The bell still rings in my skull as we leave history behind.

The hallway is already a gauntlet: lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking, perfume clouds thick as fog. None of it feels like background noise anymore. It all feels like it’s pressing at me, funneling me forward.

Phones rise first. Notebooks crack open, but not to take notes — to scribble, to whisper, to record. Every corridor we step into has a pause, the kind of split-second hush that falls before a storm breaks.

Cassie slips into step beside me like it’s choreographed, blazer sharp, hair immaculate, her eyes sweeping the crowd like a queen cataloging courtiers. She doesn’t need to say anything. Her citrus-bright scent spikes, frost-threaded vanilla holding me in orbit. Anchor, without words.

Behind us: Roran and Kael. Two shadows cutting a path. Their presence is obvious to me, heavy as iron and cedar, but glamoured neat enough that to everyone else they look like silent security detail. No one dares get too close. But they still look. Saints, do they look.

“Best damn princess walk,” Cassie murmurs under her breath, lips barely moving. Her pinky brushes mine for a second, then drifts away, a secret tether hidden in plain sight.

So I lift my chin. Shoulders square. Every step sharp and deliberate, just like Mom drilled into me for court entrances, only this is linoleum and fluorescent lights instead of marble and chandeliers.

The whispers chase me anyway.

“She doesn’t even look different—”

“No, I saw her eyes at Gloamhearts, I swear.”

“They’re holding hands—wait, are they holding hands?!”

“How many guards does she need?”

“Imagine showing up to math with a princess.”

I want to shrink. I want to roll my cuff seam until it unravels, or tap my pencil against my palm until the rhythm drowns them out. Instead, I walk. I breathe in marshmallow warmth, let the stargazer bloom steady sharp, let the faint salt-rain thread remind me I am not drowning here.

Cassie tilts her head toward me, all composed cruelty, and says loud enough for the nearest knot of gawkers to hear: “If they keep staring, they’re going to walk into the lockers.”

The timing is perfect — a kid two steps ahead actually does smack into his locker, scattering books across the floor. The laughter that follows breaks the tension in a way even my fire couldn’t.

Cassie’s grin is sharp as glass. My laugh escapes before I can stop it. It hurts my ribs, but it’s worth it.

The crowd parts, grudging, as we approach M112. Ms. Duarte’s classroom door yawns open, and even the air feels sharper here, cut with chalk dust and the squeak of markers. Inside: formulas already filling the board like battle plans.

Cassie steps through first, posture unflinching. I follow, slower, each breath shorter than the last. My ribs ache, my shoulders ache, but most of all my face aches from holding the mask in place.

And then Ms. Duarte turns, chalk snapping in half between her fingers like a starting gun.

“Princess Mira,” she says once, dry as salt. “Princess Consort Cassandra.” Her eyebrow arches toward the shadows in the back row. “And your… retinue.”

She turns back to the board without missing a beat. “Titles won’t help you with trigonometric identities.”

Chalk squeaks as she writes sin²θ + cos²θ = 1 in a single sweep. “Seats. Now.”

And just like that, I am not a princess anymore. I am a seventeen-year-old girl staring down the personal enemy that is math.

We take our seats mid-row, the air already smelling like chalk dust and mechanical pencil shavings. Ms. Duarte doesn’t pause her board assault for long enough to care where the guards sit. Roran and Kael fold into the back row, twin shadows pretending to be furniture.

Cassie’s posture is perfect, blazer crisp, pen uncapped in a single smooth motion. She looks like the kind of girl who enjoys this. I, meanwhile, am trying not to die in the first five minutes.

Duarte’s chalk snaps again, her voice as sharp as the line she draws under an equation. “Princess Mira, why don’t you remind us what the cofunction identity for sine is?”

My heart drops into my stomach. Cold-call. First blood.

Half the class turns just enough to catch my reaction. Whispers crackle low. “She’s going to ace it—” “Or bomb it—” “Bet she’s got a tutor.”

