Emberhall’s kitchen feels like a cathedral right before the choir inhales—vaulted beams, quiet stone, the low thrum of old wards thinking their ancient thoughts. Dawn skims its pale gold across the counters, and the house—for once—has the decency to keep its teeth sheathed.

We’re barefoot. Silk clings and whispers. Cassie’s in ice-silver with lace that absolutely knows what it’s doing; mine is ember-red because subtlety and I are not on speaking terms. We slip in like thieves and claim the island, and for three heartbeats I let myself pretend we’re normal girls about to make normal breakfast for a normal dance day.

Then the air tastes like lantern smoke—sweet, metallic, a promise—and the illusion fractures. Gloamhearts is already in the walls.

“Toast?” Cassie asks, pulling the word like a trigger.

I level the chef’s knife at a brioche loaf. “Touch my toaster and I’ll start a war.”

She smirks—cool citrus and frost. “Please. You burn toast like you burn bridges.”

“Correction,” I say, slicing thick golden slabs and angling them just so, “I brûlée. There’s a difference.” My knife work is clean, even, automatic. Comfort. Control. I line up a citrus—blood orange, because the market gods love me—strip its zest into a porcelain ramekin, and set a small pot to melt butter until it goes hazel and nutty.

Cassie watches like I’m doing witchcraft. Which—fine.

“Assignments,” I say, flipping into kitchen-captain because if I don’t anchor myself to a sequence, I’ll spiral into thinking about tonight. “You’re on garnish and plating. Rinse the berries, lay out the plates, and do not touch the eggs.”

Her brows arch. “Am I a garnish to you, Firebrand?”

“Always,” I say, deadpan. “My prettiest accessory.”

A soft chuff answers me from the hearth. Ghost—the white husky who believes every room is improved by him in it—pads in, nails ticking on stone, blue eyes bright with petition. Kit the emberfox follows in a curl of heat and caramelized-sugar scent, tail-tip embering as they hops onto the bench like it’s their birthright. Lynniх slips in last, silent as a falling snowflake, tufted ears flicking; their pupils are coins of ink, already cataloging which plate will be unguarded longest.

“Absolutely not,” I tell all three, whisk already in my hand. “No counter-surfing, no ‘accidental’ paw-prints. Ghost, sit. Kit, tail down. Lynniх, gods help me, do not test me today.”

Ghost sits—immediately—then scoots half an inch closer. Kit’s tail dims to a polite glow. Lynniх blinks like laws are for mortals.

Savory first. I whip eggs with a splash of cream, salt, white pepper. Chives get a quick, delicate snip—ribbon-thin, chiffonade tight enough to make Tharion nod once and pretend not to be proud. Cast iron goes low and steady; brown butter kisses the pan. I stir with a silicone spatula in lazy figure eights, patient heat coaxing curds into velvet. Gruyère rains in; the whole thing loosens into a glossy, custardy fold. It smells like morning and safety, which is ridiculous because nothing about today is either.

“Okay, chef,” Cassie murmurs, arranging berries like she’s building a case in court—symmetry, negative space, command. “I revoke my toast slander.”

“Never revoke,” I say. “Double down. It’s part of your charm.”

She leans across the island, steals a kiss, quick and precise as a captain’s command. My scent jumps—marshmallow warmth brightening, spark of citrus snapping—and for a beat the air around us feels like it might melt.

Focus. Hollandaise.

I set a small pan to barely simmer, nest a bowl on top, and whisk egg yolks, blood orange zest, and a squeeze of lemon with a pinch of cayenne until it ribbons. The butter streams in slow—thin as a promise—emulsion catching, thickening to a silk the color of lanternlight. Cassie goes silent, watching muscle and intention, the measured patience I rarely give anything but fire and her.

“You’re showing off,” she says softly.

“Obviously.” I flick a glance up. “Who else deserves it?”

Her eyes do that crystalline gleam thing that ruins me, and for a second the kitchen tilts toward a different kind of heat. I whisk harder.

Brioche hearts—yes, I used a cutter because I am that girl—go into a pan with butter, sizzling to a lacquered, sugar-glossed gold. On another burner, I blister baby tomatoes until their skins split and perfume the air. Prosciutto gets a quick crisp in the residual heat, shattering into salty lace.

“Lantern Benedict,” I declare, assembling: brioche heart, ribbon of prosciutto, a tangle of asparagus shaved into ribbons with a peeler, soft scramble mound, a spoonful of blistered tomatoes, cascade of blood-orange hollandaise, chive confetti, micro basil to kiss the top. The plates look like Gloamhearts condensed—gold and crimson and green, festival in miniature.

Cassie inhales. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You like my ridiculous.”

“Mmm,” she says, noncommittal—then ruins her own pretense by stealing a bit of hollandaise with her finger and licking it slow. The tether hums; my brain short-circuits.

“Quit committing crimes,” I manage.

“Make me.”

Ghost edges closer, tail thumping. Kit lets out a hopeful trill, eyeing the prosciutto with devout faith. Lynniх appears at Cassie’s elbow like a conjuration, nose barely twitching; her self-control is a sermon.

“Fine,” I sigh, carving off a sacramental crumb of brioche. “Sharing is love. One bite, each. Tiny.”

Ghost accepts with solemn gratitude. Kit singes his whiskers in his haste and sneezes a spark. Lynniх closes her eyes like I’ve finally behaved.

I shove a fork into Cassie’s hand, and the first bite lands us both in that quiet where good food silences even our worst habits. Her eyes flutter shut. Mine almost follow.

My stims sneak in, small and manageable: the three-beat tap against the island; the thumb glide along my cuff seam. Cassie’s pinky finds mine automatically under the edge of the plate, hooks—one, two—and the anxious rhythm bleeds out of me like color into water. She doesn’t comment. She never has to.

“Sweet course?” she asks, already knowing the answer.

“As if I’d let you face the day without dessert.”

