Duskrun 12th, 20231

The Veilfire candle on my windowsill has burned low, its molten wax pooling like it’s trying to flee the glass. Outside, mid-Duskrun wind rattles Emberhall’s shutters, carrying the smell of wet leaves and far-off woodsmoke through the barely cracked window. Somewhere down in the city, preparations for Veilwake have already begun—faint bells, distant laughter, the kind of autumn anticipation that tastes like sugar and shadows.

My diary is open in my lap. I’m half-curled beneath a tangle of blankets, the wool scratchy against my bare arms. Firelight flickers over the walls, turning shadows into shapes that feel like they’re listening. The ink on the page bleeds where I pressed too hard—this isn’t the curated, calligraphy-tragic handwriting I faked in middle school. This is anxiety ink. Angled and impatient.

Naomi still isn’t talking to me about Veilfracture night.

Underlined. Twice.

Kess keeps calling Cassie your problem. Maybe she’s right.

Homecoming was hell. Cassie won. I clapped. I wanted to die.

I flip the page even though I already know what’s there—jagged handwriting, stabs in the paper where my temper got ahead of me.

I don’t want to want her.

Her mouth shouldn’t be allowed in public.

I hate her. I hate her. I hate—

That one ends in a smear.

The newest line is small, crooked.

I see her in the hallway. I look away first.

The candle flares, guttering like it caught my pulse. Out of the corner of my eye, movement—not shadow, not wind. Three Small Folk stand on my bookshelf, their leaf-thread cloaks rustling. One hops down, landing beside my knee, no heavier than a moth. They don’t speak—they never do—but the air warms, the restless ache in my chest loosening just enough for breath to come easier. One tucks a perfect, frost-dusted petal into the spine of my diary before darting back toward the books.

I close it. Not gently. Not dramatically. Just enough for the cover to thunk. Enough to pretend I’ve ended something, even if I haven’t.

Because tomorrow, the halls will still be hers.

Her laugh will still cut too sharp. Her perfume will still snag against mine like a dare. She’ll still find a way to win—whether it’s Homecoming crowns or the way she looks at me like she knows every secret I’m not willing to give.

Naomi will still be distant.

And I’ll still be pretending my world isn’t spiraling into something sharp and glowing and ready to burn.

But tonight—just for now—I let the dark hold me.

And I don’t look in the mirror.

Sleep never comes. The wind claws at my window, and the frost-dusted petal from the Small Folk keeps catching my eye from where it’s tucked into my diary. The Veilfire candle burns to a stub, scenting the air with faint spice and smoke.

I push off the blankets. My feet hit the cool floor without flinching. The house is too quiet—the kind of quiet that makes you feel like a ghost in your own skin.

The sliding doors at the end of the hall sigh open with a touch, revealing Emberhall’s first corridor—one of the many ways the Firebrand estate bleeds into the Summer Court’s heart.

Emberhall always smells like roses and rot.

The corridors are too clean. Not cared for—sterilized. Layers of magic have polished the obsidian floors so many times they’ve scrubbed away anything resembling warmth.

No one stops me. The guards nod, murmur “My Lady,” and bow. The servants vanish into side passages, offering greetings without conversation. It’s like walking through a dream where everyone is scripted to play their part and nothing more.

Selene isn’t here—off on a date or tangled in court business. I’m not sure which. Without her, there’s no one to bother, no one to distract me from the yawning emptiness of the halls. I wander deeper just to move, choosing the longest possible route to nowhere.

That’s when I see the faint light spilling from the study doors. I don’t expect her to be working this late. I don’t expect her at all.

Two Summer guards open the study doors without a word.

Seara sits behind the crescent moon desk, posture sharp enough to cut, flame-hued hair coiled into an impossible twist. Not a strand out of place. Her gown is molten gold over bronze, catching the lamplight like she’s wearing the sun. Her expression—usually a locked vault—softens when she sees me.

“Mira,” she says, almost like it’s a greeting rather than a summons.

It’s enough to make me hesitate before stepping in.

“I thought you’d be asleep,” she continues, setting her pen aside. “How is school?”

It’s so startling I almost laugh. She’s never asked like this before—not without an agenda showing in her eyes.

“Busy,” I say carefully.

“And your… rival?” The smallest smirk touches her mouth. “Cassie Fairborn, is it?”

Heat creeps up my neck before I can stop it. “She’s… still Cassie.”

“Mm.” Seara leans back in her chair, eyes glinting. “You always did work best with someone who could match you. Even if you’d rather set them on fire.”