My pencil taps three quick beats against the desk. Tap-tap-tap. I stare at the neat white scrawl on the board like it’s written in another language. Which, in my brain, it may as well be.

Beside me, Cassie doesn’t even glance up from her notebook. She just slides a scrap of paper my way, her handwriting sharp and elegant.

At least this triangle has better angles than your mother.

I choke on a laugh that comes out as a cough. My scent betrays me, marshmallow warmth singeing at the edges.

I scribble back fast, Remind me to hex you later.

She smirks, passes it back, ice-blue eyes glittering. I hate her. I love her. Mostly I want to set her paper on fire.

Duarte clears her throat, pulling me back into the slaughter. “Princess Mira?” she repeats, the “princess” in her mouth sharper than the chalk.

“Uh—” My mind scrambles, dragging dusty fragments from last semester. Cofunction… identities… sine… cosine. I squeeze the cuff of my sleeve until the seam cuts into my fingertip, my ribs throbbing with each shallow breath. “Cosine. Ninety degrees minus theta.”

A pause. A beat of silence thick enough to make me sweat.

Then Ms. Duarte nods once, brisk. “Acceptable.” She pivots back to the board, chalk already firing again.

I sag in my seat, relief crashing through me. Two rows back, Nate Ashborne, lounging in his varsity jacket, can’t resist. “Guess counting degrees really is like court politics,” he quips under his breath.

Before I can snap something back, Cassie turns, ice-blue eyes pinning him flat. “Careful, Nate. You’ll fail both.”

Laughter sparks, sharp this time. Nate flushes, mutters something about practice, and sinks into his seat.

I let out a breath that tastes like saltwater and sugar both, my pencil tapping out three more beats to steady me.

No royal treatment. No mercy. Just math.

The chalk doesn’t stop. Duarte moves like she’s in a duel with time itself, each formula scrawled in clean, merciless lines. Angles, identities, proofs—her tempo doesn’t waver, and she doesn’t wait for stragglers.

“Cosine double-angle, Mr. Reyes.”

“Secant definition, Ms. Patel.”

“Graph domain for cotangent, Mr. Ashborne?”

Nate stammers, bluffs, and earns a sharp correction. He flushes red again; Cassie’s smirk deepens beside me.

My fingers drum the desk, three-beat staccato against wood, until Cassie’s hand slides across just long enough to still mine. The touch is brief, hidden, but I feel it settle me, the citrus-vanilla of her scent anchoring against my own saltwater thread.

Notes scratch across my page, messy arrows and half-finished diagrams. None of it feels real—just fragments of numbers that refuse to play nice. My ribs ache when I lean forward, and every time I think I’ve caught the thread, Duarte switches slides, chalk squealing over new examples.

Cassie leans in, pen moving neat and elegant. Another note slides onto my desk.

At least Duarte’s sharper than assassins.

I scrawl back, That’s debatable.

Her lips twitch, barely contained laughter. She writes again: Imagine her with a sword.

I glance up at Duarte—hawk-eyed, chalk poised like a blade—and almost laugh out loud. My scent flares marshmallow-sweet at the edges before I clamp it down.

“Princess Mira,” Duarte snaps, voice like flint striking steel.

Every head swivels. My pulse jumps. She points at the board where a half-solved identity sprawls, angles crowding the chalk. “Finish it.”

I grip my pencil so tight the wood creaks. My cuff seam digs deep into my fingertip. I force myself to breathe shallow, to think. My notes are chaos, but the pattern glimmers. Sine squared. Cosine squared. Rearrange. Reduce.

“Uh—” My voice breaks before I steady it. “Equals cosine squared theta. No—wait. Equals one.”

The silence is brutal.

Duarte eyes me for a long second, lips a thin line. Then: “Correct. Barely.” She turns back to the board.

