The sky over Ravenrest Heights is too bright for the day I’m about to have.

Thin autumn sunlight cuts through ragged clouds, scattering across the wet pavement where last night’s rain still clings to every crack. The air smells of petrichor and burnt sugar from the vendor carts near the front gate. Leaves scrape across the stone steps—amber and red, whispering like they know something I don’t.

Cassie walks beside me, silver-gray blazer pressed, hair pulled back in a simple tail. No jewels, no headlines, just her. I wish it felt normal.

It doesn’t.

By the time we reach the courtyard, the noise has changed. It isn’t the usual morning chatter—it’s sharper, quieter in places, like everyone’s talking about something instead of to each other. Then I see the glow of screens.

Our faces.

Dozens of them.

Frozen mid-gesture, mid-word. Cassie’s smile warped into something predatory. My eyes caught in a half-blink that reads as disdain. Captions scrolling under our images like venom:

“Queens of Cruelty 💅👑 #BaretreeGala #MeanPrincessEnergy”

“When royalty forgets the ‘charity’ part 💀🔥”

The sound from one of the clips leaks into the air—my voice, except not. Higher, colder, cut out of context and remixed until it sounds like mockery.

Cassie stiffens beside me. “Oh gods.”

I can’t breathe for a second. The world narrows to static: locker doors clanging, laughter too sharp, the word bully rippling through the crowd like a spell someone forgot to counter. Every tone shift, every side glance hits like a physical thing. My skin hums with it.

Rori is waiting by the doors, arms crossed, expression caught between fury and protectiveness. Her voice drops the moment we’re close.

“They’re everywhere. Instaveil, Veiltok, Veilnet—you name it.”

Her phone screen flares with another repost before she shoves it away. “Half the school’s buying it.”

Kael, always the soldier, scans the courtyard like she’s mapping a battlefield. “We saw the files this morning. The edits are AI-stretched, glamoured. Whoever did it knows what they’re doing.”

Cassie’s thumb brushes my wrist in the small grounding circle that means breathe. “Firefly, they don’t know what they’re watching. They want drama. They always do.”

I try, but the words don’t land. The air feels heavier, sticky with curiosity and judgment. Someone whispers my name and laughs. Someone else mimics a bow. My stomach knots until I can taste metal.

A message chimes on Cassie’s phone. She tilts it so I can read:

Naomi:We’re tracing the source. Don’t engage. The edits smell like glamoured tech.

I nod, even though my throat’s too tight to answer.

Then the noise shifts again.

It’s subtle—a hush that rolls outward like wind before a storm.

Bree Halden steps through the main gate, late enough to be noticed.

The morning light loves her: catching on her ivory coat, the gold in her hair, the soft halo that shouldn’t exist and yet does. Students turn toward her without realizing they’ve moved. She smiles—radiant, humble, the picture of composure—and the crowd rearranges itself around her orbit like she’s gravity.

I feel Cassie’s hand tense against mine.

“Something’s wrong with her,” she murmurs.

I already know. The energy around Bree doesn’t feel human anymore; it thrums just beneath hearing, a pull that isn’t hers alone.

For a heartbeat, Bree’s eyes flick up and meet mine across the courtyard.

Perfect smile. Perfect poise.

And beneath it—a shimmer, faint but real, like the light is bending to obey her.

The wind picks up, sweeping the last of the wet leaves across the stone steps. The smell of ozone cuts through the damp.

Whatever’s happening, it isn’t just rumor anymore.

It’s contagion.

By second bell the air inside Ravenrest feels wrong—too dry, too loud, too many bodies moving in the same rhythm. Fluorescents flicker overhead like impatient stars, buzzing in a frequency that needles behind my eyes.

The first snide voice cuts through the hallway crowd.

“Guess charity only counts if you get crowned for it.”

Laughter follows, thin and rehearsed. Another voice joins in—this one sweeter, deadlier.

“Careful, Your Highness. Wouldn’t want to ruin that uniform in front of the whole school again.”

The sound lands like a spark in dry grass.

Cassie’s shoulder brushes mine. Her expression doesn’t change; her tone stays silk-smooth. “Ignore it.”

I nod, mostly because I can’t trust my voice. A small roll of my eyes slips out anyway—reflex, not rebellion—and the crowd drinks it like proof of guilt. Whispers surge back up the corridor.

We keep walking. So do Rori and Kael, flanking us in quiet formation. Rori’s jaw flexes; Kael’s hand never strays far from the strap of her bag, where she hides a blade no one will ever see.

When we reach the lockers, the smell hits first—sharp chemical cleaner over something sugary. Then I see it.

