The cafeteria hushes when we walk in. Not silent—the fryers still hum, a soda can snaps somewhere, a chair screeches across tile—but it dips, sharp and sudden, like someone’s drawn a line through the noise. Forks pause mid-air. Eyes tilt. Every conversation bends toward us, as though the air itself has turned.

Cassie doesn’t falter. She never does. Her stride is even, chin tipped high, hair sleek and razor-sharp in the fluorescent light. I match her step for step, even though my ribs ache with every move and I want to curl into nothingness. Best damn princess. Best damn consort.

Roran and Kael ghost behind us, one at each end. I can feel their presence like heat at my back—Roran steady as a wall, Kael precise as a blade. It turns the mundane act of carrying a tray into the spectacle of a royal procession. Which, judging by the stares, is exactly what it looks like.

We slide into seats at a long table, Cassie settling beside me, and the shadows post themselves like bookends. I wave Lucien over with two fingers, subtle as a command. He rolls his eyes so hard it’s a wonder they don’t get stuck, but he comes anyway, dragging Alina with him.

She’s glowing, nervous as a lantern flame in wind, shoulders hunched like she isn’t sure if she’s allowed to sit at this table. He slouches into his chair like he couldn’t care less, but his eyes flick sharp across the room, catching the stares same as I do. My brother, pretending he’s immune.

I stim against my thigh, three-beat tap, while I pretend the knot in my stomach is hunger. My tray smells like grease and reheated pizza. Across the table Cassie cuts into an apple with that perfect posture of hers, like she’s starring in a commercial instead of surviving high school lunch. Her scent—bright citrus sharpened by smugness—laces with my marshmallow warmth and ocean-thread nerves until it’s all I can breathe.

That’s when the cheerleaders bounce in.

Perfect hair. Glossed lips. Nails flashing when they set their trays down like offerings. Their perfume hits first—too sweet, too sharp, a cloying overlay on cafeteria salt and grease.

“Oh my god,” one gushes, voice pitched too high. “It is going to be so iconic having the princesses headline the carwash fundraiser this weekend—like, VeilNet will melt.”

Cassie’s mouth doesn’t move, but I feel the silent laugh in her shoulder brushing mine. I press my cuff once, twice, grounding.

“And—” the other adds, eyes darting across the table, predatory—“Lucien will be there too, right? Shirtless?”

Lucien chokes on his drink. Actual choke. Splutters, coughs, half a spray over his tray. My ribs throb with the effort not to laugh.

Alina turns beet red so fast I swear I can feel the heat radiating across the table. “He—he doesn’t even wash his own car—” Her words tumble out in a panic before she realizes. Then her hands slap over her mouth, mortified, too late.

Cassie loses composure first, a sharp exhale of laughter muffled by her hand. I smirk slow, wicked, leaning across just far enough to twist the knife.

“Looks like you’re volunteered, little brother.”

Lucien’s glare could strip paint, but the tips of his ears burn pink, and Alina’s face is buried in her palms. The cheerleaders giggle like they’ve just won something. I chew a fry and let myself grin, ribs and all.

Lucien wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, glaring at me like I’d personally orchestrated the entire thing. Which, to be fair, I would have if I’d thought of it.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” he mutters, low enough the cheerleaders don’t catch it.

I lean an elbow on the table, ribs complaining, and smirk. “Oh, definitely. Consider it payback for the time you stole my journal and read my poem about fireflies out loud to the entire family.”

Except this time, his grin sharpens. “Funny you should bring that up.”

My stomach knots. “Don’t.”

Cassie’s eyes light instantly, predator locked on prey. “Wait. Poem?”

Alina peeks out from behind her hands, eyes wide, blush blooming bright as a summer rose. “You… you wrote poetry?”

“Not anymore,” I say too fast. Too defensive. My three-beat tap hammers against my thigh under the table.

Lucien leans back, smug as a cat. “Oh, she does. About fireflies. Lanterns. Totally tragic, totally dramatic.”

Cassie all but purrs, resting her chin on her hand, eyes glittering. “Please tell me there’s still a copy somewhere.”

“There isn’t,” I snap. Marshmallow warmth scorches into salt-rain panic, bloom scent flaring sharp. “Lucien burned it years ago.”