Relief floods me so hard my knees weaken. Cassie leans closer, her voice low but carrying to the back row. “That’s my princess.”

The laughter is instant, muffled into sleeves and hands, but it rolls anyway. Even Roran, in the back, hides something suspiciously like a smirk. Kael doesn’t flinch, but her eyes are sharp, amber flicking once toward Cassie as though to measure the weight of that claim.

I slump in my chair, pencil tapping again, steady rhythm to keep the panic from spilling. By the time the bell rings, my page is littered with half-finished triangles, smudged notes, and Cassie’s smug commentary threaded through like ribbon.

I don’t even wait for the room to empty before muttering, “Math is a personal enemy.”

Cassie grins, packing her books like she just won a game. “Enemy defeated—for now.”

Behind us, Kael rises with soldier-straight posture, muttering just loud enough for me to hear: “I’d rather face assassins than Ms. Duarte.”

For once, I almost agree.

The bell’s shriek is still clawing at my ears when we spill into the hall.

It’s worse than before. Phones already up, whispers bouncing off the lockers like ricochets. My ribs ache from math, my fingers twitch toward the cuff seam again, and all I want is a breath without an audience. Cassie’s hand brushes mine—pinky hook for one heartbeat—then falls away, leaving citrus-bright steadiness in her wake.

We’re halfway down the corridor when a familiar voice cuts through the static.

“Mira!”

Lucien, squeezing through the crowd with Alina close beside him. His hair’s a little mussed, tie already half-loosened, like the hall itself tried to fight him on the way here. Alina, by contrast, is unruffled—her gaze sharp, her presence the kind that makes people move without knowing why.

“Thought you’d vanished into the castle forever,” Lucien says, tone pitched casual but his eyes flick sharper—checking me over, ribs to hairline, like he’s braced to find cracks.

I roll my cuff hem between finger and thumb, fighting the urge to bite back. “Castle doesn’t have math class.”

Alina’s smile flickers, soft. “Neither do most sane people.”

Cassie smothers a laugh, crystalline eyes glittering. The crowd presses closer, trying to eavesdrop, trying to snap pictures, when of course Nate Ashborne decides to make his entrance.

He leans against a locker three feet away, varsity jacket hanging just so, grin bright enough to be staged. “Princess,” he drawls, eyes flicking to Cassie, “Consort.” Then back again, like we’re both prizes at a fair. “I could show you a better time than equations and goggles. Both of you. Just say the word.”

Heat spikes sharp under my skin, stargazer bloom pressing too bold in the air. My fingers tap—tap—tap against my thigh, sharp enough to sting. Cassie’s jaw tightens, but before either of us can scorch him, Lucien steps forward.

He doesn’t posture like Nate. Doesn’t puff his chest. He just squares his shoulders, voice low and hard enough to cut. “You’re talking to my sister. And her wife. So unless you’re looking to spend your next practice explaining a black eye, you’ll keep walking.”

The hall freezes. Nate’s grin falters, then stutters back, thinner now, like he’s not used to being told no so plainly. He mutters something about “just kidding” and slinks off, his squad waiting to laugh it off around the corner.

Roran hasn’t moved, but there’s the ghost of a smirk at the edge of his mouth. Kael’s posture eases, fraction by fraction, as if even she admits Lucien handled it better than a guard ever could.

Cassie exhales sharp through her nose, citrus-bright scent cutting the air like victory. She threads her fingers through mine without breaking stride. “Best damn brother,” she mutters.

I snort, ribs protesting. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”

Lucien smirks, but his eyes soften when they meet mine. “Someone’s gotta make sure the royals survive high school.”

The science wing hums with a different kind of tension than the rest of the school. Less perfume, less sweat. Here it’s the smell of metal rails, electrical cords, and disinfectant wiped across tabletops too many times.