Someone has scrawled QUEENS OF CRUELTY across my locker door in glitter paint. A paper crown, cut from notebook pages and dusted with gold glue, hangs crooked from the top vent. Cassie’s locker beside mine gleams with a matching crown, the words ALL HAIL THE FIREBRAND FAKES etched in marker.

Kael’s name is written lower, next to a stick-figure sketch labeled bodyguard to bullies. Rori’s locker is a mess of sticky hearts and lipstick kisses with poor little protector scrawled underneath.

The sight makes my stomach tilt. The scent of solvent mixes with rose-perfume vandalism until the hallway smells like mockery.

A cluster of students across the hall start whispering louder, daring us to react. Before they can move closer, one of the younger girls—Lydia’s friend, I think—snaps, “Leave them alone! You don’t even know what really happened!”

More voices join her. Half the hall swings our way, half against. Team Firebrand is born in real time: kids we’ve helped with projects, students Cassie tutored, people who remember when Rori fixed the power grid last winter. Their anger grows fast, raw, protective.

Someone else shoves through the crowd, muttering that the princesses deserve it. The bodies surge together, heat rising.

A tall boy’s shoulder clips mine—deliberate. Rori catches his wrist before I even register movement, her grip iron. “Keep walking,” she says softly. He jerks back, startled, rubbing his arm.

Another group down the hall starts shouting. Kael is there in an instant, voice calm, posture precise. “Enough. Everyone to class.” The authority in her tone cuts through the chaos, but only barely.

The noise doesn’t stop; it just scatters.

My pulse won’t slow. Every sound doubles itself—lockers slamming, shoes squeaking, laughter that isn’t kind. I can’t tell what’s echo and what’s real. My fingers find the chain at my throat; I flick the pendant against my nail once, twice, three times. Tap-tap-tap. Then again, faster.

Cassie slides closer, murmuring so low no one else can hear. “Count with me, Firefly. One—two—three. In. Out.”

I do. The air still tastes like ozone and cheap perfume, but the trembling in my hands starts to ease.

Somewhere behind us a bell rings, muffled by the roar of voices, and the hallway begins to empty. For a moment I let myself hope the worst is over.

But when I glance down the corridor, Bree Halden stands at the far end—untouched, perfect, smiling just enough to make the fluorescent light bend around her.

By midday, the sky outside has dimmed to pewter. Rain presses faint patterns against the windows, streaking down in thin, tired lines. Inside, the cafeteria hums like a live wire—too many voices, too much heat, every sound sharp enough to cut.

Cassie and I step inside together, trays balanced more out of habit than hunger. Rori and Kael flank us automatically, their presence a silent barrier. For a moment, it looks normal. Then I notice the glances—sideways, lingering too long. Phones tilt. Screens glimmer.

It starts at the far table—someone shouting, “Bullies!”

Another answers: “Fake princesses!”

A tray clatters. Chairs scrape.

The words ripple outward, catching like fire in dry grass.

Then the counterswing:

“You weren’t there!”

“Those clips are edited!”

“Leave them alone!”

Team Firebrand—our friends, our defenders—standing against the storm.

Within seconds, the air is motion and noise and anger. A drink flies, splattering red against tile. Someone shoves. Another yells back.

Rori moves first, pushing through the crowd with soldier precision. “Enough!” she shouts, catching one student by the collar and setting him back on his feet. Kael follows, calm but unyielding, voice carrying over the noise like steel on stone. “Back to your tables. Now.”

It doesn’t work.

The whole room seems to fracture—voices rising, hands grabbing, chairs toppling. Cassie strides forward, her tone suddenly royal, cutting through the chaos. “Stop this! Everyone, stop!”

For a heartbeat, they do. Then another shout, another crash. The world tilts again.

I don’t think. I move. My body knows what to do before my brain catches up—ducking between flailing arms, catching shoulders, trying to separate bodies before someone gets hurt.

The smell of spilled soda and fear burns my nose.

Someone behind me screams. I spin just as a hand catches my arm—grabbing, yanking. Instinct takes over. I twist, shift my weight, and throw.

The student—older, taller—slides across the wet tile, skidding into a table leg. Gasps follow. He’s fine—startled, not hurt—but the room freezes around the sound.

I’m breathing too fast. Too loud. The world is wrong-speed again, everything jerky, distorted. My heartbeat outpaces the noise. I can’t see Cassie.

The lights flicker, humming like hornets. The cafeteria smell—salt, sugar, oil—turns metallic. Every voice overlaps until it’s just static. My hands tremble. My skin burns.

“I can’t—” The words stick in my throat. I push through the nearest door, into the hallway where the air feels colder, thinner, real.