“Wrong,” Lucien says, stretching the word until I want to strangle him. “Still tucked safe in my desk.”

Cassie gasps like she’s just been handed the crown jewels. “Oh, I have to see this.”

“Touch it,” I growl, heat creeping traitor-fast up my neck, “and I’ll set every one of your jerseys on fire.”

Alina laughs then—soft, startled, like she didn’t mean to. She covers her mouth, but her eyes shine when they flick to Lucien. My humiliation only makes him smirk harder.

Cassie leans back, citrus-zest victory in the air. “Firefly poem,” she repeats, savoring every syllable. “My princess just keeps getting better.”

I bury my face in my hands, ribs aching with every breath, wishing the floor would open up and swallow me whole.

Even Roran looks like he’s hiding a smile at his end of the table. Kael doesn’t bother—her mouth twitches once, sharp and knowing.

And Lucien? He looks like he’s won a war.

The cheerleaders, saints damn them, haven’t moved on either. They whisper behind glossy nails, trading wide-eyed looks between me and Cassie like they’ve just discovered royalty is also humiliatingly mortal. Which, unfortunately, I am.

My ribs throb in time with my pulse, sharp under the smothering heat in my cheeks. Tap-tap-tap against my thigh. Cuff glide once. Twice. Doesn’t help.

I groan, muffled into my palm. “Divorce.”

Cassie’s laugh is sunlight breaking glass, citrus-bright and merciless.

Roran shifts at the far end of the table, smirk ghosting at his mouth like he’d rather eat his sword than admit he’s amused. Kael, stone-faced sentinel, isn’t even pretending to hide the faint twitch at her lips. Betrayal everywhere.

I’m still deciding if I’ll survive this car crash of a lunch when the air shifts. A practiced sort of shift — perfume first, all synthetic jasmine and lacquered gloss. The kind of scent that announces itself before the person does.

Bree.

She swans up with a tray balanced like she’s carrying a crown jewel, her new persona polished to a mirror shine. Lip gloss catching the fluorescents, blazer pressed sharper than a knife. She doesn’t hesitate; she slides into the open spot next to Cassie like she owns it.

“I thought it’d be good optics,” she says, syrup sweet. “You know, unity and all.”

The cheerleaders gasp quietly, scandalized at her nerve. Alina stiffens like someone just yanked the rug from under her. Lucien leans back, delighted to watch.

I deadpan before I can stop myself. “Optics is what happens when light bends. Not lunch invitations.”

Cassie doesn’t even blink. “Seat’s taken.” Her tone could slice glass.

Bree’s smile doesn’t crack, but her eyes sharpen, the saccharine curdling into acid. She scoffs, loud enough for the nearby tables to hear, and stands with an exaggerated flip of her hair. “Fine. But don’t blame me when people think you’re shutting out allies.”

The words land where she wants them: whispers ripple outward instantly, like dye spilling into water.

I force my smirk to hold, though my stomach knots. Cassie’s hand brushes mine under the table, grounding. Roran doesn’t move, doesn’t speak—just stares at Bree’s retreating back until she falters halfway across the cafeteria. The message is clear: try again, and he’ll be less polite.

Kael doesn’t even look up. She just mutters, dry as stone: “One shadow would’ve been enough to block her.”

Cassie nearly chokes on her juice. I hide a laugh in my sleeve seam, rolling the fabric between my fingers until my ribs stop screaming.

But the reprieve doesn’t last.

A boy from chem class approaches, tray clutched like a shield. His steps stutter halfway, then he bows. Actually bows. “Your Highness,” he blurts.

For a heartbeat, silence. Then Cassie explodes, laughter spilling across the table. The cheerleaders dissolve into giggles. Alina makes a tiny noise like she’s not sure if she should laugh or apologize.

My scent tips into salt-rain mortification again. “Please don’t,” I mutter, pinching the bridge of my nose. “We’re in a cafeteria, not a coronation.”

The boy straightens so fast his chair squeals against the floor, mumbles something, and flees.

No sooner has the echo faded than another classmate—camera already out—sidles closer. “Could I get a quick selfie with the princesses?”