Mini cast-iron skillets appear—I prepositioned them last night because control is a love language. Flour, eggs, milk, vanilla, cardamom; whisk until it shines. I slide the batter into the hot pans and slam the oven door. Dutch babies climb the heat like they have somewhere to be. I reduce honey with blood orange juice and a star of anise to a glossy syrup and toss the macerated berries I made while you were busy staring at my hands.

“I was not staring,” she lies.

“You absolutely were.”

She doesn’t deny it again.

When the pastries rise, I dust them with powdered sugar, spoon on berries, drizzle the amber syrup in a spiral that would make a patisserie chef roll a single tear. We eat on the back steps where the cold can bite our ankles and wake us up all the way. Emberhall’s gardens are a shadowed sketch of themselves at this hour; somewhere, a ward purrs as if pleased by butter. Ghost sprawls against our calves like a living rug. Kit curls in Cassie’s lap, warm as a pocket-sun. Lynniх perches sphinx-still on the step above, overseeing distribution with divine judgment.

“This should feel normal,” I say around a mouthful of cardamom and heat, “eggs and toast.” I tip my head back, breathe in. The air tastes like lantern smoke already, bright and iron-sweet. “But the city’s tilting.”

Cassie’s shoulder presses mine, deliberate. “Let it tilt. We’ll walk straight.”

Easy for her to say. She’s all blade and captain’s stance even in silk pajamas. I’m a storm in a teacup pretending not to spill. Tonight—the gates, the music, the eyes—my mother’s smile like a crown of thorns. Tonight we stop pretending. Tonight the lanterns burn for us.

My scent flares—embers, bloom, a sharp wash of ocean rain—and Cassie’s shifts in answer, frost and citrus threading through until the space between us tastes like challenge and promise. The tether hums once, the note low and certain.

“You’re thinking too loud,” she says.

“I am,” I admit. “Distract me.”

She taps the rim of her skillet with her fork. “You could teach me to whisk without turning it into soup.”

I snort. “You? Learn humility in my kitchen?”

“Desperate times,” she says, but her mouth is soft. “And it buys me ten more minutes before the house wakes up.”

There it is. The reason we crept down here, barefoot and greedy for quiet: ten minutes more where this is all we are. Girls. Silk. Sugar. Heat.

“Fine,” I say, dragging her back inside. I set a bowl between us, press a whisk into her hand, cover her fingers with mine. “Wrist, not elbow. Small circles. Feel it thrum.”

She looks down at our hands, then up at me, and for once she doesn’t have something sharp to say. The first light of Gloamrise spills across the counter and gilds her hair, and my whole chest does a stupid thing that feels suspiciously like hope.

Upstairs, a floorboard creaks. The house inhales.

We keep whisking anyway.

Another step follows the first, then silence. Emberhall’s wards prickle faint across my skin, the whole house inhaling like it knows we’ve stolen something and is deciding whether to take it back.

Cassie sets the whisk down with a flourish, smirk sharp enough to cut the sugar in the air. “That’s our warning shot.”

I slide the last pastry onto a tray, shove it into the oven before someone else can claim it, then wipe glaze off my fingers onto a towel that smells like cedar and ward-oil. My pulse hasn’t stopped thumping since her hand sat over mine, guiding that whisk.

She steals one anyway, bites into it, lets the sugar stick to her lip until she licks it off slow. Deliberate. I hate her.

“Shoes,” I mutter, because if I don’t move us now, Emberhall will.

We collect Ghost’s approving huff, Kit’s chirp, and Lynniх’s regal blink like blessings, then slip toward the front before the house finishes waking.

We make it to the foyer. Almost.

A shadow leans against the doorjamb like it’s been there since the invention of corners. Roran. One of the Dutch babies—cooling on a saucer I did not authorize—hovers an inch from his mouth. He lifts it in salute, molten-amber eyes amused.

“Going somewhere without me this early, ladies?” he asks, deadpan as sunrise. “Seemed unsafe. I took custody of the evidence.”

Ghost betrays me instantly—tail thumping, nose up for pastry rights. Kit chirrs, circling Roran’s boots, tail embering hopefully. Lynniх sits, judge-still, as if to say: well?

I plant fists on hips. “That is a felony, cousin.”

He considers the pastry. Takes a very polite bite. “Confiscated contraband,” he says, perfectly grave. “Chain of custody intact.”

Cassie’s mouth curves, frost-bright. “And your verdict?”

Roran swallows, straight-faced. “Guilty of premeditated excellence.” A beat. “Sentence: I escort you.”

I groan, but I can’t stop the smile that bites through anyway. Ghost noses his hand until he breaks off a crumb. He shares with infuriating fairness: Ghost first, Kit second, Lynniх last with a solemn nod worthy of a treaty signing.

“Fine,” I huff, rolling my cuff—one, two, three—fabric squeaking under my nail. “You can come. But wipe the sugar off your mouth. If Helena sees that, she’ll try to recruit you for plating.”

Roran, who has killed men, obeys my napkin like it outranks him. “Understood.”

We step into Gloamrise—two girls, one soldier, and the echo of paw-prints in butter behind us. The house exhales, the wards purr, and somewhere far off the first lanterns begin to wake.

Dominveil has already set itself on fire.

Lanterns string between skyscrapers like constellations caught and hung out to dry, each one pulsing copper-bright, humming faintly against my teeth. Vendors hawk roses with glowing veins, petals vibrating with glamour. Humans call it “tech with a vibe.” Sure. The Riverwalk is dressed in stars it’s never earned, water shimmering with illusion-charms until tourists lean too far over the railing trying to capture them in photos.

The air is sugared, smoky, perfumed. Perfume. Chocolate. Lantern smoke. Magic. Every breath tastes like a dare.

Cassie inhales like she’s come home. She threads her arm through mine and walks like she owns the street, chin high, smile calculated. Lanterns seem to swing brighter in her wake.

I feel like the cobblestones are vibrating under my shoes, humming some song I’m not sure I want to hear.

