The first thing I noticed about Mr. Caulfield was the smell of money. Not real money—paper and ink—but the synthetic kind that lives in ambition: coffee, toner, dry-erase marker, and a faint cologne called executive musk.

He was already pacing when we entered, sleeves rolled, chalk in one hand, a wireless pointer in the other. The kind of man who loved his own PowerPoints more than his students.

Then he read the attendance list.

Blink. Blink again. The corner of his mouth curved like a graph suddenly trending up.

“Princess Mira Quinveil Firebrand… Princess Cassandra Firebrand.”

He said our names as if they were commodities being listed on the exchange.

Mira took her seat beside me, crossing her legs with the bored elegance of someone who’d been public property since birth. Kael slid into the desk directly behind us—close enough to intervene, far enough to look like a normal overachiever with trust issues.

Caulfield adjusted his tie, grin sharpening. “Welcome, Your Highnesses. Today we’ll discuss Power and Prosperity—how wealth shapes worth.”

If smugness had a market value, he could retire by lunch.

If he asks for an autograph, I’m setting something on fire, Mira’s voice threaded through the ring, dry as kindling.

Only if it’s tax-deductible, I thought back, hiding my smile behind a pen cap.

Kael’s boot tapped once against the floor—a tiny percussion of warning. I felt it more than heard it. She never looked up; she didn’t have to.

Caulfield started pacing again, gaze flicking to us between every sentence as if proximity to royalty raised his IQ. “Economics,” he declared, “is the study of power disguised as math. We quantify dominance through numbers.”

The class leaned forward; half of them had phones half-hidden beneath their notebooks. We were content creation with crowns.

Mira sipped her mocha, unbothered. The steam haloed her like marketing for divinity. I could feel the hum of suppressed laughter through the ring—our private frequency of sarcasm.

He’s about to compare capitalism to courtship, she murmured.

He’d need more liquidity, I answered.

Caulfield pointed the chalk at us as if awarding sainthood. “When those born to influence enter a market, equilibrium shifts.”

Translation: you two are the variable that makes me relevant.

I felt every gaze in the room stick like price tags. Royalty in a microeconomics lab—half the students smelled opportunity, the other half smelled scandal.

He prowled closer. “Tell me, Your Highnesses—what is the purpose of wealth?”

Mira didn’t even glance up. “Security,” she said, voice smooth, distant. “So no one goes hungry under your roof.”

A ripple of admiration passed through the room.

He turned to me, expectant. I smiled the way my mother taught me for press conferences—controlled luminosity. “Freedom,” I said. “Wealth buys choices. That’s the real luxury.”

Kael’s pen paused mid-note; she muttered, “Gods help us, they’re Keynes and Machiavelli.”

Caulfield practically glowed. “Marvelous—two schools of thought at the same table. Perhaps we’ll witness a merger.”

Mira’s laugh came through the bond, low and private. He’s flirting with the GDP.

You’re the gross domestic product, I sent back. I’m just the domestic.

Her elbow brushed mine—accidental, deliberate, impossible to tell.

The professor scribbled POWER = WEALTH x INFLUENCE on the board and underlined it twice. Chalk dust clouded the air, faint and white as speculative smoke.

“Today,” he said reverently, “we’ll learn how value behaves in the presence of greatness.”

Someone in the back actually sighed.

Mira leaned close enough that her hair brushed my sleeve. “He means inflation,” she whispered.

“Or combustion,” I murmured back.

Kael groaned softly. “I preferred calculus. Fewer casualties.”

Caulfield turned, radiant and oblivious. “Now then—let’s discuss supply and demand.”

Every camera phone rose an inch higher. And just like that, we were the commodity everyone wanted to trade.

Caulfield’s shoes clicked a rhythm across the polished floor—chalk in one hand, ego in the other. He didn’t just lecture; he performed. Every stride looked calculated to reflect in the window glass, as though his own ambition might applaud him back.