It’s almost a joke. Almost. And for a heartbeat the air feels warmer, easier—like maybe we could have a real conversation, one that isn’t weighted by bloodlines or strategy. I even catch myself about to say something real. Something about Cassie’s sharp mouth, or the way she makes every room tilt just by being in it.

Then Seara’s fingers twitch, and the moment cracks.

A scroll appears between us, hovering weightless for a single, heavy beat before it drifts into my hands. The wax seals gleam—our flame crest locked with the crimson thorn-ring of the Autumn Court.

“Veilwake Festival,” she says. “You will attend.”

The warmth drains out of the moment like someone snuffed the fire.

The scroll is heavier than it should be. A chain disguised in gold.

“I’m not exactly the decorating type,” I mutter, tracing the curl of the calligraphy with my thumb.

She doesn’t smile. “You will be properly dressed. And you will bring a guest.”

Her gaze flicks up, catching mine. Sharp. Weighing. “A suitable guest. Someone who reflects well on our House.”

Which means Naomi. Or Kess.

Not Cassie.

Never Cassie.

The tension builds—hot, stifling—but it never spills. It never does with her. Because she won’t let it. Because I know she’d win.

She signs something with a flick of her pen, dismissing me without words. I turn to leave, the scroll biting into my palm. I almost ask about the Shroud. About what she knew. About what she let happen.

But I already know the answer.

The doors close behind me with a sound like judgment.

The next morning tastes like ash and adrenaline.

I haven’t slept. Not really. I spent most of the night staring at the Veilwake invitation on my nightstand like it might combust if I glared hard enough. It didn’t. It just sat there—mocking me with its gold-flecked script and diplomatic finality.

You will attend. Bring someone suitable.

Now it’s stuffed at the bottom of my bag beneath my English binder and a hoodie that still smells faintly of rain and smoke. I didn’t mean to bring it to school. Just like I didn’t mean to think about Cassie Fairborn first thing in the morning.

And that hasn’t stopped me either.

The hallway hums with mid-Duskrun chaos—gusts of cold air curling in from the propped-open doors, carrying the damp scent of wet leaves and chimney smoke. Veilwake flyers, all pumpkin-orange and violet, flap against lockers. Someone’s spilled iced coffee near the stairwell; its sticky sweetness tangles with cinnamon steam from a thermos. Laughter spikes, threads of VeilTok audio blaring until a teacher barks it down.

I keep my head low, rolling my sleeves over my hands, hooking pinky to thumb in a nervous loop I can’t stop. My locker sticks, as always. I hip-check it open with a groan—

And feel her.

She doesn’t walk up behind people. She arrives—like a challenge you didn’t agree to and can’t back out of.

“Is that a love letter, Quinveil?”

My shoulders jolt. The cuff of my sleeve twists tighter in my fist.

Cassie Fairborn, queen of the slow ambush, leans against the locker beside mine like she’s been waiting all morning. Her blazer’s rumpled just enough to look intentional. Frosted citrus cuts sharp around her, the cool bite of camellia trailing under it. A thin Veilwake-orange ribbon ties her wrist, satin catching the light when she crosses her arms. One curl has slipped loose from her high ponytail, dangling against her cheekbone like it knows exactly what it’s doing.

“It’s nothing,” I snap, still twisting fabric between my fingers. “Junk mail.”

Her gaze flicks down. Of course the scroll’s betraying me—Summer’s flame crest cracked, Autumn’s thorn seal curling like it’s reaching for her.

“Fancy junk mail,” she murmurs, low.

I shove it deeper, foot bouncing against the base of my locker.

She moves before I can react—quick, precise—tugging my sleeve straight. The brush of her thumb presses against the inside of my wrist, grounding, steady. She doesn’t look at the touch, doesn’t frame it as anything. She just… does it.

My pulse stumbles.

When I finally look up, her expression isn’t smug or baiting. It’s careful.

“I haven’t told anyone,” she says.

The words slice clean through the noise.

“About the bus,” she adds. “About what I saw. I haven’t said a word.”

Her tone isn’t accusing. Just steady. Which is somehow worse. Gentle.

“I haven’t even asked,” she continues, voice quiet. “But I want to.”

And that’s when the hallway tilts. Coffee too sweet. Cinnamon too sharp. Cold air prickling at my bare ankles like needles.

“You can’t,” I force out. “It’s not for you. That world. It’s… complicated.”