Lab S304 is already prepped when we walk in: rows of benches lined with motion tracks, timers, and tangled wires. Goggles rest at each station like silent judges. The fluorescents are too bright, catching the chrome of clamps and the faint dust of chalk left on the board from last period.

The buzz starts the moment Cassie and I cross the threshold.

“That’s her—”

“Imagine royalty in goggles—”

“Do you think she’ll light the photogates with her hands?”

I roll my cuff seam hard between thumb and nail, tap my pencil once—twice—three times against the notebook I haven’t opened yet. Cassie brushes her pinky against mine in passing, then slides into her seat like she owns the room. Her scent sharpens—citrus bright, vanilla warm—pulling me steady against the saltwater edge threading into mine.

Roran and Kael melt into the back row, silent walls. Their presence doesn’t need words. It’s enough to keep the nearest gawkers in their lanes.

Then Dr. Chen looks up. He’s all quiet angles—wire glasses, calm eyes, movements measured like clockwork. When he smiles, it’s small but steady.

“Princess Mira,” he says first, and the room stirs. Then, gently correcting, “But in this lab, you’re students first.”

Relief flickers sharp in my chest.

We take our bench mid-row. Cassie fits her goggles on in one clean snap; mine snag in my hair until she leans over, smooths it back, and settles them for me. Her touch is quick, grounding, a whisper of citrus and warmth brushing my temple.

Two benches over, Kess tips her goggles onto her forehead and grins wide. “Royalty in lab gear. Saints, this should be framed.”

Naomi, steady as granite beside her, doesn’t even look up from the lab sheet. “Don’t blow anything up,” she mutters, voice flat as ice. “On purpose.”

Heat prickles under my skin. I bend forward—ribs aching—and scrawl the lab title onto our sheet. This is cruel and unusual punishment.

Cassie’s handwriting is elegant when it comes back: It’s called physics. Don’t set the photogates on fire.

My laugh breaks out too loud, marshmallow-sweet warmth spiking in the air. Naomi flicks her gaze over, suspicious. Cassie just smirks.

We start with a pendulum experiment. Clamp, string, metal bob, protractor. My hands shake when I lean to adjust the length, pain stabbing through my ribs. Cassie steadies the clamp with one hand, her crystalline eyes sharp as she murmurs, “Teamwork, Firefly.”

It almost feels normal. Almost.

Halfway through timing the swings, Jace Withers slouches back in his stool, smirk dialed in. “Do the royals get, like, special lab equipment?” he calls, voice loud enough to earn a ripple of laughter.

Phones tilt up, waiting.

Dr. Chen doesn’t blink. “Yes,” he says, voice dry as chalk. “It’s called the same stopwatch you have.”

The class cracks, laughter spilling quick and bright. Jace flushes, mutters, and folds into himself.

I seize the moment, straighten my shoulders, and let my best princess smile curve deliberate, polished. “Trust me,” I say, warm and light, “you don’t want me anywhere near upgraded lab tech.”

The laughter doubles. Cassie’s lips twitch, though she doesn’t glance up from logging data. Kess’s laugh cuts sharp, dangerous and delighted. Naomi mutters something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like, “You’ll burn the whole wing down.”

By the time the bell rings, our sheet is half smudged, Cassie’s notes perfect, mine a battlefield of half-finished numbers. My ribs ache from every lean forward. My cuff seam is wrecked. My scent has swung storm-salt and bloom-bright all period.

Dr. Chen closes his notebook with the same calm precision he began with. “Princess or not,” he says, gaze touching me just once, “lab reports are due Monday.”

The bell cuts him off.

I groan, dragging my bag off the bench. “Math is a personal enemy. Physics is runner-up.”

Cassie smirks, goggles dangling from her hand like a crown she doesn’t need. “That’s my princess.”

Roran and Kael fall into step behind us as we leave, silent shadows again. But I catch it: the faintest smirk tugging Roran’s mouth, and Kael’s dry murmur pitched for me alone — “I’d still rather face assassins.”