“Money,” he declared, pausing mid-stride, “is influence. But influence can vanish overnight. What, then, is real prosperity?”

Half the class straightened, sensing a chance to sound profound. The other half angled their phones under their desks, cameras peeking like paparazzi periscopes.

I shifted my legs slowly, deliberately. The silk of my skirt whispered; light caught on the buckle at my ankle. Let them film. Perception was currency, and I’d never lost money on a well-timed headline.

Mira leaned back, hair catching the sunlight, pretending to be bored. The picture of privilege pretending to forget it was privileged. That was her trick—look like divinity, sound like humility. Every breath she took added a few more likes to someone’s feed.

Caulfield pointed the chalk at her. “Your Highness, perhaps you can define prosperity.”

She smiled faintly, the kind that could bankrupt nations. “Prosperity is when everyone else forgets you’re the reason they’re safe.”

It was so very Mira—grace shaped into guilt. A hush fell across the room; even Kael’s pen stopped moving.

Caulfield blinked, awestruck. “Remarkable. Altruism from power itself.”

Mira’s glamour shimmered like heat; through the ring she sighed, I hate when they sound impressed by breathing.

Breathe less, I teased.

She bit back a laugh.

Caulfield’s chalk tapped again, a heartbeat against the board. “Princess Cassandra?”

All eyes turned. The trick with attention is to treat it like a spotlight—you decide what it illuminates. I adjusted my sleeve, let the fabric fall just right, and smiled.

“Prosperity,” I said, “is continuity. You can lose wealth, but if people still believe in you, the market recovers.”

Kael muttered under her breath, “And here I thought dividends were seductive.”

The professor looked ready to nominate me for office. “Fascinating. Faith as an economic stabilizer.”

“Faith,” I echoed, “or branding. They’re functionally identical.”

A few students laughed, the nervous kind that sounds like confession. Someone’s flash went off; Kael’s head turned a fraction.

“Economic surveillance—my favorite hobby,” she murmured. Her voice was low enough to register as a warning.

Mira’s ring-voice brushed the inside of my mind, warm and amused. You enjoy this too much.

Of course. It’s foreplay with PowerPoint slides.

Her answering pulse of laughter made the back of my neck heat.

Caulfield, still pacing, drew a messy curve on the board. “Notice the volatility of influence—how quickly a public can turn. One scandal, one misstep—” His eyes flicked toward us, voice dripping curiosity. “Princesses, surely you’ve witnessed this.”

I folded my hands neatly on the desk. “Reputation is a market bubble. The moment you stop feeding it, someone else will sell it for you.”

Mira lifted her chin, meeting his stare. “Then maybe stop pretending value only exists when people are watching.”

Their words collided in the air like colliding currencies—my spin, her substance. He didn’t know it, but he’d just stumbled into a live exchange rate.

The class sat frozen. Phones hovered higher.

Caulfield swallowed, smiling too wide. “Two definitions of prosperity—continuity and conscience. Perhaps the truth lies in equilibrium.”

Mira tipped her head toward me, the movement lazy, dangerous. “Equilibrium rarely lasts.”

Her sleeve brushed mine, static crackling where our skin almost met.

Through the bond, her voice curled soft and teasing: Inflation’s rising, Cassandra.

Then it’s a bull market, I answered.

Kael groaned behind us, pencil snapping. “I need hazard pay.”

Caulfield clapped his hands. “Excellent energy, everyone! Take note—this is what dynamic tension looks like in an open market.”

He thought he meant economics. The rest of us knew better.

Caulfield’s voice blurred into the background—a steady hum of ego and chalk dust that could’ve been white noise or worship. My pen moved across the page, but I wasn’t taking notes. Not about his graphs, anyway.

Every few seconds, the words charity queen flashed through my head like an intrusive headline. Bree’s clips were still trending, each one polished, filtered, and sickly sweet. Her brand of benevolence—the kind that sparkled just enough to distract from the rot underneath—was catching traction again.

