The hall between the bathroom and the sciences wing is quieter, but not by much. Lockers clang open and shut, voices ping like static, and every time I catch someone out of the corner of my eye holding a phone I tense, waiting for a flash. Roran and Kael track behind us, twin shadows, their presence enough to part the crowd without a word.

I roll my cuff once, twice, thrice. Doesn’t stop the drum of nerves under my ribs. Chemistry next. My personal battlefield. Not one I win.

Lab S318 smells the same as always: sharp bleach, old ethanol, the faint tang of latex gloves and chalk dust that somehow finds its way in even here. Rows of benches gleam with metal clamps and glassware that all looks fragile enough to snap in my hands.

Dr. Aya Sato is already at the front, lab coat pristine, goggles perched sharp on her face like she was born wearing them. She greets the class in her clipped, unbothered tone—then her eyes cut to me.

“Princess Mira. Goggles on. Royalty does not excuse safety violations.”

The words slice the air. My cheeks burn hot. Half the class snickers behind their hands.

I yank the goggles down from my head and shove them onto my face. Crooked. Pinching my hair. Steam already fogging the edges. Perfect.

Cassie leans close, her whisper sharp citrus in my ear.

“Cutest chaos goblin in goggles.”

I elbow her, ribs complaining. “Shut up.”

Dr. Sato flips the projector on. “Mechanism minute. You have sixty seconds. Go.”

Equations and arrows scatter across the board like a foreign language. My pencil hovers, useless. Sweat beads under the strap of my goggles. Cassie’s already scribbling. She nudges my paper with her pen, scrawls a hint.

I whisper, low, “I saved the school from the Shroud, and I’m still gonna fail o-chem.”

“Balance,” she whispers back, smirking without lifting her head. “Heroics and homework.”

At the back of the room, Roran and Kael stand sentinel, arms folded, eyes scanning. Their presence turns every motion sharper, more brittle. A kid drops his pipette—plastic clatter like a gunshot. Another fumbles a flask when their Bunsen burner flares too high. Everyone jumps.

I flick mine alight with a fingertip when Kael isn’t looking. Fire catches clean and steady, no fumbling, no matches. A couple students at the next bench freeze, eyes wide. One mouths something like did you see that?

I just smirk, goggles fogging worse, and adjust the flame higher.

Cassie yanks my goggles right off my face mid-motion. “Much better.” She perches them on her own head like a crown.

Dr. Sato doesn’t miss a beat. “Princess Consort Cassandra—you may share vows, not eye protection. Separate pairs, now.”

The class dissolves into laughter, too loud, too sharp. My ears burn hotter than the flame. Cassie’s grin is wicked enough to kill me on the spot.

I jam my own pair back on, smudging fingerprints across the plastic. My gloves are stained now too, something neon blue I don’t want to think about.

Her laugh curls through the burner’s hiss, sweet as victory, sharp as citrus.

The flame holds steady for a while, my fingertip twitching under the table just to toy with it—stretching it taller, shrinking it down, anything to keep my nerves from boiling over. Kael’s gaze slices across the room—sharp, suspicious—but then drifts toward the door, distracted by some movement in the hall.

Which, of course, is my cue.

I pinch the flame higher with nothing but a thought. It stretches, bends, reshapes itself in the air until it’s no longer a clean blue cone but the curved jaw of a shark, flame-fins rippling along the burner head. The open mouth snaps toward the flask hanging above, ready to swallow it whole.

The kids at the next bench freeze. One girl clamps both hands over her mouth to keep from screaming. Another boy’s eyes bug so wide they look ready to fall out.

Cassie’s laugh is silent at first, her shoulders shaking as she grips the counter. She doesn’t dare say a word, not with Dr. Sato prowling the aisles, but her scent sharpens with citrus-bright delight, vanilla undertone warming until it cuts right through my fogged-up goggles.

I lean back, smirk tugging at my mouth, marshmallow sweetness threading my own scent in smug waves. Just for a heartbeat, the whole room feels less like a battlefield and more like my playground.

And then Kael turns back.

I snap the flame into a perfectly ordinary blue cone before her eyes can land on it. Innocent. Boring. Nothing to see.

The students who saw don’t breathe, don’t blink.

Cassie taps her pencil twice against her notebook—our secret applause.

I stifle my grin, my ribs still aching from holding in the laugh. I know it’s reckless. I know if Mom ever finds out, I’ll be skinned alive for flaunting magic in a mortal school. But saints, it feels good to remind myself I’m not just this fumbling girl in crooked goggles. I’m still fire. Still Fae.

Even if chemistry insists otherwise.

By the time Dr. Sato calls for goggles off and cleanup, my gloves are streaked with stains I don’t have the heart to name. One’s green, one’s something that looks like bruised sunlight, and I’m ninety percent sure none of it will ever wash out.

“Chemistry,” I mutter as I peel the gloves off, snapping the last finger with a little too much venom. “The real enemy.”

