, murmuring incantations that weave thin light across Mira’s skin. It doesn’t reach her—just ripples and fades, like she’s absorbing even that.

Elias moves to my side and lays a steady hand on my shoulder. “You stayed with her,” he says quietly. “Good.”

I nod, unable to look away from Mira. “She hasn’t stirred since we brought her home.”

He studies me for a second longer, then moves to help adjust the blankets, the way a father would rather than a noble. “She will,” he says, calm and certain. “Mira always finds her way back.”

Seara’s pacing now, her power coiling under her skin like a caged flame. She’s beautiful in the kind of way that demands obedience. “I told her this mortal charade would end in disaster,” she mutters, half to herself.

“She’s a teenager, Seara,” Elias reminds her gently. “Disaster is part of the curriculum.”

Her glare could melt steel. “Not when it risks the Veil.”

The healers exchange looks but wisely stay silent. One of them—a mortal with steady hands—clears his throat. “Your Grace, the diagnosis is clear. Severe magical exhaustion. Dangerous, yes, but not permanent. Her body is recovering; her aura will stabilize once her energy regenerates.”

Seara’s jaw tightens. “So she burned herself out.”

“Not exactly,” the court healer adds. “It’s as if she… absorbed too much. She expelled a corruption through resonance rather than destruction. Fascinating, if—”

Seara’s gaze slices to him, and he shuts up instantly.

“When she wakes,” the mortal healer continues, braver than smart, “she’ll need rest, hydration, and grounding. No channeling, no emotional extremes.”

Seara folds her arms. “And how long until she wakes?”

“Hours. Maybe a day.”

Elias nods. “Then we wait.”

Seara exhales through her nose, the sound sharp but controlled. She finally sits in the armchair beside the bed, posture immaculate even in exhaustion. Elias takes the one across from her, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.

For the first time since they walked in, the room feels… balanced. Fire and heart, opposite poles of the same person.

I look between them and Mira and think—of course. That’s where she gets it. That impossible mix of command and compassion, defiance and grace.

The storm outside roars again, wind bending the trees, lightning casting fractured shadows across the room. The Veilstorm feels alive, like it’s waiting for her to open her eyes.

Seara watches her daughter in silence. Elias folds his hands together and murmurs something I think might be a prayer.

And me? I just keep holding Mira’s hand.

“Drink and rest,” the healer said. Easy orders. But the second half of that—the rest—has never been something Mira’s good at.

I look at her and whisper, “You’d better listen for once, Firefly.”

Outside, thunder answers for her.

The healers leave in hushed steps, the door closing soft behind them. Their light vanishes with them, leaving only candles and stormlight.

The Veilstorm hasn’t tired yet. It claws at the windows in gusts, spilling white fire across the clouds outside. The thunder rolls low and endless—an animal pacing just out of sight.

Seara’s orders echo faintly in my head: rest, hydrate, recover. Simple words that feel useless against a force like Mira. She’s always been a storm disguised as a girl. Now the sky seems to remember it.

I reach for the book again.

It’s one of hers—The Girl Who Caught the Moon, the spine cracked from being read too many times. The pages smell faintly of starlight and dust, the way only books that have been loved do. I find the folded corner where she last stopped and start reading from there, my voice low so it doesn’t disturb whatever fragile peace she’s found.

“The girl waited every night for the moon to fall into her hands. She never stopped believing it might… even when the stars stopped answering her.”

The rhythm of the words steadies me. My pulse falls in line with them.

Mira’s face is still too pale, but her breathing’s stronger now. Every exhale flutters the edge of the blanket, small, delicate, constant. The Veil hums in sync with her heartbeat—a sound I can feel more than hear, faint and steady, threading through the air like it’s anchored to her.

“If you can hear me,” I murmur, “you know I’m here, right?”

No answer, but something in the room shifts anyway—the storm hesitates, lightning faltering for half a breath before resuming its wild pulse. It’s enough to make me believe she’s listening. She always does, even when she pretends not to.

I turn another page, thumb brushing the smudge of ink near the margin where she must’ve written something once, long faded.

“When the moon finally fell,” I read quietly, “it wasn’t because the girl reached higher. It was because she waited long enough for it to trust her hands.”

I close my eyes for a moment, my chest tightening. Mira has always been the one chasing the impossible—saving everyone else, taking the burn herself. I wonder if she even knows how to let anyone catch her when she falls.

The thunder cracks close this time, loud enough to make the glass tremble. I glance up; Rori and Kael are still keeping watch, silent silhouettes framed by stormlight.

The world outside feels like it’s trying to come undone, but inside this room, it’s just her and me.

I press my thumb to the back of her hand, feeling the faint hum beneath her skin, the pulse of the Veil answering in kind. “You don’t have to come back alone,” I whisper. “Just follow my voice.”

Then I start again, from the beginning this time.

“The girl waited every night for the moon to fall into her hands…”

Outside, lightning flashes again, and for the briefest moment, the storm quiets. It’s only a heartbeat of calm—but it feels like hope.