Mira already did more good in a week than Bree would in a lifetime, but she refused to let anyone know. “Goodness loses purity when it performs,” she’d said once, frowning at a news crew filming disaster relief like it was reality TV.

Beautiful sentiment. Terrible optics.

I tapped my pen twice against the desk—my version of Kael’s blade check. If Bree wanted to play saint, fine. I’d crown her patron saint of manufactured virtue and watch her trip on the hem of her own halo.

Mira’s flame-sigil doodles filled the margin beside me, lazy spirals of gold ink that shimmered faintly under the fluorescent lights. Her lashes were half-lowered; she looked relaxed, but I could feel the weight of her fatigue through the bond—Solar meetings, duchy petitions, the endless rotation of ceremonial politics she could never fully escape.

I needed to keep her out of this one. Let her rest. Let her be.

My job was the noise. Always had been. My parents ran a media empire; they’d raised me to know that truth and narrative rarely shared the same headline. Bree’s “authenticity” was just good editing. I could out-edit her in my sleep.

Through the bond, Mira’s voice flickered soft. You’re scheming again.

Strategizing, I corrected, smiling faintly. Totally different market sector.

Her pen paused mid-spiral, but she didn’t press. She knew me well enough to recognize that tone: quiet, ruthless, PR mode.

Caulfield was still lecturing about fiscal policy and market ethics, but all I heard was opportunity.

A soft camera click drew Kael’s attention; her head lifted slightly, scanning the room. She didn’t need to say anything—her disapproval hummed through the air like static.

“Relax,” I whispered. “No assassination attempts today.”

“Give it time,” she muttered back.

Mira nudged my knee under the desk, grounding. I breathed once, deliberately. The plan was simple enough. Record a few of Mira’s outreach moments—her visits to the shelter, her tutoring at the community center, her off-book donations to the hospitals—and leak them as if students had caught her doing it. No filters, no statement, no spin. Just caught in the act kindness. The kind that trends faster than intention ever could.

If she found out, she’d be furious. If it worked, she wouldn’t need to.

She handles kingdoms, I thought, pen hovering above the page, I handle markets.

The two were practically the same currency.

Caulfield’s voice swelled again: “Remember—prosperity isn’t what you hoard, it’s what you circulate. Wealth that doesn’t move, dies.”

I smirked. Exactly.

Mira glanced sideways, suspicion flickering in her gaze. “What’s that look?” she murmured.

“Liquidity,” I whispered back.

She rolled her eyes but smiled, faint and tired and incandescent. The kind of smile worth building a media campaign around. A genuine one. The kind Bree could never fake, no matter how many ring lights she bought.

Kael caught my expression, narrowed her eyes. “Whatever you’re planning, make sure it doesn’t involve arson.”

“Arson’s a branding choice,” I said smoothly.

Mira choked back a laugh, and through the bond came a faint echo of affection wrapped in exasperation. You’re dangerous when you’re bored.

Good thing you love danger.

Caulfield slammed his chalk down, mistaking our whispers for scholarly enthusiasm. “Yes! Circulation, Princesses—exactly! Keep wealth moving, keep the world alive!”

Oh, I intended to.

Just not the way he thought.

Caulfield spun back, high on his own lecture. “Final question before we close: prosperity’s prime mover—power or perception?”

A dozen phones tilted.

I didn’t give them time to zoom. “Perception,” I said, steady and bright. “Belief underwrites value. Markets run on story before they run on math.”

Mira didn’t lift her eyes from the margin sigils. “And stories burn. Power is what still exists when the smoke clears.”

The air cinched tight. Screens crept higher.

“Then why,” I asked sweetly, “does story pick presidents?”

“Because people confuse attention with authority,” she answered, soft as a blade.

Caulfield swayed like a man at the altar. Behind us, Kael muttered, “Flirt first, nationalize later.”