Cassie snickers, low and smug, as if she’s already plotting how to retell this story to anyone who will listen.

I shove the gloves deep into the biohazard bin, muttering all the while, and follow her out with the faintest curl of smoke licking behind me.

The hallway between science and gym smells like bleach, sweat, and floor polish—sharp enough to sting. The closer we get to the locker rooms, the louder it grows: sneakers squeaking on tile, laughter bouncing too high, doors slamming as kids filter into the changing areas.

Roran slows at the threshold, molten-amber eyes narrowing at the girls’ locker room sign like it’s a personal insult. His jaw flexes. “I should be inside—”

Kael crosses her arms, expression carved from stone. “You’re not glamouring yourself into the girls’ room, Roran.”

He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Why couldn’t I be assigned to a prince?”

The words slip out before I can stop them: “I was born one, you know. But being a princess is better.” My smirk sharpens. “We get the better uniforms.”

Cassie snorts, citrus-bright amusement spiking the air. Even Kael’s mouth twitches, though she tries to hide it.

Roran mutters something under his breath—probably about saints and suffering—and plants himself firmly against the wall, the picture of resigned martyrdom.

Kael gestures toward the door with a stiff little bow, her voice dry as chalk dust. “After you, Princess.”

Inside, the locker room hits like a wall: humid air thick with deodorant spray, detergent, and the sharp tang of rubber soles. Lockers clang open and shut, laughter spikes, someone’s phone blares tinny pop music.

Cassie strides in like it’s a runway, ribbon already sliding loose as she pulls her blazer off one shoulder. Eyes turn. Of course they do. She’s light cutting through the haze, honey hair catching the fluorescent glare.

Me? I keep my head high, cuff glide once, twice, sleeve seam rolling between my fingers to hide the nerves buzzing in my chest. My ribs throb as I peel my blazer off, careful with each motion.

Kael stations herself by the door, arms folded, gaze scanning every corner like the lockers themselves might attack. The girls inside go whisper-quiet for a beat, then louder—gossip pitched like birds.

Cassie leans close, her voice a murmur only I hear. “She’s making more people nervous than we are.”

“Good,” I whisper back, tugging at the hem of my uniform shirt. “Maybe she’ll scare off anyone who thinks about asking for a selfie in here.”

Kael doesn’t turn, but her voice floats over, bone-dry: “One advantage to being the scary shadow.”

Cassie nearly chokes on her laughter, hiding it in the slam of her locker. I smirk, even as I peel off the blazer and blouse, ribs tugging mean with every move. The bandages binding me are obvious now—white wraps cutting across bruised skin, proof I’m not untouchable.

Whispers ripple before I even reach for my gym tank.

“It’s true, then.”

“She really was hurt at the dance…”

“Guess the princess bleeds like the rest of us.”

My throat tightens. I focus on sleeve seams, rolling them between my fingers, tap-tap-tap against my thigh.

Cassie is there before the spiral pulls me under. She plucks the folded tank from my bag and nudges me down onto the bench. “Sit. Look pretty. I’ll handle it.”

My head jerks up. “You think I’m pretty?” The words slip out sharper than I meant, defense dressed like a joke.

Cassie meets my gaze, ice eyes unflinching. “I know you are.” Her voice is quiet, meant for me and not the room. Then she slides the tank down carefully over my bandages, fingers grazing just enough to steady me without making it look like pity.

The air shifts. Some girls look away, flustered. Others stare harder, like they can’t decide if they’re jealous or impressed.

Then comes the inevitable. Someone—too loud, too curious—scoffs from a few lockers down: “Royal treatment, huh?”

Cassie snaps the waistband of my gym shorts into place with unnecessary flair, turning her head toward the gawkers. “Take a picture,” she says, voice sharp as glass. “It’ll last longer.”

A ripple of nervous laughter. My cheeks burn, but my chin lifts anyway. She gave me room to breathe.

Shoes next—my ribs won’t let me fold down far enough, not without white-hot sparks of pain. Cassie kneels, tugging socks into place, slipping on my trainers, lacing them neat and tight. Whispers surge again, sharper this time.

“Seriously, the princess can’t even tie her own shoes?”

“Guess that’s what happens when you marry into royalty.”

This time Cassie doesn’t keep it light. She stands, hands braced on her hips, gaze cutting across the room like a blade. “My wife almost died protecting me at the dance. The least I can do is tie her shoes for gym class.”

Silence slams down. Even Kael glances over, faintest twitch at her mouth like she’s impressed.

I breathe, ribs aching, but the marshmallow warmth in my scent steadies, ocean-rain softening at the edges. Cassie hooks her pinky with mine as we shoulder our bags. Grounded. Anchored.

Let them whisper. I’ve got the best damn consort in the room.

The locker room air is still thick with whispers when we push through the doors into the gym. The smell hits me first—rubber mats, floor polish, the faint tang of sweat already baked into the bleachers. My ribs ache just breathing it in.