Roran trails us, red uniform glamoured into something “normal,” which is a joke—he radiates soldier. Molten eyes catch in mirrors, in shop windows, in every angle I’m not watching. Silent leash, silent shield. But when a group of college boys whistles too loud as we pass, Roran only tilts his head and looks at them once. They shut up so fast it’s almost funny. Almost.

The salon hits like another world.

Heat, hairspray, perfume layered so thick it clings to the back of my throat. Blowdryers roar like jet engines. The sharp sting of acetone slices through everything. Mirrors on every wall double and triple the chaos until the whole place looks like a hall of queens and executioners at once.

Cassie belongs here like she was born in a salon chair. She drops into it like a throne, back straight, hair gleaming already in the mirror’s light. Her stylist hovers, hands trembling slightly as if they know this is high-stakes. Cassie doesn’t even speak at first—just tilts her chin an inch, and they get to work like she’s commanded them. Gloss bath. Cool tone. Structured curls. Nails in ice and steel. A glossed mouth that could cut. She doesn’t just survive here—she rules it.

Me? I sink into the chair like it’s a trap. The cape is suffocating. The plastic crinkles every time I breathe too hard. The mirror is too close. My hair falls in obedient sections under clips that pinch. The smell of hairspray is chemical warfare. My knee bounces until Cassie’s hand slides over and presses it down with casual precision.

The tether hums. I stop.

“You’re glaring like you’re about to stab your stylist with her own scissors,” she says, lips barely moving, eyes fixed on her reflection.

“Hostage situation,” I mutter.

Her smirk flashes in the mirror. “Endure. It’ll be worth it.”

“Nothing involving nail polish is ever worth it.”

“Spoken like someone with tragic cuticles,” she fires back, and her smirk widens when my ears go hot.

The stylist curls my hair into perfect, glossy coils. Sprays gloss that smells like synthetic vanilla hell. Paints my nails molten red with gold flecks that flash like fire in the mirror. I mutter commentary the whole time.

“Is this toxic?”

“Yes,” the stylist answers, unfazed.

“Will it kill me?”

“Not if you don’t chew on them.”

Cassie’s laughter breaks sharp and bright across the mirror. She covers her mouth, but her eyes glitter like she’s already won something.

“You’re going to thank me when they stare,” she says, examining her own perfect nails.

“They stare anyway,” I snap.

“Not like this,” she murmurs, and her glance slides to me, crystalline and lethal. “This is weaponized.”

My chest does that stupid flutter again. I blame the fumes.

Over the dryers, gossip threads into our chairs:

—“Did you hear Bree’s furious she’s too young to be eligible?”

—“She’s already plotting for next year.”

—“As if anyone’s voting her Dream Court.”

A girl across the room leans out to get a better look at Cassie’s glossed mouth and ice nails. Her gaze flicks to me, then lingers a second too long. “Are you two matching?” she demands, faux-casual. “Because if you are, we’ll have to change everything.”

Cassie smiles like sugar with razors in it. “We’ll let you be surprised.”

The other girl flinches, mutters something about carriages, and sits back down. Cassie’s smirk cuts toward me. Told you.

I’m tapping three-beat patterns into my thigh by the time they finish my makeup. Cassie notices, of course she does, and hooks her pinky through mine under the counter, just long enough to break the rhythm. My breath steadies.

Roran sits in the corner, still as a statue, surrounded by the shriek of dryers and perfume clouds. His molten eyes never leave the mirrors. His only betrayal is the faint ripple of heat distortion that shimmers off his forearms whenever someone turns a curling iron too close to us. I swear I see his jaw tick once, like he’s imagining wrestling the appliance away. He’d rather be fighting assassins in an alley, but he’s here, guarding us from bad perms and worse gossip.

When the capes finally come off, Cassie rises like she’s been crowned, hair haloed in gold, nails like frost-edged claws, gloss catching every light. She looks lethal. My pulse betrays me. She notices.

On our way out, I glance back at Roran, still hulking in the corner like he’s about to be ambushed by blowdryers. “You know, you should’ve sat down too. Let them trim that mop, buff those nails. You’re going to the dance, soldier.”

Cassie doesn’t miss a beat. “French tips would really bring out the molten eyes.”

Roran finally looks at us, expression so flat it loops back to funny. “The day I let someone come at me with glitter polish is the day you two start taking orders.”

“Tempting,” I shoot back.

Cassie smirks, ice-bright. “So we’ll pencil it in for never.”

The corner of his mouth almost twitches. Almost. And somehow, that makes him more dangerous.

We step out of the salon together, sharper than we went in.

Dominveil is louder now.

Lanterns sway like beating hearts strung in the sky. Roses glow brighter in the vendors’ baskets. The air is thick with chocolate, perfume, smoke, and the bright tang of leaking magic. Couples knot every corner, wrists looped with roses, laughter spilling like sparks.

Three classmates spot us immediately.

“Cassandra!” one sings, her eyes bright with calculation. “Together then? Coordinated gowns? Or is this a surprise reveal?”

It’s bait.

I load sarcasm on my tongue. Cassie beats me to it.

“We’ll let you find out tonight,” she says smoothly, like she’s already won. “Better hurry—bridge closures are brutal.”

Their smiles crack. They didn’t know about closures. Advantage: Cassie.

I bite down on the quip that would have burned them alive. Cassie presses her hand over mine again, sharp and grounding. The tether thrums. My scent steadies before it betrays me.

Roran shifts half a step closer, molten eyes daring them to push. They don’t.

We move on, the city spilling lanternlight over us, every cobblestone humming with inevitability. Cassie walks like she owns it. I walk like I’m being counted down.

And all I can think is: tonight, the lanterns burn for us.

The wards hum at my back as I hover at the top of Emberhall’s spiral staircase. Lanternlight from below stretches long across the banister, gilding the carved wood, and voices drift upward in layers—laughter, clipped conversation, the low hiss of a servant being scolded for fussing with flowers one time too many. The air is thick with roses and polish and that faint static bite that means Seara’s glamours have been set to impress.

