The orchestra swelled, strings bending into a measured waltz, the kind designed for gowns that swept like tides and tuxedos that gleamed sharp under chandeliers. The parquet floor glowed gold under the lantern ceiling, couples already spiraling into the pattern—polished, perfect, desperate to be seen.

And Lucien—my brother—stood at the edge of it all like he’d been pressed there by force.

The tux fit him better than he wanted it to, black lines crisp, shirt bright against olive skin. His bow tie sagged slightly crooked, already tugged at by restless fingers. He hovered, hands shoved into pockets, eyes darting like he was calculating escape routes. That restless Quinveil fire burned in him too, only his flared as worry instead of flame. He’d been watching me all night, the same sharp suspicion he wore whenever Courts were involved—like he expected them to swoop down and take me the second he blinked.

I couldn’t let him fade. Not here. Not tonight.

I crossed the parquet edge and caught his wrist before he could vanish. “Dance with me.”

He blinked, startled, then narrowed his eyes. “What? No. Absolutely not.”

“Yes,” I said, tugging. “You braved the press, you can manage one waltz with your sister.”

His jaw locked. “Mira—”

“Don’t Mira me.” I pulled him into the current of bodies. Heads turned. Whispers lit like sparks across the floor. Good. Let them see. “You think you can defend me like that and then disappear into the walls? No way. You’ve earned this.”

His ears went crimson. “That wasn’t—” His throat worked. “You’re impossible.”

I smiled at him—not court-sharp, not smug. Just soft. “And you’re mine.”

The orchestra climbed. I set his hand at my waist, slid my fingers into his, and stepped us into the first turn. He stumbled, off by half a beat, stiff as stone.

But I didn’t stumble. I never did. Every gala, every court masquerade, every grueling drill had taught me how to move—and it was in my blood besides. Grace, speed, precision. I could have danced blindfolded and still carved perfect arcs. So I led us. Fae daughter and Quinveil son, spiraling into the center of the floor as if we’d been born to.

“Relax,” I murmured.

His mouth twitched. “Easy for you to say. You’re—” He cut himself off, shook his head. “You’re showing off.”

“Of course I am,” I said lightly. “All eyes are on us. Might as well give them something worth talking about.”

“On you,” he muttered.

“Wrong.” I spun us clean through a gap between couples, pulled him a fraction tighter, forced him to meet my gaze. “On us.”

That stopped him. His breath caught, his steps faltered—not from clumsiness, but from something else.

I softened my voice, dropped it for him alone. “You’re my brother. My blood. If they’re going to gawk at me tonight, then they’re damn well going to see you too.”

Lucien’s jaw worked, something raw tugging at the edges of his expression. Finally, he said, low enough only I could hear, “It’s not just the Courts, Mira. You’ve… changed. We used to be side by side in everything. Dumb dares, sneaking out, just us. Then everything shifted. And I don’t know how to be around you the way I used to. Sometimes it feels like I lost you—even when you’re standing right here.”

The words hit like an open wound. Because I knew. I knew exactly what he was referencing, and why it hurt. My throat tightened. “I’m sorry,” I whispered before I could stop myself.

His grip tightened instantly, eyes burning into mine. “No. Don’t. Don’t you ever apologize for being yourself. That’s what I love about you. You’re the one who decides who you are—not me, not the Courts, not even the High Lady herself. You’ve never let anyone cage you. Don’t start now.”

My chest ached, sharp and bright, and for a second the floor spun not from the waltz but from his words.

I grinned through the sting in my eyes. “There it is. Almost like you’re enjoying yourself.”

“Shut up,” he muttered—but the corner of his mouth betrayed him. A real smile.

And gods, it undid me.

I twirled us again, sharp and flawless, letting the room see him—not hunched at the edges, not the awkward boy trying to disappear. My brother, handsome and strong in his tux, holding his own in the spotlight beside me.

“You know,” I said as we turned, “half the girls here are probably staring at you. And some of the boys.”

He flushed so hard I thought he’d combust. “Mira—”

I laughed, free and bright. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll find you someone before the night is over. You deserve at least one dance that isn’t me.”

“I don’t need you meddling—”

“Too late,” I cut in, spinning us to the swell of violins. “You’re stuck with me.”

The music carried us through another measure, and something shifted. He stopped fighting the rhythm, let me guide him, let the eyes on us burn without flinching. And when the swell peaked, Lucien—my little brother who carried his jealousy like armor and his protectiveness like a wound—actually laughed. Startled, rough, but real.

It cracked something inside me wide open.

For this one song, I wasn’t the Princess of Eversea. I wasn’t the Summer Court’s bargaining chip. I wasn’t the Small Folk’s crowned queen.

