The seminar room smelled like ambition and over-steeped tea. Sunlight slanted through ivy-tangled windows, striking the wax-polished tables until they gleamed like campaign promises. I took the front seat—center of optics, best lighting for plausible deniability. Mira dropped into the chair beside me, caffeine in hand, half mortal disguise and half divine provocation. Kael slid into the seat directly behind us, perfect posture, expression set to exchange student who could kill you with a binder clip.

Dr. Serena Harrow swept in three minutes late, dragging a rolling cart full of annotated dreams and political fervor. Her blazer was buttoned within an inch of its life, her hair an espresso-colored bun that looked like it vibrated with unspent energy. Then she opened the roster.

The moment her eyes hit our names, oxygen became a rumor.

Her tongue darted across her lip—fast, nervous, almost reverent. “Princess Mira Firebrand… and Princess Cassandra Firebrand.” The syllables came out like she’d just discovered religion mid-sentence.

Mira’s ring warmed against my finger:

If she kneels, I’m leaving.

You won’t, I sent back, scribbling nonsense to hide my grin. You love when people tremble over your titles.

Her coffee hissed softly as she swallowed a laugh.

Dr. Harrow smoothed her lapel twice, the gesture bordering on foreplay. “This course examines how leaders balance morality with necessity—how power behaves under pressure.”

The last word came out breathy. The woman looked like she’d watched every C-SPAN hearing and wished they came with a kissing booth.

Kael murmured from behind us, deadpan: “Is she flirting with the monarchy?”

Mira didn’t blink. I bit the inside of my cheek until it hurt.

Dr. Harrow continued, voice climbing octave by octave. “And it appears we are blessed with firsthand insight into governance.” Her gaze swept Mira’s profile like a voter survey. “And, of course, public relations.” Her eyes landed on me.

I could practically hear her thesis rewriting itself—‘Ethics of Influence: A Case Study in Living Royalty.’

Mira’s thought brushed mine, lazy and electric.

Saints help me. She’s about to draft legislation on my cheekbones.

Please, I replied, your cheekbones already have lobbyists.

Her silent laugh thudded through the bond, bright as a spark.

The professor clasped her hands like prayer. “You’ll find this class a forum for frank discussion—how image intersects with power.”

Kael muttered, “Intersects or undresses?”

The sound that escaped me was halfway between a snort and a gasp. Mira elbowed me lightly, still saint-faced for the mortal audience.

Dr. Harrow mistook the noise for enthusiasm. “Excellent! Engagement already.” She perched on the desk’s edge, too close, heels tapping against the wood in a rhythm that could’ve been a pulse. “When I say pressure, I mean scrutiny. Observation alters behavior.”

“Quantum politics,” Mira murmured under her breath.

I leaned closer. “You mean wave–particle monarchy?”

Her mouth twitched. “I govern by duality.”

“Same,” I whispered. “Depends who’s watching the poll numbers.”

The ring pulsed once—Mira’s suppressed laughter, molten and private.

Dr. Harrow’s voice dropped lower, inexplicably sultry. “Power requires tension. Without resistance, there is no current.” She was absolutely enjoying this too much; every sentence came out like it needed a cigarette after.

Kael’s chair creaked. “Is she describing governance or foreplay?”

I scribbled resistance = current = us in my notebook before I could stop myself. Mira peeked over, read it, and her shoulders shook.

Behave, she sent.

Never been my platform, I answered.

The professor continued, oblivious to our telepathic heresy. “In this room, we’ll test moral elasticity—how much integrity stretches before it snaps.”

Mira muttered, “Elasticity was my campaign slogan.”

I tilted my head toward her, voice a thread. “Yours or your mother’s?”

Her smile went sharp enough to qualify as policy. “You terrify me.”

“Checks and balances,” I said sweetly.

Dr. Harrow paused mid-sentence, eyes dilating again as if she’d felt the temperature shift between us. “Yes,” she said faintly. “Balance of power. Precisely.”

Kael coughed into her fist. “Saints preserve me.”