The echo follows me—shouting, footsteps, the wet slap of shoes. The smell of ozone curls under the fluorescent lights. My palms are hot. Too hot. I press them to the cool wall, but it doesn’t help. My vision tunnels—edges pulsing red and white.

Cassie isn’t here.

Rori isn’t here.

No one’s here.

I can feel it coming—the break I can’t stop.

The fire hums in my veins, begging to be let out.

And this time, I’m too tired to cage it.

The hallway isn’t empty.

It’s full—too full.

A river of students surges out behind me, spilling from the cafeteria like floodwater. Some follow because they smell blood. Others because they care. All of them because no one can look away from a princess on the verge of breaking.

Their voices overlap—angry, afraid, hungry for something to happen.

“Did you see her throw him?”

“She’s losing it—”

“Back up—give her space—”

“No, get her out of here!”

The sound smashes together until it’s just one thing: noise.

I stumble, pressing my palm to the wall. The cool tile does nothing. The air vibrates. My hands are too hot. My pulse is everywhere.

“Why—” My voice cracks, swallowed by the echo. “Why is this happening? I just wanted peace!”

The words rip through me like a command.

The fire answers before thought can catch it.

It bursts from under my skin in a violent bloom—scarlet, gold, and rosefire light spilling outward in a trembling wave. The temperature spikes. The lights overhead flicker and hum, bending under the sudden heat.

The first row of students flinch back, shielding their faces. The smell of ozone hits hard—sharp, metallic, electric. A few gasp; one screams.

The flames curl around me like a shield, not touching anyone, but close enough that the heat licks at their clothes and hair. I can feel it pulsing with my heartbeat, wild and alive.

Someone shouts, “She’s on fire!”

Another voice: “Get a teacher!”

And somewhere—closer—someone else whispers, “She’s crying.”

They’re right. My cheeks are wet, but the tears vanish before they fall. Steam rises instead. My vision blurs. I can’t see Cassie. I can’t see anyone.

Then—through the heat—a voice cuts through everything.

“Firefly!”

Cassie.

She’s pushing through the crowd, shoving bodies aside, her school uniform clinging to her, hair plastered to her neck with sweat and water. “Let me through! Move!”

The crowd parts just enough. She reaches me, eyes fierce, not afraid. “Firefly—one, two, three—breathe.”

The flames shudder, flickering.

Cassie keeps going, her voice steady even as water drips down her face. “Look at me. You’re safe. You’re here. Look at me.”

I do. The second I meet her eyes, the fire recoils like it knows her name.

“Good,” she whispers, stepping closer. “That’s it, my love. Stay with me.”

The sprinklers kick on.

A thousand tiny drops meet a thousand dying embers.

Steam explodes in a white veil around us—scalding, shimmering, swallowing every sound except the hiss of rain meeting flame.

The wall behind me is blackened, the paint blistered in waves. The air smells of smoke, perfume, and burnt glue.

Cassie’s hand finds mine, anchoring me as my knees hit the wet tile.

For a moment, there’s silence.

Then the murmurs start again—ragged, stunned, half afraid, half awed.

“She burned the wall.”

“She didn’t touch anyone.”

“She could’ve—she didn’t.”

And over it all, Cassie’s voice, raw and shaking but still royal:

“Everyone back up! It’s over. Give her space!”

The crowd obeys—but not before I see Bree Halden standing at the far end of the hall, dry and perfect as ever, her expression unreadable in the haze.

Water drips from the ceiling. The hallway hums with the hiss of sprinklers shutting off, the echo of chaos turning into silence. My back hits the wall, sliding down until the tile meets me. My uniform clings cold to my skin, smoke-streaked, heavy. I pull my knees close, arms wrapping around them, and bury my face there. My body shakes; I can’t tell if it’s from the cold or the shame or both.

Cassie’s hand touches my shoulder once. Then she steps forward.

When she speaks, her voice cuts through the murmurs like a blade.

“Are you happy, Bree?”

The crowd stills. Even the lights seem to buzz quieter.

Cassie stands there, soaked through, hair dripping into her eyes, chin high. She doesn’t yell, but her words carry—steady, sharp, the kind that hit before you even know why.

“Is this what you wanted?” she asks, voice hardening. “A school divided? Students fighting? Walls burned because you couldn’t stand that someone else might shine?”

The tension snaps down the hall like static. Bree doesn’t answer. She just stands there at the far end—perfect, dry, untouchable.

Cassie’s eyes narrow. “You wanted a crown? Fine. Take it. Because Mira never asked for one.”

I flinch at my name, but she doesn’t stop.