I was just his sister. And he was just my brother. And under the lantern blaze, we belonged to each other.

The waltz ended, bows and curtsies rippling across the floor, and couples drifted apart into chatter and champagne fizz. I tried to step back, but Lucien’s grip clung half a second longer than I expected. His eyes darted away the instant I noticed.

“See?” I said, smiling at him. “Not so bad. Now—”

He stiffened. “Don’t.”

“—let’s find you someone who actually wants to be here with you.”

“Mira.” His tone carried enough warning to cut steel.

I ignored it, tugging him toward the edge of the floor where students gathered in glittering knots. “What about Marisol Vega?” I nodded toward the senior in the rose silk gown, hair swept into a glossy twist, her laughter spilling like champagne as she gestured with a crystal flute. “She’s gorgeous. Sweet. Single, I think.”

Lucien flushed instantly, tugging his bow tie until it sat crooked. “Absolutely not.”

----------------------------------------

“Fine. Then Clara Hallowell.” I tilted my chin toward the tall blonde in a midnight gown, posture so perfect it could slice marble. “Brains, ambition. She’d argue with you until dawn, and we both know you’d secretly love it.”

“Gods, Mira—” His voice cracked, sharp with embarrassment.

“Okay, okay.” My eyes skimmed the crowd again. Boys leaning against the bar, girls adjusting jeweled pins in their hair, laughter rising sharp and bright. Then I spotted her — a junior, maybe, standing a little apart from the louder group.

A simple black dress, sleek lines that made her stand out amid the glitter. Dark curls framed her face, and when she glanced up from her phone, her smile hit like sudden sunlight. Not forced. Not polished. Just… warm.

“Her,” I said, tugging Lucien’s arm before he could protest. “She’s perfect.”

“Mira, no—” He dug in his heels, but I’d already steered him halfway across the floor.

“You defended me in front of the press, little brother. You don’t get to slink away now. Tonight they see you too.”

We stopped in front of her. She looked up, startled, then tucked her phone away. Her eyes flicked between us — wide, curious, not yet tinged with the awe the rest of the ballroom drowned in.

“Hi,” I said brightly. “I’m Mira. This is Lucien, my brother. And he owes me a dance, but I think he could use better company than me.”

Lucien turned crimson, choking on words. “I—no—that’s not—”

She laughed — a soft, genuine sound that made his ears flame hotter. “I’m Alina,” she said. “And I’d be honored.”

Lucien froze. Then, slowly, he glanced at me — betrayed and grateful at once.

I only smiled, sharp and smug, and pressed his shoulder until he took her hand.

“There,” I murmured, stepping back into the crowd. “Not invisible anymore.”

As the orchestra struck up the next song, I caught Cassie’s gaze across the room. She smirked, head tilted, as if to say: matchmaker, hm?

I lifted my chin, unapologetic. For once, I wasn’t the only Quinveil in the spotlight.

By the time I wove my way back to her side, Cassie was already waiting with that infuriating composure, silver gown clinging like liquid moonlight. Her eyes flicked past me to where Lucien was bowing stiffly to Alina, then back to me, a spark of laughter caught behind her cool façade.

“Playing matchmaker now?” she murmured, low enough only I could hear. “Dangerous hobby, Firebrand. People might start thinking you have a soft streak.”

I arched a brow. “Jealous?”

Her lips curved, sharp as glass. “Of you pawning your brother off on the first girl you spot? Hardly. Though…” Her gaze lingered where Lucien and Alina began their hesitant turn. “You might actually be good at it.”

“Of course I am,” I said, smug. “I don’t waste my talents.”

Cassie’s fingers brushed mine, just for a heartbeat, her touch grounding as always. “You waste plenty. But not that.”

The tether between us thrummed — steady, insistent. Whatever storm the press had unleashed outside, whatever questions waited, this was my orbit: her beside me, sharp-edged and unshaken, claiming me with nothing more than a smirk and the cool steel of her presence.

I exhaled slowly, the heat under my skin settling as I leaned just close enough for her shoulder to brush mine. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m not about to trade matchmaking for dancing. You’re still stuck with me.”

Cassie’s answering smile was softer this time, but no less dangerous. “Good.”

I barely had time to settle at Cassie’s side before the circle closed in.

Students drifted from their cliques in careful steps that turned into a flood — sequined gowns, pressed tuxes, perfume sharp as citrus and sugar. Their voices tangled over each other, questions ricocheting like stones thrown into a pond.

“So you really are a princess?”

“Is Eversea even real?”

“Was that lantern thing magic?”