The professor resumed her lecture, tracing words on the board with deliberate precision: Morality, Optics, Authority. The chalk squeaked on the last one, and she visibly shivered.

I leaned just far enough toward Mira that our elbows touched. The warmth of her skin cut through the sterile classroom chill. She didn’t pull away; she never did.

You’re enjoying this, she murmured in my head.

Maybe I like watching democracy flustered.

Her breath caught, a quiet sound that nearly drowned out Dr. Harrow’s final line:

“Power behaves under pressure… much like heat under containment.”

I whispered, “Thermodynamics of monarchy. She’s one equation away from moaning.”

Mira’s laughter rippled through the bond, bright and wicked.

Kael’s pen tapped once behind us. “You two are a national security incident waiting to happen.”

Dr. Harrow finally exhaled, clutching her notes to her chest like scripture. “We are… so fortunate,” she sighed. “So very fortunate.”

And that was only the attendance check.

Dr. Harrow finally turned back to her slides, leaving the chalkboard trembling with words that had clearly turned her on intellectually and maybe a little spiritually. Mira settled deeper into her seat, half her weight pressed against my arm, eyes fixed on the projected definition of “MORALITY” like it was personally offensive.

I watched her fingers trace slow circles along the margin of her notebook, ink turning into lazy flame sigils that shimmered for a heartbeat before vanishing. She had that faraway look—the kind she wore when she was tired of being worshiped but too polite to set the temple on fire.

The rings buzzed faintly, Mira’s voice brushing against my mind like silk catching light.

If she says ‘virtue signaling,’ I might combust.

You’d make a great case study, I sent back. The ethics of spontaneous combustion.

Her shoulder trembled with a silent laugh; she lifted her coffee to hide the grin.

Dr. Harrow began her next slide. IMAGE VS. INFLUENCE blazed in bold serif, like the universe was winking at me.

Oh, Bree, I thought. You’ve picked the wrong arena.

While Mira sketched flames, I drafted battle lines in my head. Bree’s “charity fair” rumor had metastasized online again: Eversea’s princesses too royal to care. Half the school would believe it by the final bell. Fine. Let them. My parents raised me on crisis management—on how sincerity looks in high definition and how guilt can be framed as grace. I could build a counter-narrative before Bree finished her next filtered selfie.

Mira fights nobles. I fight perception. Same blood sport, different arena.

Behind us, Kael’s voice came low, all soldier under breath. “You’re plotting again.”

“Diplomacy,” I corrected, pen spinning idly between my fingers.

Mira didn’t look up from her notebook. “That’s what my mother calls treason.”

I smiled without looking at her. “Semantics.”

Her ring pulsed warmth, amusement bleeding through the tether.

You scare me more than the Solar ever could.

Good, I thought. Fear keeps your press coverage interesting.

Kael made a small sound—half sigh, half growl. “You two are insufferable.”

Mira finally glanced back, eyes glinting. “Checks and balances.”

The phrase landed like a secret handshake. Kael rolled her eyes and focused forward again, but her shoulders shook once, betraying laughter she’d deny under oath.

Dr. Harrow’s voice rose to a near-breathless pitch. “Consider the moral implications of appearance itself. Is a ruler obliged to maintain an image of virtue even when the act is performative?”

I raised my hand, smiling sweetly. “Only if the performance keeps the peace.”

Her eyes lit up. “Exactly!” she gasped, clutching her chest as if the word itself had caressed her heart. “Stability is, after all, the highest moral end.”

Mira whispered beside me, “She’s quoting Machiavelli like he’s foreplay.”

“Could be,” I murmured back. “Politics gets her hot.”

Everything gets her hot when we breathe, Mira teased.

The mental tone carried laughter—low, honey-warm, familiar. I swallowed a smile, straightened my notes, and pretended to care about the bullet list of “Ethical Governance Frameworks.”

Kael’s pen scratched behind us, the sound sharp as an unsheathed blade. “If she starts moaning about social contracts, I’m evacuating the room.”

“Relax,” I said quietly. “That’s just civic duty.”