Cassie steps forward before I can breathe.

Her hand claims the banister like she’s signing her name across the night. Frosted pearl nails against dark wood. Her gown catches the light first—liquid silver, poured over her body so sharp it looks like it could cut. The fabric clings to every line of her, smooth and merciless, before it spills into a clean sweep behind her. One slit flashes her thigh high enough to turn my mouth dry.

She moves deliberately. Slow. Each step a statement. The neckline dips low, baring her collarbones, catching lanternlight until her skin gleams like sculpted ice. Her honey hair has been coaxed into perfect waves, loose enough to sway, sleek enough to blind. Jeweled pins catch sparks with every turn of her head. And her mouth—glossed, crystalline—tilts in a smirk that makes my pulse stumble.

I shouldn’t look down. I shouldn’t. And yet my eyes drag after the sway of her hips, the muscle of her thigh, the way the gown’s slit seems timed to torture me. Wife, my traitor brain supplies, unspooling heat through my chest. Mine.

Cassie glances back, just over her shoulder, like she can feel me staring. Her smile widens by a fraction, sharp as citrus. She knows. Of course she knows.

The sitting room falls quiet beneath her. I can’t see them yet, but I can feel it—every gaze caught, every conversation clipped mid-breath as she takes the last step and claims the floor.

And then it’s my turn.

The gown breathes around me, molten silk shifting with each move, ember-red at the hem that climbs to orange, then to sunlit gold, then to white flame across my shoulders. The wrap top plunges low enough I still don’t know why I let Cassie talk me into it. The skirt slits high, baring my leg to the hip with every step. A chain of sunburst charms drapes across my ribs, brushing skin with faint thrums of magic, like a heartbeat borrowed from the Court itself.

I grip the banister to steady myself. My palms are slick. My fingers tap—one, two, three—against the carved wood, sharp and grounding, before I force them still.

When I descend, the fabric moves like fire catching air, clinging and loosening, never still. My hair falls in red-gold waves, alive under lanternlight, threads of copper and silver catching sparks. My glamour is stretched thin—enough that the starlight flecks in my eyes blaze through, enough that my skin glows faintly from within, like heat seeping through glass.

Step by step, the silence below sharpens until I can feel it pressing against me.

Then I reach the landing.

And I look up.

The room has stopped breathing.

Seara’s expression is a mask, but her eyes burn too hot to be contained. Selene’s lips part, awe ghosting through before she reins it in with practiced grace. Elias straightens, pride and worry tangled in the line of his jaw. Juliana clasps her hands, eyes bright with a warmth she doesn’t bother hiding. Lucien looks away too fast, then back again, resentment and awe twisting sharp together. Helena’s gaze narrows, polished appraisal. Jameson’s brows flick, calculating. Elliot whispers something—“beautiful”—barely audible through the hiss of his oxygen. Naomi smirks, all ice and amusement, while Kess lets out a low, appreciative whistle until Naomi elbows her. Roran, silent sentinel, inclines his head, molten eyes fixed.

But none of it touches me like Cassie’s look does.

She tilts her chin up, icy-blue eyes crystalline, locked on me as if nothing else exists. Like I’m fire incarnate, and she’s been waiting her whole life to burn.

Heat thrums beneath my skin, wild and unsteady. I want to set the whole damn house ablaze just so I don’t have to carry the weight of her stare. And gods help me—I want to.

Cassie moves first. Of course she does. One moment she’s silver and sharp, the next she’s just a sister again, sweeping across the rug, her gown whispering over the floorboards as she drops to her knees beside Elliot’s chair.

He’s bundled in an oversized Fairborn-blue hoodie, sleeves swallowing his hands, sweatpants cuffed around too-thin ankles. The cannula hisses faintly with each breath, tubes looping down to the tank at his side. But his grin—gods, that grin—is brighter than half the lanterns strung across Dominveil tonight.

“Nice dress,” he rasps, voice threaded with fatigue but edged with mischief. “Shame it’s wasted on a school gym.”

Cassie lets out a sound that’s half laugh, half choked sob. “Shut up, trouble,” she says, hugging him carefully, one arm around his shoulders, the other steadying the oxygen line. Her frost-citrus scent shifts warmer, vanilla musk softening at the edges, grounding.

I’m already moving before I know it, crouching on his other side. His eyes flick to me—blue, sharp despite the shadows under them—and without hesitation he opens an arm.

I lean in, letting him hug both of us, careful of tubes and wires. He smells like fresh linen and eucalyptus, honeyed chamomile beneath, and a faint hit of peppermint from the candy he keeps stashed in his pocket. Clinical oxygen sharpens it all, but it’s still Elliot through and through: fragile body, stubbornly bright soul.

“You clean up better than both of us,” I murmur. “Stylish hoodie. Very exclusive line.”

He smirks, tugging at the sleeve. “Limited edition hospital chic. You wouldn’t get it.”

Cassie snorts, pressing her forehead to his. “He’s funnier than you.”

“Rude,” I say.

“Accurate,” Elliot fires back. His grin fades for a second as he looks between us, eyes softer now. “Seriously, though… you both look—” he pauses to catch breath, “—like you stepped out of a storybook.”

Heat floods my cheeks, and my scent spikes sweet-spice before I can tamp it down. Cassie notices, of course she does, smirking like she’s already won.

“Don’t encourage her,” I mutter, elbowing him lightly.

Elliot just leans back into his chair, oxygen hissing, smug as anything. “In-laws count. It’s my job now.”

The word hits me low in the chest. In-law. My pulse stutters, fire thrumming under my skin. Part of me wants to protest, to laugh it off—but the bigger part wants to clutch the word tight and never let go.

Cassie squeezes him tighter, her citrus-bright scent flaring sharp with pride. “Damn right it is,” she says.

He tips his head back, studying both of us. “So. Big dance, big night. Are you gonna actually dance, Mira? Or just stand in the corner judging everyone like you do at pep rallies?”