Kael intercepts before I can answer, rising half a step with arms crossed. “No.” Flat. Final.

The poor kid retreats like she’d been slapped.

And then, because the universe loves me, Jace Withers drifts by, smirk plastered on like armor. He takes one look at the table—Roran looming, Kael radiating threat, me dying inside—and whistles low. “Never thought I’d eat lunch two tables away from royalty. Guess I need to start working on my bow.”

Cassie doesn’t miss a beat. “Or just work on your grades, Jace.”

Laughter erupts again, louder this time, the sound carrying across the cafeteria. Jace flushes, scowls, and stalks off.

I sit back, rubbing my cuff once, twice, letting the marshmallow warmth fight its way back through my scent. This is exhausting. Terrifying. Hilarious. All at once.

The laughter still echoes when the next intrusion arrives, though this one doesn’t come with a tray or a bow. It comes with a hand. A big, pale one that snakes across my plate like it owns the territory.

I snap out of my mortification haze just in time to swat it. “Naomi,” I hiss, “buy your own fries.”

She just shrugs, already chewing, her white hair catching every flicker of fluorescent light. “Yours taste better.”

“Because they’re mine,” I bite back, batting at her hand again when she reaches for a second.

Cassie’s laugh slips out despite herself, sharp and amused. “She’s got a point, Firefly.”

Before I can retort, another shadow slides into the space behind Naomi, lean and easy. Kess. All grin, no shame. Her eyes gleam wicked under the cafeteria lights, like she was born to prowl the chaos.

“Big day, Firefly,” she drawls, voice low enough to curl under my skin. “Didn’t think you’d bring the whole damn kingdom into study hall.”

The cheerleaders who lingered at the end of the table gape like someone dropped a celebrity into the room. Which, technically, someone did. Kess thrives on it, basking in the attention like it’s stage lighting.

“Not study hall,” I mutter, stabbing my fry like it’s a weapon. “Lunch. I get one break a day, and apparently even that’s too much to ask.”

Kess leans closer, smirk widening. “Could always eat in the courtyard. Less gawking. Fewer phones. Better lighting for your princess strut.”

“Not helping,” I groan, cuff gliding twice against my wrist.

Naomi just shrugs again, calm as winter snow. “We’ll clear space next time if you want. You say the word.”

My throat tightens. Too much gratitude at once, so I roll a fry between my fingers instead of saying it.

They don’t linger. They never do. Naomi steals one last fry; Kess salutes with her soda; then they slip back out into the tide of voices, leaving the table buzzing with residual energy.

It should have been grounding. It almost is.

Until the whispers start.

They don’t bother hiding them anymore, not when I’m right here to hear every word.

“Did you see her eyes at Gloamhearts?”

“It was just glamours. Special effects or something.”

“No, my cousin was there. Swears it was real.”

“Wings. I saw wings.”

The words scrape along my spine like sandpaper. My ribs ache from holding myself too still. The marshmallow warmth in my scent burns thin; the bloom sharpens too bright, too spiced. I want to flare, to prove them right, to scorch every doubt out of the air.

Cassie feels it first. She always does. Her hand brushes mine under the table, steady, grounding. Not a squeeze, not a command — just there. A quiet line tethering me to earth.

I breathe. Once. Twice. The storm settles by a fraction.

Coach Ramirez doesn’t even break stride, but his voice carries like a whistle through the cafeteria: “Practice is still at four, Quinveil. Royalty doesn’t get you out of pushups.”

Every head at the table whips toward me. Cassie’s grin is already sharp enough to draw blood. Lucien outright cackles, betrayal in stereo with the cheerleaders.

I sit up straighter, ribs pulling mean, and answer like I’m at a press conference instead of lunch. “My ribs are still recovering. I couldn’t do a pushup right now if I tried.” My tone slides into something silkier, the kind Mom uses when she’s twisting a knife politely. “Until I’m healed, Cassie and I have to be home right after school. Queens’ orders. But—” I hold up a finger, dramatic, “we will make up every pushup you need once I’m better. In a couple days.”

The cheerleaders gasp-laugh like I just declared a national holiday. Lucien groans. Cassie leans in, whispering for my ear alone, citrus-spark scent curling like victory: “Careful. That sounded dangerously responsible.”