He clapped—once, too loud. “Excellent! Now, please—keep your, ah, liquidity in check.”

“Tell her that,” I said, deadpan. “Her assets complicate my restraint.”

Laughter cracked around the room like kindling. Color climbed Mira’s throat; she turned, voice pitched low enough to vibrate through the ring.

Later, you can hold them and we’ll test your fiscal discipline properly.

My breath caught; the whole bond went molten.

Through the ring, her amusement was shameless. What? I’m contributing to the discussion.

Kael choked on her own air. “Saints, I’m too sober for this.”

I managed, barely, Diversify, though my pulse had absolutely abandoned diversification for disaster.

The discussion drifted—someone invoked “charity optics,” someone else name-dropped Bree’s fair as if sainthood were an elective. Caulfield pounced. “Philanthropy,” he said, hungry, “is it performance or principle?”

Mira finally looked up. The flick of her gaze hushed the room faster than any gavel. “Sometimes wealth matters most when no one sees it.”

Silence. They heard philosophy. I heard confession.

Decision made. If she wouldn’t let the world watch, I’d make sure they stumbled on the truth anyway.

The bell shrilled—metallic, graceless. Chairs scraped; whispers tried to price the moment. “Economic tension,” someone stage-whispered, like they’d discovered a new fetish.

Mira stretched—human, not headline. Kael rose with us, a shadow carved out of discipline.

“You do realize,” Mira murmured as we reached the aisle, “this class is going to be unusable for anyone who isn’t into… whatever that just was.”

“Applied macro-foreplay,” I said.

Kael pinched the bridge of her nose. “Filing for hazard pay.”

We slipped into the hall’s glossy current—espresso ghosts, perfume, the susurrus of rich kids negotiating futures they hadn’t earned. Mira’s shoulders stayed loose. Calm. Whatever Gorgan had poured into her earlier still hummed like a quiet, perfect engine. For once, being looked at didn’t scrape her raw.

You’re scheming again, she said, amusement drowsy-warm through the ring.

Strategizing. Stimulus plan, I answered, already thumbing my phone. This time I didn’t hesitate.

To: Destiny (Campus Newsfeed)

Message: Need a cameraman tomorrow. Unpaid, but you’ll go viral. Subject: good deeds & better lighting.

Send.

Mira bumped my arm with hers. “Confess your crime.”

“Market correction,” I said. “Bree’s bubble bursts on contact with reality.”

“Recession,” Kael said dryly.

“And yet—” I linked my arm through Mira’s, pulling her into my orbit, “—somehow everyone profits.”

Her laugh spilled out, warm and unguarded, the kind that made strangers look up like they’d just heard sunlight. For a few steps she was simply eighteen—no Solar session yet, no petitions waiting, no nobles sharpening smiles—just a girl stealing my heat and returning it brighter.

A ping. Destiny replied with three flame emojis and a camera GIF. I slid the phone away before Mira could see.

“Class ended ages ago,” she said, suspicious, “and you’re still glowing.”

“Liquidity,” I said.

She groaned, smiling despite herself. “Economic crimes, Cassandra.”

“Add them to my ledger.”

Kael angled us past a knot of juniors gossiping about Bree’s panel; one of them said “charity queen” with the reverence of a convert. I didn’t even bother to look. Let them preach. Tomorrow I’d give them a new gospel.

Mira leaned her head briefly against my shoulder—just long enough to brand the moment as ours—then straightened, eyes half-lidded with rare contentment.

You terrify me, she said, fond and fatal.

Checks and balances, I answered.

We turned the corner; phones hovered like moths that couldn’t quite reach flame. Mira didn’t flinch. The world could ogle, trend, assign meanings we never agreed to. For once, she didn’t have to carry it.

She handles kingdoms. I’ll handle narratives.

And somewhere between toner and sunlight, ambition and affection, the market surged in our favor.