Cassie bursts out laughing. “He’s got you pegged.”

I scowl. “Excuse me, I dance.”

“Cooking doesn’t count as dancing,” Elliot says, completely deadpan.

I gape at him. “What does that even mean?”

“Means,” he says, fingers fidgeting with his hoodie strings, “if you dance like you cook, it’s probably way too extra for anyone else to keep up with.”

Cassie tips her head back, laughing harder now. Her silver gown glints like liquid moonlight, her citrus scent blooming sweet with vanilla undertones, sharp with pride. “Oh gods, he’s right. You’d be in the middle of the floor, flipping metaphorical omelets while everyone else tries not to trip.”

I groan, burying my face in my hand. “I hate both of you.”

“No you don’t,” Elliot says, eyes twinkling. “You’re gonna sneak me dessert from the buffet.”

Cassie points a perfectly manicured finger at me. “He’s not wrong.”

I sigh, defeated. “Fine. Cinnamon rolls if they have them.”

His smile is pure sunshine. “Best sister-in-law ever.”

Cassie gasps, mock-offended. “What about me?”

“You’re obligated,” Elliot says breezily, fiddling with a peppermint wrapper from his pocket. “She’s earning points.”

I bite back a laugh, warmth rising in my chest so fast it almost hurts. Cassie just shakes her head, feigning outrage, but her eyes are shining.

For that moment, it’s just us—Cassie in silver, me in molten fire, Elliot a fragile anchor of peppermint and linen between. The whole room fades away.

Cassie presses one last kiss to Elliot’s temple before standing. I follow, reluctant to peel away from his peppermint warmth, but the shift in the air is already dragging us back. The Fairborn parents wait like they’ve been counting the seconds.

Helena rises first, porcelain and poise, a cream silk dress hugging her like she’s been carved from marble. Her perfume—white tea and winter peony—drifts crisp and cold as she closes the distance, heels soundless on the polished floor. Her eyes sweep over Cassie from head to toe, clinical, assessing, like a jeweler weighing a diamond.

“You’re radiant, Cassandra,” she says, voice low and measured, hands smoothing invisible wrinkles over Cassie’s silver gown. “Every inch of you. Just as we planned.”

Cassie’s mouth tightens, but her smile stays sharp. “Thanks, Mother.”

Helena’s fingers linger at her daughter’s shoulder, tightening for half a second—not affection, but correction. Then she turns her gaze on me.

“And you.” Her eyes flick down my gown, the firelight silk, the slit, the faint glow I haven’t managed to tamp down. The smile she gives me is cool, immaculate. “Striking.”

The word lands like it always does from her lips—a gift wrapped around a blade. A reminder that I’m worth noticing, but never enough.

Jameson joins her then, broad-shouldered in a navy suit that probably costs more than my car. His scent cuts through Helena’s—sandalwood and cedar smoke with a pepper-bite. He doesn’t reach for Cassie the way Helena did; he studies instead, eyes steady, like he’s reading a ledger and marking down risks.

“You both look remarkable,” he says, nodding once. Then his gaze sharpens, lingering on the Consort ring glinting on Cassie’s hand. “Tonight will be remembered. Best you make sure it’s remembered well.”

Cassie tilts her head, all icy-blue defiance wrapped in a smile. “Is that your way of saying you’re proud of me?”

A flicker of warmth cracks his expression, quick as lightning. “Always,” Jameson says. Then, softer, only for her: “Don’t forget who’s watching.”

Cassie’s citrus-bright scent spikes sharp at that, defensive. My fire stirs in answer, heat curling restless under my skin. But her hand finds mine—quick, grounding, tether humming low. A message: Not here. Not now.

Helena steps back, satisfied. “We’ll be in the gallery with the other parents.” She smooths Cassie’s sleeve once more, then turns away, her presence trailing cool perfume in her wake.

Jameson follows, slower, giving Cassie a look that’s equal parts steel and love before taking his place at Helena’s side.

Cassie exhales, low and sharp, squeezing my fingers. “Well. That was fun.”

Seara rises when Cassie’s parents step away, the air shifting like the whole room bends to her gravity. She doesn’t hurry. She never does. Each step is deliberate, heels ringing soft against the floorboards, her gown a sweep of molten bronze and crimson that seems to shimmer with its own firelight.

“Daughter,” she says, and the word is blade and balm both. Her golden-amber eyes rake over me, over Cassie at my side, weighing, measuring, consuming. “At last, you look as you should.”

The compliment burns more than it soothes. My jaw tightens, but Cassie’s hand squeezes mine once—warning, grounding.

Seara’s gaze flicks to her then, slow, calculating. “And you. Cassandra Fairborn. You wear your ring well. You should. Few could stand beside my child and not be eclipsed.”

Cassie’s chin tips up, icy-blue eyes flashing. “Good thing I’ve never been afraid of fire.”

A smile ghosts across Seara’s lips—there and gone. “Yes. I see that.”

She circles us like a flame, and the room quiets in her wake. My shoulders stiffen, but under the scrutiny I catch it—the faint warmth threaded into her scent. Burnt orange, spiced clove, amber resin. Sharper than usual, but with something steadier under it tonight, almost… proud.

Her hand lifts, fingertips brushing just shy of my cheek. “You’ve tested me,” she says softly, low enough only I can hear. “And I suspect you will again. But know this, Mira: every leash I’ve held, every wall I’ve built, every cruel word you’ve hated me for…” She exhales, gaze catching mine with something that fractures her mask. “It has always been out of love. I only know how to shape it with fire.”

My throat tightens. For once, sarcasm deserts me. The girl who always has a quip burns hollow in my chest.

Then, louder, to both of us: “The ward on your doors is lifted. But in exchange, you will attend court functions as heir in waiting and consort. No more hiding behind schoolbooks and shadows.”

My mouth opens—ready to argue—but Cassie beats me to it, voice cool and precise. “That’s steep. Surely you don’t need us at every function.”