Cassie steps in—not touching, but close enough her scent tangles with mine. Her frost-citrus and camellia folding into my toasted marshmallow, stargazer lily, salt-rain heat. The mix curls low in my ribs, pushes too close, winds too tight.

“Then make it uncomplicated,” she murmurs. “Take me with you.”

“No,” I say too fast. Too sharp. “You don’t understand. That place—”

“It’s where you’re from.”

Not a question. Not an accusation. Just right.

She leans closer, eyes locked on mine, and my whole body goes tight like I’m bracing for impact.

“If I’m going to keep your secret,” she says, devastating and soft, “I should get to know who you really are.”

It’s not a threat.

It’s worse.

It’s kind.

And kindness from Cassie Fairborn is a weapon I am not prepared for.

By the time the last bell rings, I’ve chewed through two pens, a pack of mints, and what’s left of my patience. Classes blur. Lunch is worse. Cassie is everywhere and nowhere—leaning against lockers I have to pass, slicing through conversations I try to avoid. Even when she’s not in sight, her laugh carries like it’s wired into the vents, hunting me down anyway.

I make it to the parking lot without looking at her again. Small victory.

Duskrun wind cuts sharp when I step outside, carrying wet leaves, woodsmoke, and that faint, electric tang that means the Veil is restless. Students huddle in scarves, laughter bursting white into the air. A carved pumpkin by the main doors flickers to life as I pass, its grin too wide.

I drive on autopilot, streets smearing into copper and gold. Duskrun shadows always stretch longer, the Hollow thinning until it’s impossible to tell where Here ends and There begins. By the time I thread down the cracked side street toward the Howling Moon, the air feels heavier, like the Veil itself is pressing close just to see if I’ll flinch.

The tavern signage flickers faintly overhead — red script curling into a wolf’s head. Ward sigils hum in my bones as I push through the carved doors.

Inside, the Howling Moon has shifted again. Cedar-paneled walls. Candles floating at uneven heights. Shadows rippling when the music thrums. The smell is rich — spiced cider, damp stone, the faint musk of too many stories stitched into the same room.

Naomi’s already at our booth, hood down, pixie-cut hair catching silver-blue in the candlelight. Winter steel wrapped in a navy jacket over a black tank, bruises painting her pale arms in fresh edges. She angles herself toward the room, always scanning, always braced.

Kess is sprawled opposite, jacket unzipped, one knee hooked on the bench. Her drink fizzes like bottled lightning, gold eyes catching mine the second I approach.

“You’re late,” she drawls, voice curling like smoke.

I slide in beside Naomi. She doesn’t look up from her datapad. “School,” I mutter. “People.”

Kess grins, sharp as a match strike. “Cassie.”

The name sits like fire in my chest.

Naomi’s the one to break the silence. “You’ve been quiet all night.” Her gaze lifts, steady, deliberate — giving me space to decide how much truth to risk.

I roll my water glass between my palms, condensation slipping over my fingers. “It’s been… a day.”

Kess leans back, tapping her boot to the music’s pulse. “What’d she do this time?”

I bristle. “Who says it’s about her?”

Naomi just raises one brow. Kess smirks like she already won.

I tip my head back until the smoke-stained ceiling blurs above me. “She saw something she shouldn’t have.”

Kess perks up like a predator scenting blood. “Promising.”

“It wasn’t.” The word snaps too fast. Shadows flicker over my hands where candlelight sways. “She saw the invitation.”

Naomi stills. Her voice drops. “To Veilwake?”

I nod, throat tight. The word tastes like copper.

Kess whistles low. “And?”

I stare at the little pool of wax at the candle’s base, tracing it with my eyes like I can avoid the weight in my chest. “And she invited herself.”

Naomi’s gaze sharpens, pale as frost. “You said no.”

My fingers find the cuff seam of my sleeve, stroking the groove I’ve worn there raw. The memory of her scent lingers uninvited — citrus frost over marshmallow warmth — and I hate how my hands still like they’re waiting for hers to steady them again.

“I didn’t say yes,” I murmur. “Exactly.”

Naomi leans back, arms crossed. Leather creaks like ice shifting. “But you didn’t say no either.”

I look away. The air is heavy with hops, smoke, the low thrum of bass pressing against my ribs. “She just… looked at me like she already knew. And then she asked me to take her.”

Candlelight glints gold in Kess’s eyes. Her smirk is smaller now, sharper. “Once she sees it,” she says, “there’s no going back.”