“Does this mean you and Cassie are—like—official?”

The air pressed heavy, perfume and heat laced with curiosity. Every gaze a weight.

Cassie’s fingers brushed mine in the shadows of our skirts, a fleeting tether. Then she looked up, cool poise cutting through the noise. “One at a time,” she said, her tone so sharp the questions stilled for half a beat.

I smiled, dry and deliberate. “Yes. Yes. Maybe. And none of your business.”

Laughter rippled — nervous, relieved. Cassie’s mouth curved, approving.

Someone pressed forward, phone half-raised before a council chaperone barked at them to lower it. “But—why didn’t you say anything?”

I rolled my eyes. “Because I so love my privacy being trampled.”

Cassie’s gaze swept the group, precise as a scalpel. “What matters is what you already saw. The rest—” her smile was razor thin, “—you don’t need confirmed by us.”

Murmurs spread, whispers rippling into the crowd like wildfire. Official. Together. The princess and Cassie Fairborn.

And then Michael Sandalwood stepped forward, not pushing, not posturing. Just straightening his blazer, offering me a warm, steady look. “Congratulations,” he said, voice quiet but firm. “Both of you. It was… beautiful.”

Something in me loosened, fire easing back. I gave him a small nod. “Thank you, Michael.”

The sincerity grounded me, softened me—until Nate Ashborne cut in with his smug half-grin, jacket gleaming under the lights. “Guess the rest of us never had a chance, huh? Should’ve known it’d take royalty.”

Cassie didn’t even blink. “No, Nate,” she said coolly. “You never had a chance.”

The laughter that followed bit sharper, and Nate’s ears flamed red as he stepped back.

Before the chatter could swell again, Ashlyn Dannon appeared at the edge of the circle, braid neat, expression polished calm. She raised her voice just enough to cut through the chaos. “Alright, everyone. Save the interrogation for Monday. Tonight’s about celebrating, not cornering people.”

Reluctant chuckles, a shuffle of feet. The circle loosened, diffusing back into the ballroom.

Cassie’s hand found mine again, unseen by the rest. Her thumb pressed a grounding line over my knuckles as the noise ebbed to a dull roar. And for the first time since the lantern flare, I could breathe.

She didn’t wait. Cool and deliberate, Cassie hooked her fingers through mine and tugged me toward the balcony doors. The air outside bit cold, city lanterns shimmering against the night, but it was bliss after the press of bodies.

For a moment, it was just us—silver gown and firelit silk, our reflections caught in the glass.

“You’re terrible at lying,” she murmured, arms folding as she leaned against the doorframe. Her eyes glinted, crystalline. “The way you answered their questions? Princess. Magic. None of your business. Subtle.”

I arched a brow. “You love it.”

Her mouth curved. “I didn’t say I didn’t.”

“You didn’t stop me either.”

Cassie tilted her head, smirk tugging sharper. “Why would I? Watching you set the room on fire with sarcasm is half the fun.”

I huffed a laugh. “I wasn’t setting it on fire. Just… redirecting the flames.”

“Mm. You do like control,” she said softly.

“And you like pretending you don’t.”

Her laugh was low, quick, the sound sparking in my chest. She shifted closer, not quite touching, her perfume all frost and citrus in the cold night air. “I should be furious,” she said, mock-serious. “Dragged into the spotlight, interrogated by half the school. And yet…” Her eyes locked on mine, sharp and steady. “I think I enjoyed watching you squirm more.”

Heat curled in me, dangerous and sweet. “Careful, Fairborn. You keep talking like that, and I’ll make you dance with me again.”

Her smirk widened, devastating. “Promise?”

I rolled my eyes, but my heart rattled its cage. “Enemies don’t beg for encores.”

“No,” she said, voice low. “But lovers do.”

The tether thrummed between us, invisible and undeniable, even as laughter spilled from the ballroom behind us. For one breath, one quiet corner of the night, it was ours.

The orchestra dimmed, the lantern ceiling shifting to a pale silver glow as the headmistress stepped onto the dais. Her voice carried across the ballroom, amplified by Veil-bled glamours disguised as sleek “tech.”

“Students of Ravenrest Heights—your peers have spoken. Tonight, we crown the eight courts of Gloamhearts.”

A hush swept the room, broken only by the rustle of gowns and the nervous coughs of those waiting to hear their names.

“Frost Court,” she called first, “Ashlyn Dannon.”

Applause rippled, polite and approving, as Ashlyn glided forward, braid neat, her composure perfect. A silvered circlet touched with icy crystals was set on her brow, the shimmer catching in her smile.