Cassie strides like she owns the place, ponytail razor sharp. I trail half a step slower, fighting not to hunch, every step tugging at my side. Roran and Kael peel off toward the wall, shadows at parade rest, and the ripple through the class is immediate. Of course the princess brought bodyguards to gym. Of course.

Coach Ramirez blows his whistle once—shrill, efficient. “Princess.” His voice is blunt, no edge of awe, just fact. “If you’re cleared to run, you’ll run. If you’re not, you’ll walk. Either way, you move.”

A dozen pairs of eyes snap to me, hawk-sharp, waiting to see if I’ll fold, if being royal gets me out of sweating like the rest of them. My jaw sets.

Cassie hooks her arm through mine, citrus-bright scent sharp as challenge. She leans in, low enough only I catch it: “Best damn princess, remember? You don’t get to flop on this one.”

I groan, exaggerated, rolling the seam of my cuff between my fingers to distract from the stab of pain. “If I pass out, you’re carrying me.”

She smirks. “Gladly.”

Warmups start. Jogging the perimeter, lines of sneakers squeaking on polished wood. I push forward, pace steady, but after ten steps the pull across my ribs is fire and glass. I bite my lip, breath shallow.

“Walking pace,” Coach calls immediately, sharp whistle to punctuate it. “No medals for passing out.”

Relief loosens my spine. I drop into a walk, head high, pretending it was my choice all along. Cassie slows with me without hesitation, hand brushing mine once in passing.

Laughter spikes across the room when Kael jogs a slow, deliberate lap along the sidelines—guard on duty, stride measured. Someone mutters, loud enough to carry: “Even her bodyguards are fitter than us.” The snickers that follow sting, but I don’t let it show. Marshmallow warmth holds steady, storm-thread tucked away.

By the time scrimmage starts, adrenaline overrides sense. It’s just a game, but competition sparks sharp in my chest. Cassie’s glare is warning enough: don’t you dare.

“Don’t you dare dive for that ball,” she hisses as it arcs high across the court.

I’m already moving. Ribs screaming, air punched from my lungs, but my hands smack the ball down before it hits the floor. I land hard, pain flashing white, and still—still—I’m grinning.

“Worth it,” I rasp, rolling to my knees.

Cassie looks like she might strangle me. Kael’s brows flick up—idiot, but brave. Roran’s smirk says I told you so.

Coach Ramirez just shakes his head, whistle between his teeth. “Stubborn,” he mutters, loud enough for the whole class. Then he adds, voice carrying: “I respect it.”

And saints help me, so do I.

The whistle still echoes in my ears as we file off the court, sneakers squeaking against wood. My ribs scream with every breath, adrenaline fading fast into ache. I keep my chin high, shoulders squared—best damn princess, even when I feel like a cracked glass ready to splinter.

The locker room is cooler, but the air feels heavier, damp with steam from the showers running somewhere down the hall. I tug at my tank top with trembling fingers, trying not to wince. My ribs don’t let me forget.

Cassie spins on me the second the door swings shut behind us. Her eyes are shards of ice, her citrus scent sharp enough to sting. “What the hell was that?”

I flop onto the bench, half-smirk, half-grimace. “A point scored?”

Her glare could peel paint. “A dive you had no business making. You’re not going to get better if you keep—” She breaks off, fists flexing like she doesn’t trust herself not to shake me. “Don’t make me tell your mother.”

The words hit harder than the floor did. Mom. Not High Lady Firebrand. Not queen. Just… Mom. My throat goes tight.

Cassie kneels in front of me before I can think of a retort, hands steady even though her jaw is set. “Arms up,” she orders. I obey, breath hissing between my teeth as she peels the tank free. The wrap around my ribs is damp with sweat, tighter than it was this morning, every pull of fabric like a blade.

She mutters the whole time, sharp and furious and tender in the same breath. “Diving during gym class. With busted ribs. Saints, Mira. You act like pain makes you invincible when all it does is prove you’re not.”

“You think I’d let a ball beat me in front of half the school?”

Her laugh is disbelieving, bitter-sweet. She grabs my uniform shirt from the hook and slides it onto my arms, careful of the bandages. “Yes. Because you’re supposed to heal. That’s how you win. Not by collapsing in front of them.”

I bite back the smirk trying to surface. Her hands linger at my collar, smoothing fabric that doesn’t need smoothing. My ribs scream, but warmth pools anyway—marshmallow-soft, bloom-bright, rain-thread quiet.

She doesn’t look up when she adds, softer, “Next time, you walk. Or I walk you straight to Mom myself.”

My throat tightens again, worse than the pain. I hook my pinky through hers, tiny tether, and whisper, “Fine. But only because you’d make the best damn informant.”

Her laugh finally breaks the tension, sharp but real. “Damn right.”

By the time she tugs my blazer over my shoulders and ties her own ribbon, my ribs still throb like hell—but her hand in mine as we leave the locker room almost makes me forget.

Almost.