Naomi doesn’t blink when she adds, “She’s not wrong.”

I run a fingertip along the wet ring my glass left on the table. “She doesn’t know what she’s asking for.”

Kess leans forward, voice quiet, dangerous. “You’ve already let her in. Might as well see where she goes.”

The candle’s warmth feels hotter than it should, sinking into my skin until I can’t tell if it’s heat or guilt. I keep my eyes down.

I don’t answer.

Because the truth is, I already know.

By the time I get home, the Hollow’s damp air still clings to me — woodsmoke in my hair, the echo of bass still thudding faintly in my ribs. Duskrun rain has slicked the streets, leaving the courtyards smelling of wet stone and charred cedar. Emberhall’s lanterns burn low, casting long, slow shadows across the marble.

The guards at the door bow and murmur “My Lady” like always, but their eyes slide away a moment too soon. Servants slip through side halls without breaking pace. It’s all polished and polite — and somehow lonelier than the back corner booth at the Howling Moon.

By the time I reach the upper hall, the estate feels too still — the kind of stillness that isn’t absence, but expectation. Duskrun rain patters against the high glass windows, tracing silver threads down panes so tall they almost touch the vaulted ceiling.

Light spills from the solarium ahead, warm and golden against the cool darkness of the corridor. Selene’s inside, barefoot like me, perched sideways on one of the cushioned window benches with her hair unbound for once, a waterfall of gold over her shoulder. A pot of tea steams on the low table beside her. She looks up the second she notices me, and something in her face softens.

“You’re home late,” she says, closing her book without marking the page.

I hover in the doorway, unsure if I’m in the mood for sisterly advice. “Was with Naomi and Kess.”

Selene tilts her head — that quiet, calculating habit of hers that feels more like she’s measuring my temperature than my words. “Good night?”

“It was… a night.”

Before she can press, the far doors glide open, and Seara steps in. She’s not in full court regalia — her gown tonight is a softer crimson, hair braided loosely over one shoulder, a faint trace of windblown disarray clinging to her like she came in from the balcony. She smells faintly of cedar smoke and her own signature amber-rose perfume, and for once, her presence doesn’t press down on me like a weight.

“Both of you still awake?” she says, brows lifting slightly. There’s no sharpness in it. Just curiosity.

Selene smiles faintly. “Keeping the tea warm. Want some?”

To my surprise, Seara crosses the room and sits, not at her desk, not in the high-backed chair — but next to Selene, close enough that their shoulders touch. The three of us haven’t shared a space like this in… I can’t even remember.

“I’ll take a cup,” Seara says, and when Selene pours, she glances at me. “You look tired, Mira. But not unhappy.”

It’s not an accusation. I almost don’t know how to answer it.

“I’m fine,” I say, settling onto the bench opposite them. The tea Selene slides to me smells faintly of honey and marigold, steam curling against my face.

Seara watches me for a long moment. Not assessing. Not judging. Just… watching. “I heard about your midterm results,” she says at last. “Your marks in strategy were excellent.”

The words knock me a little off balance. “You… did?”

Her lips curve — not quite a smile, but close enough that it warms something in my chest. “I’m proud of you.”

The heat in my face is worse than any flame. I clutch the cup until my fingers sting. Selene catches my eye over the rim of her own, gaze saying see? without a word.

For a few minutes, it’s just the three of us — the rain, the tea, the low golden light pooling across polished wood. No court politics. No sharp-edged commands. Just my family, close enough to touch, and the quiet hum of a moment I wish I could keep.

Then Seara tilts her head, eyes narrowing in that jeweler’s way — like she’s finding the flaw by the way the light bends. “There’s something you’re not saying.”

I tense. “What makes you think that?”

“Because you’ve been carrying that invitation in your bag all day,” she says, voice soft but cutting, “and because your expression right now is the same one you had at twelve when you were deciding whether to climb the east tower against my rules.”

Heat floods my face. I look down. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” Seara says, and there’s an unexpected gentleness in it. “It’s about the girl.”

Selene’s brows lift, but she stays quiet.

I stare down at the steam curling from my cup. “…Cassie.”

Seara leans back, fingers curling loosely around her tea. “She’s already seen enough of our world to know it’s real. That door won’t close again, Mira. So why not let her see more of it? Veilwake is a celebration — a way to experience the Courts at their most alive. Take her.”

My head snaps up. “You’re serious?”