Seara’s smile sharpens. “Ah. Already negotiating.”

Cassie doesn’t flinch. “Already refusing to be managed.”

I squeeze her hand—our silent bargain—then add, “What if we agree to the major functions only? Seasonal feasts. Coronations. Anything tied to treaty or crown. The rest… you get Selene.”

Seara studies us both, long enough that the silence aches. Then she inclines her head, just barely. “Three seasonal feasts. Coronations. And one council meeting of my choosing.”

Cassie’s scent flares sharp—protest—but I nod before she can. “Done.”

Her brows lift, faintly surprised. But she accepts.

And then, impossibly, she steps forward and embraces me.

Not a stiff courtly gesture. Not a hand to my shoulder. An embrace. Real, warm, sunlit strength wrapping me whole. For a heartbeat I’m too stunned to move, then I melt against her, cedar and clove surrounding me like childhood and fear and something dangerously close to safety.

When she lets go, it’s only to pull Cassie in next. Cassie stiffens—of course she does—but Seara doesn’t relent. She draws her close, murmuring low enough I only catch the end: “…you protect her as fiercely as you defy me, and you’ll find I’m not your enemy.”

When she releases us both, she straightens, mask sliding back into place.

“Do not mistake me,” she says, voice ringing across the room again. “Whatever bargains you think you’ve struck, whatever freedom you imagine you’ve won—you do not leave Roran’s sight tonight. Not for a heartbeat.”

Her gaze locks on me, then Cassie, fire-hot and unyielding. “Smile, daughters. The city will remember.”

And just like that, the moment of softness burns to ash, leaving only the High Lady again.

The silence in her wake weighs heavy, pressing down on my ribs. Cassie’s hand twitches in mine, her citrus-bright scent sharpened with restrained fury. My own fire simmers under my skin, hot enough I’m afraid it’ll crack my glamour if I breathe too hard.

Then Selene moves.

She glides forward with all the grace of the heir she was bred to be, her gown of gold and crimson catching the lanternlight like captured dawn. Where Seara had burned sharp, Selene warms—amber honey and resin threading through the air, steadying, grounding.

“Mira,” she says softly, and the steel coil in my chest loosens a fraction. Her amber eyes soften as she tucks a curl behind my ear, fingers lingering just enough to remind me she’s always been my anchor. “You’re breathtaking. Truly. I thought Frostfire was your moment, but tonight…” Her smile turns quiet, fond. “Tonight, you are fire made flesh.”

My throat closes around something fragile. “Selene…”

She doesn’t let me spiral. She pulls me into a hug, regal poise set aside, and for a moment I’m just her little sister again—pressed against her, breathing in sunlit honey and amber resin, remembering all the times she slipped herself between me and our mother’s wrath.

When she releases me, it’s only to turn to Cassie.

“Cassandra Fairborn,” she says, voice formal, the court-trained note of address. For a heartbeat Cassie stiffens, chin tilting, icy eyes daring Selene to treat her like a pawn.

But Selene only inclines her head, a gesture of respect, not dominance. “I have watched many stand beside Mira and falter. You do not. For that, you have my respect.”

Cassie blinks, caught off guard, her citrus scent flaring bright then sweetening. “Thank you,” she says, voice quieter than usual. Not sharp. Not combative. Just… genuine.

Selene’s lips curve, warmth breaking through the heir’s mask. “You’ll need it, I think. Our mother is a forge. She tempers us in fire, and not all survive it.” Her gaze flicks briefly to me, then back. “Protect her, and you’ll find you are stronger than any weapon the court could wield.”

Cassie straightens at that, shoulders squaring. “That part I already knew.”

Selene’s smile deepens, almost conspiratorial. “Good.” She touches Cassie’s hand lightly, then steps back, positioning herself at our side—not between us, but with us. A silent declaration of where she stands.

For the first time tonight, I feel like I can breathe.

Of course, that’s when Lucien decides to ruin it.

“Well,” he drawls from the arm of a chair, lounging like he owns the place, “isn’t this domestic. My sister, her wife, and the golden heir all lined up like a portrait. Should I fetch a painter? Or would a tabloid photographer do?”

Cassie’s grip tightens in mine, her citrus-bright scent flashing sharp. My fire flares under my skin before I can stop it. “Careful, Lucien. I can still throw you down a staircase.”

His smirk cuts sideways, green-hazel eyes narrowing. “You’d burn the bannisters before you got the chance.”

Cassie tilts her head, ice-slick grin flashing. “You’re just mad you’ll be riding in the limo with us. Front row seat to my victory lap.”

Lucien flushes, jaw twitching, but before he can spit something nastier Elias stands.

“Lucien.”

Just the one word, calm but lined with steel, and the whole room recalibrates. My father moves forward, tall, sleeves rolled, eyes warm hazel fixed on me like the rest of the world doesn’t matter.

“My Mira,” he says softly, and I nearly combust on the spot.

I try for sarcasm. “Don’t start—”

But he doesn’t let me cut him off. He cups my shoulders, firm and steady, grounding me with sandalwood and black tea, cedar smoke lingering like home. “No. You need to hear this. I only get fragments of you—stolen weekends, brief holidays. More absence than presence.” His voice roughens just slightly, the diplomat stripped away. “But tonight? Tonight I see you whole. You are not a pawn. You are not a mistake. You are my daughter. And I have never been prouder.”

Something shatters in my chest. My throat burns. My fire, restless and hot under everyone else’s scrutiny, folds in on itself like embers banked against the cold.

Cassie, godsdamn her, chooses that moment to murmur, “Told you. Firebrand. Comet. Whole constellation.”

I elbow her, cheeks flaming. Elias’ mouth curves, hazel eyes catching the exchange like he’s cataloguing proof. Then he looks at Cassie directly, and the air shifts again.

“And you,” he says, tone measured but warm. “Cassandra Fairborn. You’ve already done what no law, no treaty, no decree could do. You’ve steadied her. Made her stronger by standing at her side. That is no small thing. As her father… as family… you have my thanks.”