The words blur mid-sentence. I don’t notice at first—just that something changes. The air shifts.

The Veilstorm outside cuts off.

Not fades, not ebbs—stops. Like someone flipped a switch on the sky. The thunder that’s been rumbling for hours just vanishes, and the sudden silence is loud enough to steal my breath. The candles steady. The world exhales.

Then Mira sighs.

It’s small, just a breath against the stillness, but my heart jolts hard enough to make me drop the book. It hits the floor with a soft thud I barely hear over the rush of blood in my ears.

“Mira?” My voice cracks on her name. “Hey—Firefly?”

Her fingers twitch, then curl slightly around mine.

“Mira.” Louder this time, but not much steadier.

She makes a low sound, something between a sigh and a groan, and turns her head toward me. Her lips move, mumbling something that might’ve been Cassie or coffee—honestly, at this point, it could be either.

Relief hits so hard it makes me laugh. It’s messy, half-choked, all the tension in my body finally giving up at once. “Oh, thank the gods. Don’t you dare scare me like that again.”

Rori’s the first to move. She’s at the bedside in seconds, Kael right behind her, both of them wide-eyed but pretending they aren’t.

Mira blinks groggily, eyes unfocused for a moment before landing on me. “Why’re you crying?” she mumbles. Her voice is hoarse but alive.

“I’m not,” I lie. Terribly.

Rori leans over the other side of the bed, her mouth already twitching toward a grin. “You’re awake.”

“No, she’s clearly still dreaming,” Kael says dryly, crossing her arms. “Otherwise, she’d have the sense to stay down.”

Mira blinks again, a slow smile creeping in. “You’re all… loud.”

Cassie. Focus. “You fainted,” I tell her gently. “And gave us all a collective heart attack.”

Her brow furrows. “The pep rally…”

“Still standing,” Rori says quickly. “Mostly.”

Kael smirks. “The fire marshal might disagree.”

Mira groans and drags the blanket higher. “What did I do?”

“Oh, nothing much,” Rori says, deadpan. “Just turned the gym into a fire hazard and terrified an entire student body. Really subtle.”

Mira’s cheeks flush faintly. “That wasn’t me.”

Kael raises a brow. “The flames were definitely you.”

Cassie bites back a laugh. “You’re officially grounded.”

Mira squints up at me, voice raspy but playful. “You can’t ground a duchess.”

“Watch me.”

That earns an actual laugh from her—quiet, rough-edged, beautiful. The sound fills the room like sunlight after a long storm.

Rori perches on the edge of the mattress, Kael sits beside her, and somehow I end up half-sprawled across the blankets as Mira leans into me, heavy with exhaustion but awake. The kind of awake that feels like coming home.

Outside, the air smells clean. Cool. The sky’s still bruised from the storm, but the Veil’s gone quiet again—settled, for now.

Mira exhales slowly, eyelids fluttering. “Feels like the world stopped spinning,” she murmurs.

I smooth a strand of hair from her forehead. “Just catching its breath,” I say softly. “Same as you.”

Rori grins. “Next time, let’s skip the dramatic fainting and go for ice cream instead.”

“Seconded,” Kael adds. “If this is what happens every time you attend a school event, I’m voting for permanent home study.”

Mira laughs again—weak, warm, alive—and the sound’s enough to make every sleepless hour worth it.

The room is a mess of laughter and limbs.

Rori started it—she always does—knocking Kael off balance when the guard tried to adjust Mira’s blankets like she wasn’t still recovering from saving half the gym from combustion. Kael gave her that look—sharp, cold, “try me”—and that was all it took. One shove turned into two, a pillow joined the battle, and now the proud Captain of the Consort’s Guard is tangled in sheets, pinned by a duchess who can barely sit upright without swaying.

And Mira’s laughing. Really laughing. The kind of sound that chases the ache from your ribs.

She’s still pale, shadows under her eyes like bruised glass, but she’s smiling through it all—holding on to me, to Rori, to Kael—like she’s afraid if she lets go we’ll fade.

“Careful,” I whisper, brushing hair from her forehead. “You’re supposed to be resting.”

“Resting’s boring,” she murmurs, words slurred with exhaustion but bright with mischief. “You’re all too far away.”

Rori groans from somewhere beneath her. “She’s literally lying on top of three people!”

Mira grins against my shoulder. “And yet it’s still not enough.”

Kael sighs like her entire career is flashing before her eyes. “If anyone from House Veyra sees this, I will never recover my dignity.”

Rori snorts. “What dignity?”

“Enough to have you court-martialed,” Kael mutters, which only makes Mira wheeze with laughter again.

The sound is weak but alive, and that’s enough to make me join in. For a second, the weight in my chest eases—the image of her collapsing, her eyes glowing with impossible light, burned away by the simple fact that she’s here. Warm. Breathing. Laughing.

The door creaks open, and a familiar voice cuts through the chaos.

“What,” says Lady Althaea Drennath, precise as ever, “is happening in here?”

Every head turns.