“Bloom Court, Marisol Vega.”

The rose-gowned senior strode up with charisma blooming in her wake, laughter bubbling as she accepted a diadem shaped like unfurling petals.

“Harvest Court, Elton Rowe.”

The football co-captain looked faintly startled, then grinned wide as a circlet of bronze leaves settled against his dark hair. His friends hooted until the headmistress cleared her throat.

“Light Court, Nate Ashborne.”

Of course. Nate basked as he crossed the stage, smug grin sharp under the spotlight. A golden circlet gleamed like daylight at his temple. A few students groaned, others clapped too loudly, as if overcompensating.

“Rise Court, Clara Hallowell.”

Clara moved with crisp precision, posture flawless. The circlet shaped like the first sliver of dawn gleamed sharp above her brow. She accepted it with a gracious nod, already looking like she was reciting her valedictorian speech.

And then—

“Sun Court… Mira Quinveil.”

The world tilted.

Applause detonated like thunder, cheers swelling, camera flashes exploding despite the chaperones’ warnings. I stepped forward because I had no choice, because every eye in the room was already on me.

The circlet gleamed in waiting hands—gilt rays arcing out like captured fire. It settled on my head with impossible weight, hot as a brand, heat swelling against my sternum as the crowd roared.

Princess. Sun. Summer.

Irony, bitter and sharp, flooded my mouth.

“And Dream Court,” the headmistress continued once the room quieted, “Cassandra Fairborn.”

The ballroom exhaled. A ripple, inevitable as tide, swept through the crowd: of course.

Cassie ascended the steps with composure that burned brighter than Nate’s smugness, sharper than Clara’s polish. When the crescent diadem of night-glass gems settled against her golden hair, she looked untouchable, the moon incarnate.

And together—Sun and Dream—we were undeniable.

“Shadow Court, Jace Withers.”

The crowd laughed as Jace swaggered onto the stage, smirk already carved in place. His circlet of dusk-metal shadows gleamed faintly under the lights, ironic perfection.

Applause thundered again as the eight of us assembled on the dais. My stomach coiled tighter with every cheer, heat gathering under my skin.

At the edge of the ballroom, I caught Bree Halden clapping like she’d been born for it. Chestnut hair glossy under the lantern glow, hazel eyes locked forward, smile polished into something you’d paste on a campaign poster. Too perfect. Too calm.

But I saw her hand—nails biting crescents into her palm, hidden in the folds of her skirt. Because her name had never been called. She wasn’t even eligible. Sophomore. And still she’d angled, schemed, positioned herself for this stage. Only for me—half-Fae, half-secret, a Quinveil bastard made spectacle—to stand here instead.

Her smile didn’t crack, but her eyes did. Knives, straight at me. I’d felt that kind of fury before. It hummed sharp and poisonous, the kind that waited for shadows. My chest tightened. Another rival. Another blade waiting at my back.

The headmistress gestured, and our procession began. One by one, courts paired off—Frost beside Bloom, Light with Harvest, Rise with Shadow—parading toward the mirrored dais at the center, banners of black and silver shimmering as if stirred by phantom wind.

And then us.

Cassie and I stepped forward—Sun and Dream. Gold and silver. Fire and night. The ceiling lanterns flared as if they recognized us, constellations trembling awake across the glamoured dome. Phones lifted anyway, desperate to pin me down in pixels like I was something they could keep.

Cassie’s hand brushed mine, deliberate and steady. Just enough to remind me: she was here. My anchor. My tether. Without it, I might’ve burned through the floor.

We mounted the dais. The mirrored surface doubled everything—our gowns, our crowns, but also what hid underneath. Princess and girl. Bargaining chip and fire hazard. Crown and cage. Both of us, reflected twice over, as if the Veil itself wanted to memorize our undoing.

The headmistress’s voice cut the hush. “Tonight you stand not just as symbols, but as leaders. Tradition and pageantry may cloak this ritual, but the truth endures: your peers have chosen you as their courts. You will carry that choice, that responsibility, until the year’s end.”

Applause swelled again, pounding against my ribs. Cassie dipped her head with perfect grace. I followed, bowing just enough, the circlet hot on my skull, heat crawling like it wanted to brand me. My fingers tapped a frantic three-beat against my thigh, the only thing keeping me upright.

I hadn’t chosen this crown. I hadn’t chosen this spotlight. But gods, if the Veil wanted to shove me here, it would learn exactly what I did with cages.

And in that moment—our crowns aligned, the mirrored floor doubling us, the ceiling glamours blazing like stars waking—the tether between us surged. White-gold and night-glass. Sun and Dream. Two halves locking into place.