Cassie blinks, caught off guard. Her citrus scent softens, vanilla warmth blooming in the air. “She steadies me, too,” she says simply. “It goes both ways.”

Elias inclines his head. Not the diplomat’s shallow nod—but something deeper, private, an acceptance. “Good. Then it seems I have two daughters to be proud of tonight.”

Lucien groans audibly, crossing his arms like the human embodiment of a stormcloud. “Oh, great. Now I’m the other kid. Maybe I should start breathing fire too.”

“Lucien.” Elias doesn’t raise his voice, but it carries. My brother bites back the rest, muttering under his breath.

And then Juliana is there, warm and bustling, cranberry dress catching the lanternlight, chestnut hair gleaming auburn in the glow. She smells like lavender and rosemary, bread baked an hour ago, safety stitched into every fold of her embrace as she sweeps me in.

“Oh, Mira,” she whispers against my ear, voice trembling with pride. “You’re radiant. You take my breath away.” When she lets me go, her hands slip down to catch both of mine—hers clasped over mine and Cassie’s together. Her eyes shine, hazel flecked with green. “And you, Cassie… thank you. For loving her as fiercely as you do. For being her calm when she can’t be.”

Cassie freezes for a fraction, then nods, quiet but certain. “Always.”

Juliana beams at that, pressing both our hands before finally stepping back, tears threatening to spill.

The weight of Elias’ words still sits in my chest like a flame I don’t want to put out. Juliana is dabbing at her eyes with a tissue that appeared from gods-know-where, and for one quiet second it feels like maybe Emberhall is just a house, not a stage.

Naturally, that’s when Naomi groans. Loudly.

“Are we done with the Veilmark moment?” Naomi mutters, arms crossed, Winter Court steel in her posture. Her scent sharpens like frost over pine, amused but exasperated. “Because if we don’t take these pictures soon, I might actually puke.”

Kess, leaning against the banister like she’s posing for her own magazine cover, flashes a feline grin. “You’re just jealous no one cried over you.”

Naomi shoots her a flat look. “I don’t want anyone crying over me. I want this little prom circus over with so we can get back to real life.”

Kess pushes off the banister, slipping an arm casually around Naomi’s waist. “And by real life, you mean… me dragging you onto the dance floor and showing Dominveil what a panther shifter can do with a waltz?”

Naomi stiffens, glaring down with icy-blue eyes that practically scream don’t you dare. “We are not waltzing.”

“Oh, you’re waltzing,” Kess purrs, golden eyes glinting, her scent a bold mix of wild jasmine and smoky amber. “Waltzing, spinning, dipping—I’ve got the whole night planned.”

Naomi grumbles something about “stupid formal traditions,” but the faint pink climbing her ears betrays her.

Cassie leans toward me, lips quirking. “I’d pay actual money to watch that.”

I snort. “Same. Should we tell them the pictures come first?”

Naomi hears it, of course. “Pictures,” she says, voice dripping disdain. “Yes. Let’s immortalize this night of suffering forever.”

Kess laughs, tugging her closer. “Don’t listen to her. She loves it.”

Naomi glares, but her hand resting lightly against Kess’s wrist says otherwise.

Just like that, the room exhales—court politics and parental scrutiny dissolving into something messier, sharper, more ours.

The parents swoop in like vultures. Helena circles Cassie, smoothing fabric that doesn’t dare wrinkle under her hand. Juliana hovers at my side, lavender-and-bread warmth clinging to her cranberry dress as she fusses with the sunburst chain at my waist. Elias watches with sandalwood-steady pride, arms crossed but eyes soft. Seara doesn’t touch me—she doesn’t need to. Her amber gaze alone has me straightening my spine like a soldier at inspection.

The first shots are all family: Elias and Juliana on one side, Helena and Jameson on the other, Selene luminous at Cassie’s shoulder, Seara flawless at mine. Flash after flash, enchanted lenses catching silver and flame, frost and shadow. And in the middle of it all—me and Cassie, fingers laced so tight I swear the whole house could crumble and we wouldn’t let go.

Then it’s “kids only.”

Naomi in midnight silk, frost glitter catching at her cuffs, scowling like she’s on trial. Kess beside her in sheer black leather and shadowsteel, smirking like she owns the lens. Cassie gleaming silver, crystalline eyes cutting through lanternlight. Me molten fire, trying not to combust under the stares. Roran gets dragged in—crimson uniform crisp, posture soldier-sharp. He mutters something about “not trained for this kind of battlefield,” but Seara’s eyes pin him into place anyway.

And Lucien—shoved forward by Juliana at the last second, muttering, “Fine, fine, I’m here, stop pushing.” He’s in a sharp tux that makes him look older than sixteen, hair falling into hazel-green eyes that roll the second he spots Cassie adjusting my hem like it’s hers to touch. “You all act like this is a royal coronation. It’s just a school dance,” he grumbles, shoving his hands into his pockets.

I smirk. “Funny, considering you go there too. Maybe try acting like it’s not the end of the world for once?”

Lucien’s mouth twitches like he wants to bite back, but the flash pops before he can. Kess leans into Naomi with a laugh. Roran clears his throat—low, awkward—just before another flash. And in that blur of light and scent, we’re immortalized: silver and fire, frost and shadow, one sulky little brother glaring like it’s his job, and a silent bodyguard trying not to look like he’d rather be anywhere else.

By the time the enchanted lenses finally power down, Naomi mutters, “Good. Done. Can we leave now?”

“Yes,” I say, already tugging Cassie toward the door before Helena can invent another angle.

Emberhall’s front steps glow with lanternlight, the whole estate dressed for a sendoff. Servants bustle in the cold air, holding lanterns aloft as though we’re heading into battle instead of a dance. The limo waits sleek and black at the curb, spell-hum steady under its hood.