Mira’s fingers brushed my wrist, deliberate and grounding. The warmth seeped through my skin and settled low in my stomach, sparking along every wire in my body.

Stop distracting me, she said through the bond, voice like sunlight smirking.

You started it, Your Highness.

She hummed softly, a sound no one else could hear.

Dr. Harrow’s voice wavered, oblivious to the tension thick enough to power a generator. “Remember—image is influence, and influence is survival.”

Exactly.

I sat back, gaze flicking between the glowing word INFLUENCE and the faint reflection of Mira’s profile in the window—calm, perfect, untouchable.

If Bree wanted to play queen of optics, I’d show her what a real crown looked like.

Dr. Harrow clapped once, palms sharp against the hush. “All right, your first formal discussion.” Her voice trembled like a live wire. “Is power earned… or perceived?”

Half the class went statue-still. I could feel every phone poised above a notebook, ready to record royalty debating philosophy like it was televised.

My hand went up before the question finished—reflex, upbringing, brand management. “Perception is earned,” I said smoothly. “Consistency builds trust, and trust is control. Influence,” I smiled, “is just well-managed attention.”

Harrow’s breath caught; the woman was purring.

Beside me, Mira exhaled through a yawn that sounded suspiciously defiant. “Power’s what’s left when image burns.”

The oxygen in the room rearranged itself.

Harrow braced a hand on the desk. “A dialectic! Spin versus substance!” she gasped, and I swear her pupils dilated.

Kael muttered behind us, “Careful. She’s drafting you both into her next book.”

Mira tipped her chin without looking back. “Only if she cites her sources.”

The ring on my finger warmed—her pulse brushing mine.

Don’t bait her, Cass.

Too late, I thought, standing. The audience demands blood—or ratings.

Harrow practically beamed. “Proceed, Princess Firebrand—either of you.”

So I did. “Influence drives history. Kings fall when perception shifts. Revolutions start with a rumor, not an army.”

Mira’s pen stilled. “Rumors die when someone strong enough ends them.”

“Strength without witnesses?” I countered. “That’s just noise in an empty room.”

Her dark eyes lifted, catching the light like smoldering bronze. “Noise can level cities.”

Saints,

I thought, my heartbeat syncing to the hum of her magic. “Then who rebuilds them afterward? People who believed the story mattered.”

Flame danced faintly at her fingertips—nothing overt, just the shimmer of heat bending air. The professor’s voice hitched like a gasp she didn’t know she’d made.

“Mira,” I said softly, only loud enough for her. “You’re proving my point.”

I’m making yours melt, she sent through the ring, wicked.

Unfair advantage, I shot back. Pyrotechnics count as propaganda.

Harrow leaned forward, eyes glassy. “Princess Mira, would you say power and morality are… entangled?”

Mira smirked. “Only when people like to watch.”

Half the class did—audible exhale, seats shifting, a few hushed oh my gods.

Kael’s pen clicked once. “You’re both a public-relations hazard.”

I stepped closer to Mira’s desk, deliberate, measured. “Power fades when no one believes in it.”

She looked up at me through lashes, calm turning molten. “Belief’s optional. Force isn’t.”

The air shimmered—tiny tongues of heat licking at the paper between us. She hadn’t meant to flare, but emotion radiated off her like sunlight cracking glass.

Phones rose. Dr. Harrow looked one breath from religious ecstasy.

“See?” I said quietly, taking another step until I was in her orbit. “Raw power terrifies people.”

Mira’s pupils flared gold. The scent of smoke brushed my skin.

“And influence,” I continued, voice steady, “can turn terror into awe.”

Before she could argue, before the flames could bloom higher, I leaned down and kissed her.

Not theatrical—just contact, grounding, ring-to-ring. Heat roared against my mouth, then gentled, collapsing into warmth. The air cleared. The flames winked out like candles after prayer.

When I drew back, Mira’s expression was stunned, soft, utterly silent.

“That,” I said, turning toward the room, “is influence.”

Dr. Harrow made a small sound that might have been an academic moan.

Kael groaned behind her textbook. “You’re both getting detention from the UN.”