There she stands—hair still damp from the rain, fresh from training at the Vale—dressed in travel leathers and looking every inch the officer she’s been raised to be. Her eyes sweep the room, land on the chaos, then on Mira, who is somehow both radiant and rumpled in the same breath.

“Althaea!” Mira beams, reaching out one hand. “You’re home!”

Althaea blinks, completely disarmed for a heartbeat before recovering. “I am, my lady, though I seem to have walked into an incident.”

Rori grins. “It’s not an incident. It’s a cuddle pile.”

Althaea’s expression doesn’t change, but her voice goes dangerously mild. “I beg your pardon?”

“Team bonding,” I say.

“Therapeutic recovery exercise,” Kael adds, dry as the Summer Wastes.

Mira just lifts her hand higher, palm out. “Get over here.”

Althaea hesitates. She always does—torn between propriety and affection, between the soldier and the sister she refuses to admit she is.

“I would prefer to remain standing.”

Rori lunges. I reach up. Kael doesn’t help, but she doesn’t stop us either. And then, with a startled sound that might actually be a laugh, Althaea is pulled unceremoniously onto the bed.

For exactly two seconds she tries to sit upright, proper and composed, but Mira curls into her like a magnet finding true north. The Lady of Starlight Vale sighs—the kind of long-suffering exhale only she can manage—and finally, finally settles in.

“There,” Mira murmurs, half-asleep, voice thick with contentment. “Now it’s perfect.”

Kael mutters something about breach of protocol. Rori calls her a buzzkill. Althaea pretends to glare at us all, but her hand keeps smoothing Mira’s hair with slow, steady care.

I lean back against the headboard, Mira’s weight warm against my side. “Somehow,” I whisper, “between monsters and magic, we built this—a place where no one’s afraid to stay.”

Across the room, Seara and Elias sit like twin portraits of contradiction: Elias relaxed in an armchair, smiling softly; Seara, glass of wine in hand, pretending she’s only watching for medical reasons.

Elias catches my eye and winks. “She looks better.”

Seara hides her almost-smile behind her glass. “She would look better if half the household weren’t lying on her.”

“Wouldn’t dream of moving,” I say, and Mira hums agreement in her sleep.

The window flickers then—soft blue light spilling through the rain-streaked glass. Tiny motes of brightness hover just outside, their faint chiming almost musical.

The Small Folk.

Mira’s eyes flutter open, heavy-lidded and shining. She lifts her hand toward the window. “I’m okay,” she whispers to them.

The motes brighten, their glow pulsing once in answer before fading into the mist.

The silence that follows isn’t empty. It’s warm, threaded through with breath and quiet heartbeats. Rori yawns. Kael finally relaxes enough to close her eyes. Althaea mutters about “standards” even as she tucks the blanket around all of us.

The knock on the door comes halfway through Rori telling Kael she snores like a dying trumpet.

Kael starts to rise, but the door’s already opening—Naomi and Kess stepping through before anyone can object. They’re both rain-soaked, boots dripping, still dressed for whatever mission they abandoned to get here. Naomi’s hair clings to her cheekbones in dark strands; Kess’s hoodie looks like it lost a fight with a thunderstorm.

The air goes still for a breath—two worlds colliding: rebels and nobles, fae court and gutter glow.

Then I grin and wave them in. “There’s room.”

Kess arches a brow. “Pretty sure there’s not.”

“Make room,” Rori says, already scooting over and dragging a protesting Kael with her.

Naomi doesn’t hesitate. She sheds her soaked jacket, crosses to the bed, and wedges herself in on Mira’s other side like she’s done it a hundred times. Kess follows, sprawling across the footboard with her usual reckless grace, knocking Rori’s knee out of the way in the process.

“Missed you, Frostbite,” Rori says.

“Don’t call me that,” Naomi mutters, though the corner of her mouth twitches.

Kess leans over to brush wet hair from Mira’s temple. “Still has a pulse. That’s my kind of miracle.”

“She’s fine,” I assure them. “You two look worse than she does.”

Naomi exhales slowly, watching Mira’s chest rise and fall. “We came straight from the Hollow when we heard. Figured she’d scold us if we didn’t.”

“She would,” I admit, smiling despite the tightness in my throat.

Mira shifts slightly at the sound of Naomi’s voice, her brow smoothing. The faintest smile touches her lips—small, easy, alive.

Something in the room softens all at once. Laughter trickles back in—quiet, worn, real. Kess cracks a joke about how we’ll need a bigger bed if the household grows any larger. Rori challenges her to arm-wrestle for space. Kael pretends she’s above it and then ends up laughing anyway. Even Althaea relaxes enough to lean her head back and close her eyes.

Elias dozes in his chair, glass forgotten in his hand. Seara watches the chaos she pretends to disapprove of and finally, finally lets herself smile.

I look down at Mira—her head resting against my shoulder, her fingers curled loosely against Naomi’s sleeve, the faintest glow still lingering under her skin—and I let the quiet wrap around us all.

For the first time in weeks, the Veil feels still.

Not because the world is safe.

Because she is.