“She didn’t come here to rule you. She came here to belong—to have one corner of her life where she could just be. You think she flaunts her title? She hates it. She does the right thing because it’s right, not because she’s looking for applause.”

Cassie takes a step forward. Her shoes splash in the puddles.

“If someone has to take the blame for what happened today—take me. The fire, the fights, all of it. Leave her out of it.”

Her voice breaks, then sharpens again.

“She already carries enough. An entire duchy, a whole kingdom, and every soul in the Small Folk who call her their queen. She doesn’t want to rule this school. She wanted a place to be normal. To be seen as a person, not as some half-breed mistake.”

A ripple goes through the students—someone winces, someone else looks away. Cassie’s voice doesn’t waver.

“Her own people hate her because she carries human blood. And the way you’ve treated her here?” She laughs once, short and bitter. “It’s a miracle she still calls herself one of you. Because if she can’t belong here, with you—where the hell can she belong?”

The air feels thick, charged.

“She doesn’t want the power. She doesn’t want the fire that burns under her skin. She just wants to be Mira Quinveil. Not Mira Firebrand. Not a duchess or a queen. She wants to be a wife. A best friend. A student who cheers at games and forgets her homework sometimes. But the world won’t let her have even that.”

Cassie’s hands are shaking now, but she pushes through it. “All she wanted was one thing that was hers. And she had it—until a bitter would-be fiancé decided to ruin her life because she chose me.”

The crowd goes utterly silent.

Cassie’s next words come low, deliberate. “So if you need someone to blame, blame me. Put it all on me. Call me the reason this school burned for one afternoon. Call me the reason she fell apart. Just—” she swallows hard “—leave her the fuck out of it.”

Her voice echoes down the hall, raw and final.

No one speaks.

Some of the students look ashamed; others can’t meet her eyes at all. Bree’s expression doesn’t move—but I see the faintest tremor in her perfect posture, a tiny crack where the mask doesn’t quite hold.

And for the first time all day, no one looks at me like a monster.

The silence after Cassie’s words is heavy enough to break bones.

Water still drips from the ceiling in uneven rhythm—one drop, two, pause, three. My hair sticks to my face; the floor is slick beneath my shoes. The hallway smells like scorched paint and rain.

For a long moment, no one moves. Then I lift my head.

My throat burns, but my voice comes anyway—thin, shaking, real.

“No, Cassie. Don’t.”

She turns toward me, eyes wide, pleading, but I push through the ache in my chest.

“Please don’t take the blame. If I’m the problem, I’ll fix it. I’ll talk to my mother, finish school another way. I wanted to be normal, but I’m not—and maybe I never will be.”

The words wobble; my breath catches, but I keep going.

“I just wanted to belong,” I whisper. “And I’m sorry. I’m sorry my stubbornness to hold onto that hurt so many people.”

The crowd shifts, a ripple of discomfort spreading through them. Shoes squeak against wet tile. Somewhere, a locker door slams shut too hard.

Then, from near the back, a girl’s voice trembles through the noise.

“You can’t leave!”

Everyone turns. A first-year, drenched and shaking, stands with her hands balled into fists. “You can’t. Not when students keep going missing! You might be the only one who can stop it!”

Another voice joins hers, older, cracking with fear. “Jupiter Eastfall didn’t make it home after the gala!”

The name hits like a physical blow. My breath stutters. The world narrows to the sound of water dripping and the pounding of my pulse.

Heat starts beneath my skin—a slow, molten thrum that builds until the air itself hums. For one heartbeat, gold light flares through the wet fabric of my blazer, casting long, shivering reflections on the puddled floor.

I rise. Slowly. My palms leave wet prints on the wall behind me.

“I’ll find out what happened to her,” I say, my voice low but ringing through every corner of the hall. “I’ll get to the bottom of this. And when I do—” I look at the sea of faces, at Bree’s perfect stillness at the back “—I’ll leave. So you don’t have to live with a princess walking among you.”

The heat fades, leaving only steam and silence. My hands shake, but not from fear anymore.

Cassie reaches for me; her fingers barely graze my sleeve before I start walking. Rori and Kael fall into step without needing a word, cutting through the parted crowd like bodyguards trailing a storm.

As I near the doors, I look back once. Bree stands in the wreckage of perfection—ivory blouse dry, posture flawless—but her expression wavers. The triumph she’s worn all morning fractures, replaced by something rawer. Shock. Maybe even regret.

The cold air outside hits as the doors swing open. The smell of wet leaves and ozone rushes in, washing over the smoke and fear.

Her crown may be perfect—but I think she’s starting to feel the weight of it.