The class burst into whisper-laughter—half flustered, half euphoric. Someone actually fanned themselves with a syllabus.

Mira blinked once, twice, still wordless. Through the ring came the faintest thought, hazy and undone:

You cheated.

Strategized, I answered, cheeks burning hotter than her magic ever could.

She exhaled, a laugh caught between surrender and sin. “You terrify me.”

“Checks and balances,” I whispered back.

Dr. Harrow straightened, dazed, voice shaky. “I—ah—believe we’ve just witnessed praxis.”

Kael muttered, “More like combustion.”

Mira finally smiled, that slow curl that promised both apology and threat. “Call it equilibrium.”

And saints help us, the entire room applauded.

Applause rolled through the room like aftershocks. I could feel the vibration of it under my palms, a strange mix of laughter, awe, and hormones pretending to be intellectual engagement.

Mira still looked a little dazed—cheeks pink, eyes brighter than they should’ve been in fluorescent light. Her magic hummed low, quiet but alive, like it wanted to applaud too.

Dr. Harrow clutched a marker as though she might use it for last rites. “Students,” she breathed, “what we have just witnessed—ah—is an exquisite illustration of… applied theory.”

Jace, the self-appointed philosopher of locker-room logic, leaned forward. “Right! That’s what Machiavelli meant about, uh, power being… seductive?”

Ashlyn blinked slowly. “He said effective, Jace.”

“Same difference,” he said, grinning at Mira.

Kael murmured from behind her book, “Inaccurate citation: fatal offense in at least six courts.”

Nate threw an arm over the back of his chair. “So monarchy’s basically, like, follower counts, right? You just gotta keep engagement high.”

Mira’s mouth twitched; through the ring came a low hum that sounded like don’t engage.

I want to smite him, I sent back.

That’s autocracy.

Tempting.

Ashlyn, bless her, tried to redirect. “Historically, meritocracies depended on perception too—rulers framed their legitimacy through performance.”

Kael muttered, “In the Summer Court, we call that surviving dinner.”

Half the class laughed, thinking she was joking.

Dr. Harrow turned to the whiteboard and began scrawling, her handwriting a fever dream of loops and underlines. “Power radiates,” she said, voice catching on the word. “It requires conductivity—”

“—So does electricity,” I murmured, mostly to myself.

Mira’s reply came without looking at me: “We’re charged, not conductive.”

“Semantics,” I said.

Kael’s sigh carried the weight of a thousand guard reports. “Gods save me.”

Jace raised his hand, oblivious. “So, like, Princess Cassie was demonstrating soft power, right? Emotional diplomacy?”

Harrow spun toward him, eyes gleaming. “Precisely! Soft power transforms the environment instead of destroying it.”

“Then Princess Mira’s, uh, hard power?”

Every head turned to Mira.

Her lips parted—slow, dangerous. “That’s one way to phrase it.”

Heat prickled at the base of my neck.

You’re enjoying this, she teased through the bond.

Maybe I like the attention, I thought. Public relations thrive on spectacle.

Harrow was still lecturing, oblivious to the quiet war of glances happening in her front row. “This demonstration shows equilibrium between authority and persuasion. One tempers the other; one sparks, the other directs the current.”

Mira leaned close enough that her breath grazed my ear. “So I’m the current?”

I pretended to take notes. “You’re the power source. I’m the grid.”

Kael groaned audibly. “You two need a foreign policy chaperone.”

Jace laughed too loud. Nate high-fived him for reasons unknown. Someone in the back whispered hashtag praxis kiss and I nearly lost composure.

Dr. Harrow drew three concentric circles labeled Morality, Image, Force and beamed at us as if we’d cured political theory. “Perfect illustration,” she said breathlessly. “Now—who can summarize what we’ve learned?”

Ashlyn, still poised, raised her hand. “That governance depends on balance—on knowing when to lead and when to listen.”

Harrow nodded reverently. “Exactly.”

Mira leaned back, eyes half-lidded, pretending detachment. Through the ring, I felt the echo of her amusement, warm and drowsy.