“I’m always serious,” Seara says, though there’s a spark in her eyes that almost looks like amusement. “You deserve to experience things. To grow with them. The Courts aren’t only meant to be endured — they can be lived in. And sometimes, the right company makes all the difference.”

Her words dig under my skin. If she knew what kind of difference Cassie makes, she wouldn’t say it so easily. The smirk, the arguments, the way she presses closer instead of backing off. The way I can’t stop wanting her even when I should.

“I’ll think about it,” I manage, quieter than I mean.

Seara accepts it with a nod, finishes her tea, then rises in one fluid motion. “Don’t take too long to decide.”

As she passes, her hand brushes my hair — fleeting, warm — before she vanishes through the far doors.

Selene studies me a moment longer. “Just… be careful.”

“With Cassie?”

Her golden gaze pins mine. “Princesses like us don’t always get to want things for ourselves. And wanting can be dangerous when the world is watching.”

Her words sink sharp, because she’s right. Because I already want.

She smooths her hair back, then follows Seara out — leaving me with my tea, the rain, and the hollow echo of her warning.

The silence presses close, heavier than I expect. And even with the warmth of tea in my hands, all I can taste is frosted citrus and flame.

I make my way upstairs, barefoot on warm marble, then across the plush carpeted hall toward my room. The estate is hushed now, its vastness stretching out like it’s trying to remind me how small I am in it. The only sounds are the soft sigh of magic sliding through the walls and the muted patter of Duskrun rain against the tall windows.

By the time I slip into my room, the air feels different — private in a way Emberhall never does. I light another Veilfire candle on my desk, its flame curling into life with a faint crackle, scenting the air with toasted marshmallow, summer rain, and a thread of woodsmoke. My scent. My anchor.

I don’t bother changing out of my clothes. Instead, I drop to the floor in front of the mirror, cross-legged with my back against the bedframe, diary open across my lap. The ink from earlier smears under my palm where I’ve pressed too hard. My handwriting looks almost angry, even in the places it’s not.

The glamour itches at my skin before I even realize I’ve half-called it. It creeps in slow — a prickle along my scalp, a ripple over my cheekbones, like the air itself is brushing me into another shape.

My reflection blurs at the edges, shifting.

Hair deepens from ember-red to near-black, then flares into sunlit copper before dimming again.

My eyes pulse between starlit brown and molten gold. My skin tone shifts warmer, cooler, then back, like the mirror can’t decide which version of me it believes.

It’s all me.

And somehow… none of it feels right.

I lower my gaze to the diary and force the pen to move:

I said no.

She said please.

The words sit there, stark in the lamplight. I blow out a breath like I’ve just confessed to something that might be used against me.

She makes me feel like I’m not the mistake.

But what if I am?

My hand drifts, sketching a small flame in the corner of the page. Then a crown. Then I cross them both out so hard the paper wrinkles.

The glamour ripples again, unsteady. My freckles vanish, my jaw sharpens — for a heartbeat, I’m someone I almost recognize and almost don’t. The glass catches my hesitation, holding it hostage.

I reach up and press my fingers to the mirror’s cool surface, meeting the eyes of the girl staring back. She’s not asking for anything. She’s just waiting to see if I’ll admit the truth.

That I am dangerously close to falling in love with the wrong person.

And maybe — gods help me — the right one.

I shut the diary before I can write it down. The candle gutters low, sending the room into shadows.

I don’t get up. Not yet.

I just sit there, half-glamored, while the rain stitches silver lines down the glass — and my heart burns like it doesn’t know whose name it’s beating for.

The wax has almost overflowed when I finally reach for my phone. My thumbs hover far too long before I force them to move.

Me: you busy veilwake night?

Me: need a “suitable” guest so my mother will stop breathing down my neck.

Three dots appear instantly. Vanish. Return.

Cassie: suitable? bold choice of word.

Cassie: sounds like you’re asking me on a date.

My pulse trips. I start typing a denial.

Me: it’s not a date.

Cassie: mhm.

Cassie: wear something dangerous. i’ll do the same.

I should leave it there. I don’t.

Me: dangerous as in “stab someone with a heel” dangerous or “make the court choke on their pearls” dangerous?

Cassie: why not both?

Me: because i don’t feel like bailing you out of a dungeon.

Cassie: please. you’d share the cell just to keep up with me.

My lips twitch, traitorously.

Me: i’d win the cell.

Cassie: you wish.

Cassie: but fine. veilwake. together.

The words land heavier than they should. Together.

Me: don’t embarrass me.

Cassie: try to keep up, firebrand.