Cassie slides in first, silver skirts whispering against leather as she settles. I follow, tether buzzing low at my wrist, heat sparking steady where our hands find each other. Naomi and Kess pile in after—Naomi stiff-backed in midnight silk, Kess sprawling like she owns the seat, leather glinting under lanternlight. Lucien drags his feet until Elias clears his throat, then flops inside with a teenage scowl that could curdle milk. Roran takes the last corner, crimson uniform crisp, gaze already fixed on the streets through tinted glass.

The door shuts, muffling Emberhall behind us. The city stretches ahead.

I can’t resist. “Face it, little brother,” I say, grinning across the seat. “You just hit the jackpot. Prom night with four beautiful girls and your own personal bodyguard. Half the guys at Ravenrest would sell their souls for this limo.”

Lucien snorts, tugging at his cufflink. “Yeah, jackpot. If you like being trapped in hell on wheels.”

Cassie tilts her head, grin glinting sharp as glass. “Don’t sulk. You could make yourself useful. Distract Bree Halden for us. Keep her out of our hair.”

Lucien nearly chokes. “What—me? With Bree? No way. She hates me.”

Naomi smirks, frost-bright. “Could work. She’d never see it coming.”

Kess leans forward, predator glow in her eyes. “Oh, she’d eat him alive. But honestly? That might be the best entertainment I’ll get all night.”

Lucien groans, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re all evil.”

I laugh, leaning back into the leather seat. “Careful, little brother. Keep sulking and I’ll tell everyone you begged to come along.”

His ears go pink. “I didn’t beg. I go there, remember? Some of us actually have to survive the fallout when people figure out you two are—” He cuts himself off, glancing pointedly at our joined hands.

Cassie smiles sweet and dangerous. “Consorts?” she offers, voice like ice laced with citrus.

Lucien mutters something unintelligible and sinks lower in his seat.

Naomi shakes her head, muttering “children,” while Kess grins like the cat who got the cream. Roran doesn’t even flinch, gaze still locked out the window like the city itself might attack.

And me? I can’t stop laughing. The sound bubbles up, sharp and bright, fire humming under my skin like it remembers joy. For the first time tonight, with the city lanterns rising outside the glass, it almost feels like we’re not heading into war—just into a night that belongs to us.

The limo hums low, steady as a heartbeat. Lanternlight streaks the tinted glass, fractured gold and crimson flashing across Cassie’s cheekbones.

Inside is cramped, all silk and perfume and the faint static of Roran’s shields coiled close. He sits rigid in the far corner, molten gaze fixed on the blur of lights. Silent sentinel. Always.

Naomi sits stiff in her midnight gown, arms crossed like she’s about to storm a battlefield instead of a dance. Frost beads faintly at the edge of the window where her shoulder leans. “This is ridiculous,” she mutters, disdain curling like ice. “All this for a high school dance.”

Kess doesn’t even blink. “What did you expect when you’re going with one of your best friends who happens to be a goddamn princess?”

The words land smug and velvet-smooth. Naomi groans. Lucien groans louder, throwing his head back against the seat.

I can’t resist. Sliding across the leather, I hook an arm around Lucien’s shoulders before he can dodge. “Oh, come on, little brother. You love me.” I press a kiss to his cheek. Cassie leans in from the other side, silver skirts brushing mine, citrus-bright perfume sparking against my marshmallow heat as she plants one too.

Lucien jerks back, ears blazing red. “What the hell—ugh, gross. Absolutely vile.”

“I love you even if you hate me,” I sing-song, squeezing him tight before letting go.

Cassie smirks, crystalline eyes glittering. “It can’t be that bad being related to Mira.”

“It’s worse,” he mutters, scowling—but his eyes flick toward me and away too fast to be anything but soft.

Naomi mutters something in Winter Court dialect that definitely translates to children. Kess, predictably, grins like she’s just won a bet. “Gods, I live for this. Princess, consort, sulky little brother, grumpy ice queen, silent wall of muscle—” she gestures lazily toward Roran, who doesn’t twitch—“this is the best party bus Dominveil’s ever seen.”

Cassie snorts, leaning back into me. “Careful, Kess. You’re starting to sound like you’re enjoying yourself.”

“Oh, I’m absolutely enjoying myself,” Kess purrs.

Naomi elbows her hard enough to rattle the seat. “Keep talking, cat, and you’ll be limping through your first dance.”

Kess only grins wider, golden eyes gleaming.

The laughter ripples through the car, washing away sharp edges of court orders and parental scrutiny. For the first time tonight, it feels like we’re not just pieces in someone else’s theater—we’re just us.

And then the city swallows us whole.

Dominveil burns outside the tinted glass. Lanterns drift between skyscrapers like tethered stars, bobbing crimson, frost, and gold. Roses glow faintly in the hands of couples pressed close on sidewalks, enchanted petals pulsing with heat humans call “tech” but I feel thrumming in my bones. Illusion-charms ripple across the Riverwalk, turning water into a constellation map of skies I’ve never seen. The air smells of spiced chocolate, perfume, and faint ozone bleed—Veil magic leaking through the cracks, sweet and dangerous.

The hum presses at my skin until I’m restless, fire sparking under my ribs. Every lantern feels like it’s watching, waiting. The whole city leans closer to the Veil tonight, and my chest tightens with the inevitability of it.

Cassie’s hand slips into mine under the cover of sequins and shadows, fingers lacing sure and deliberate. The tether sparks—just a thrum, just enough. Her citrus-bright scent sharpens, vanilla warmth curling beneath, anchoring me. I breathe out slow. For a heartbeat, the city isn’t devouring me. It’s ours.

The limo rounds the last bend.

Ravenrest towers ahead—transformed. Gates draped in silver and crimson silk. Velvet banners spilling like rivers of blood and moonlight. Gothic spires lit from within, chandeliers refracting glamoured starlight into heart-shaped flares. Music thrums faintly through the glass, bass steady as a second heartbeat.

My fire coils tighter.

Tonight, we stop pretending. Tonight, the lanterns burn for us.