You realize she’s definitely writing our names into her thesis, right?

Good. We’ll trend academically.

Kael started gathering her books early. “If this is what passes for political education here, I’m filing for hazard pay.”

The bell rang before Harrow could assign homework. Students poured out in a flutter of whispers and sideways stares.

Mira stood, the shimmer of her glamour settling around her like an invisible crown. “You realize,” she murmured, “that kiss is going to be in next week’s rumor cycle.”

I slung my bag over my shoulder. “Excellent. Influence thrives on momentum.”

Her smirk curved slow and lethal. “You terrify me.”

“Checks and balances,” I said again, brushing her fingers as we walked out.

Behind us, Dr. Harrow collapsed into her chair, whispering to herself like she’d just witnessed a coup: “So fortunate… so very fortunate.”

The moment we hit the hallway, the air shifted—cooler, louder, saturated with gossip. The walls themselves seemed to hum with it.

Everywhere I looked, someone was whispering. Phones tilted. Screens glowed. A girl from student council actually tripped because she was trying to type and stare at Mira at the same time.

Mira didn’t notice—or pretended not to. Her expression had gone soft again, faraway, like her mind had wandered somewhere quieter. Sunlight spilled through the glass ceiling, catching in her hair until it looked like someone had gilded it. She looked…peaceful.

You kissed me in a classroom, she said through the ring, her voice lazy with disbelief.

You were combusting, I answered. Crisis management, nothing more.

You’re lying.

Always.

Her laugh rippled through the bond, bright and slow, and that was it—she was checked out of reality for the day. I could feel it. No politics, no duchy reports, no diplomatic crises. Just a girl trying to breathe like she wasn’t born royalty.

Kael followed a step behind us, backpack slung, scanning every corner like she expected an ambush. “You two realize half this school is probably writing fanfiction about that debate already.”

“Excellent,” I said. “We’ll need the publicity.”

You’re scheming again, Mira thought.

Strategizing. It’s patriotic.

She smiled faintly, lips still pink, eyes gone soft. “You really can’t help yourself, can you?”

“Nope,” I said, scrolling my phone open. Bree Halden’s name glared from the trending board. Again. Her latest post—a neatly filtered video, faux-candid—spoke directly to camera: ‘Real leadership isn’t about crowns. It’s about compassion.’

I could practically hear the smugness through the pixels.

“She’s baiting us,” Kael said.

“She’s trying to frame herself as the moral alternative,” I murmured. “Problem is, she doesn’t understand narrative structure.”

Meaning? Mira asked.

She’s written herself as the heroine, I sent back. I’m about to make her the footnote.

Kael groaned. “Whatever you’re planning, I can already feel the PR fallout.”

“I’m not starting a war,” I said, sliding my phone back into my pocket. “I’m just… redirecting public sentiment. If Bree wants to turn perception into a battlefield, I’ll show her what media royalty looks like.”

Mira blinked, clearly still more focused on recovering from the kiss than international propaganda. “You realize,” she said, “I have absolutely no idea what you just said.”

“That’s fine,” I said with a grin. “You handle the duchy. I’ll handle the headlines.”

Kael muttered something about “civilian chaos” but didn’t interfere.

Mira brushed her fingers against mine as we turned toward the next hallway, and her magic shimmered faintly—just enough to make the world feel softer, warmer, unreal.

You really think you can outmaneuver Bree?

Sweetheart, I sent, I was raised by people who buy truth wholesale and sell it back with better lighting.

That earned me a low laugh through the bond—melting, genuine.

We passed the last row of lockers. Mira’s phone pinged, a faint sound of duty waiting in the wings, but she ignored it. Just this once.

I looked at her—relaxed, smiling, normal in a way that made my chest ache. She deserved that.

So I slipped my hand into hers, gave it a quiet squeeze, and said aloud, “Go play at being human for a while. I’ll handle the optics.”

Her answering smile was soft as dawn. “You terrify me.”

“Checks and balances,” I murmured.

And that was the end of fifth period—one princess plotting a PR war, the other pretending the world could wait until tonight’s Solar.