I smirk, though my ribs make me pay for it. “Mark your calendar, Consort. I’ll die before I let pushups be my legacy.”

Before she can retort, the bell rings, shrill and merciless, cutting through the din. Chaos explodes instantly. Students scatter, trays clattering, phones still flashing. The whole cafeteria hums with leftover whispers—my name darting like sparks across the air.

Roran and Kael move without speaking, sliding into place behind us, herding us toward the doors like Secret Service with invisible earpieces. The effect makes every step worse: gawking eyes, parted crowds, phones angled like paparazzi. My temples pound. Just eating lunch shouldn’t feel like combat training.

We push into the hall, noise swelling all over again. I groan under my breath. “Exhausting. Saints damn exhausting.”

Cassie’s hand squeezes mine once, sharp and grounding, before she lets go. “Best damn exhausting princess,” she teases, voice low.

I roll my eyes. “Flattery won’t get me to period four.”

It takes everything to walk steady until we duck toward the bathrooms—an oasis carved out of cinderblock and fluorescent light. I make a beeline, but the shadows move to follow.

I spin, hand up. “Nope. Girls only. Private space.”

Roran halts, one brow raised, like he’s already calculating how many seconds I’d survive alone. Kael doesn’t even blink.

“Good thing I’m a girl, then,” she says, flat as stone.

Cassie and I groan in unison.

“Of course,” Cassie mutters, exasperated. “We get the shadow with a sense of humor.”

I drag a hand down my face. “Next time, I’m peeing in the courtyard.”

Kael crosses to the sinks, arms folded, her expression carved from granite. “Relax. I’m guarding the door, not your stall.”

Cassie snorts, rolling her eyes as she tugs me toward the stalls. “Guess we can cross ‘pee in peace’ off the royal perks list.”

I mutter back, low so only she hears: “Add it to the consort report.”

Her laugh, sharp and bright, echoes off the tile. Somehow, it makes even this absurdity survivable.

The bathroom door clicks shut behind us, swallowing the cafeteria noise. Fluorescents buzz overhead, harsh and steady, bouncing off tile that smells faintly of disinfectant and lemon. It’s not silence, but it’s as close as we’re going to get.

I beeline for a stall, ribs protesting the motion, and shove the door shut. My three-beat tap echoes faintly against the metal as I settle. It’s ridiculous, but the sheer normalcy of it almost undoes me. Queens, consorts, shadows—none of it matters here. Just me, a toilet, and the stupid graffiti scrawled into the paint: Jessica + Ryan 4ever.

Cassie’s stall door clangs shut next to mine. A second of quiet, then her voice: “So this is the height of royal glamour.”

I snort, then wince at the pain lancing through my ribs. “Add it to the consort report.”

Her laugh echoes sharp through the partition.

When I’m finished, I wash up at the sink beside her. The mirror throws us back at ourselves: me with ginger hair loose and slightly mussed, blazer still too crisp, eyes a little too green; Cassie, immaculate as ever, ribbon straight, gloss sharp, looking like she could command armies in her school uniform.

She leans closer in the glass, smirk tugging. “We should start keeping score. Number of bows, number of selfies, number of Bree drive-bys.”

“Winner gets what?” I ask, drying my hands on too-thin paper towel.

Her shrug is deliberate. “Winner doesn’t have to share the covers tonight.”

That cracks me. I laugh, pressing a hand to my ribs. “Unfair. You already hog them.”

Kael doesn’t budge from her post, but her voice carries steady: “I could keep score for you.”

Cassie nearly drops her comb, laughter bursting loud in the tile room. I catch her reflection sparkling in the mirror, and I can’t help it—I laugh too, leaning against the sink until the ache in my ribs blurs with something warm and good.

For a moment, it’s just us: Cassie brushing shoulders with me, Kael a stone shadow at our backs, the rest of the world shut out.

Cassie hooks her pinky with mine under the mirror. “Ready to keep surviving?”

I breathe deep, cuff glide once, twice. “Not even close.”

She smiles, sharp and soft all at once. “Good. Then we’ll do it together.”