The smell of cinnamon coffee and fryer oil always clings to Ravenrest in the mornings. By now, it’s almost comforting—a reminder that, somehow, life went on.

It’s been a month since the lunchroom firestorm, and the world hasn’t ended. No headlines, no screaming crowds. Just normalcy, the most fragile illusion of all.

We move through the halls like ghosts learning to breathe again.

Same classrooms. Same lunch table. Same conversations—bland enough to lull the universe into thinking we’re harmless.

Cassie leans back in her chair, her half-eaten sandwich abandoned in favor of teasing me. “You know,” she says, tone bright and mock-serious, “this low-profile thing really suits us. Nobody’s tried to burn us at the stake in, like, four weeks. Progress.”

Kael hums in agreement, her tray stacked with half the cafeteria’s coffee supply. “If we can survive another week without someone filming a dramatic meltdown, we might actually count as functioning members of society.”

Across the table, Rori’s halfway through one of those cafeteria cookies that look like cement but somehow taste like heaven. She swallows, eyes flicking up in thought. “Speak for yourself. These boobs still get noticed every morning.”

Kael snorts into her coffee. Cassie raises an eyebrow, amused.

Rori pauses, like the thought surprises her even as she says it. Her cheeks turn a faint shade of pink. “And, uh… I kinda like the attention.”

I choke on my drink so hard I almost spray it across the table. Cassie thumps my back between laughs while Kael grins over the rim of her cup.

“Gods help the guys when she finally starts flirting back,” Cassie says.

Rori laughs—loud, full, and completely unguarded. It’s the first time I’ve heard her sound like that since… well, ever.

The noise of the cafeteria fades under it, and for a heartbeat the world feels almost whole again. I let myself sink into that rare quiet—the easy banter, the echo of laughter, the simple absurdity of a morning without danger.

Maybe peace isn’t so impossible after all.

Then the loudspeaker crackles, cutting through the warmth.

“Attention students—Veilwake Pep Rally and Costume Contest begins fifth period!”

The static lingers too long, the pitch a little off, like the intercom’s caught between this world and somewhere else.

Cassie groans. “Of course. Because the universe hates us.”

Rori grins, propping her chin in her hand. “What’s the worst that could happen? It’s just a pep rally.”

I finish my drink, the last of the carbonation sharp on my tongue.

Even peace, I think, has an expiration date at Ravenrest.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The locker room hums with the kind of chaos that only happens when too many girls, too much glitter, and one too-small mirror exist in the same space. Steam curls from the showers someone forgot to turn off, and the scent of hair spray, cheap perfume, and sugar-scented lotion hangs in the air like war fog.

Cassie’s sprawled across a bench, eyes sharp and steady even as she pretends to wrestle with a curling wand. “If this costume gives me heat damage,” she warns, “someone’s getting assassinated for real.”

Kael doesn’t even look up from her compact mirror. “You’d have to get in line. Mira’s been ready to commit homicide over that eyeliner for twenty minutes.”

“I am not committing homicide,” I say, though my voice wobbles as I lean closer to the mirror, trying to draw a perfect wing with a brush that clearly has it out for me. “I’m simply… correcting injustice.”

Cassie peers over my shoulder, grin tugging at her lips. “You mean the cosmic injustice of your hands shaking whenever I’m watching?”

I catch her reflection, tongue poking out in concentration. “Stop staring.”

“Never.”

Rori laughs from her corner of the bench where she’s adjusting one of her armor straps. The sound is light, a little nervous, and still new enough to surprise all of us. “Gods, you two sound married.”

Kael hums thoughtfully. “They kind of are.”

Cassie throws her hairbrush at her, missing by inches. “Traitor.”

The brush clatters across the tile, and Rori ducks down to grab it. When she stands, she’s smiling in a way that softens her whole face—different from the Roran we knew, different even from the Rori she was two months ago. “You know,” she says, meeting my eyes in the mirror, “I think I get it now.”

“Get what?” I ask, dabbing gold shimmer at the corner of my eyes.

“Why you spend so long getting ready.” Her armor catches the light—forest green with bronze filigree—and for a moment she looks more knight than student. “It’s not vanity. It’s… claiming space. Choosing who people see.”

Cassie grins. “Look at you getting all philosophical before fifth period.”

Rori flushes but doesn’t look away. “You’re just mad because I look better in bronze than you do in silver.”

Kael lets out a low whistle. “Oh, she’s learning.”

“I’m surrounded by monsters,” I mutter, though the corners of my mouth lift despite myself.

Rori laughs, a sound that still feels like victory. She smooths a stray curl from her cheek and adds, almost shyly, “Michael said the same thing last week.”

Cassie pounces immediately. “Michael Sandalwood said that? As in tall, polite, probably writes poetry in his notebook, Michael Sandalwood?”

Rori’s blush deepens to a dangerous pink. “We’ve talked. A few times.”

Kael arches a brow. “Talked, or talked?”

“Kael,” I warn, though I’m laughing too.

“Nothing happened!” Rori insists. “We just—ran into each other after practice, and he mentioned the gala. Said he didn’t know I could dance like that.”

Cassie smirks. “So he remembered the part where you almost took out the orchestra stand?”

“That was you, Cass.”

Kael cackles as Cassie feigns offense. “For the record,” Cassie says primly, “that violin was in my way.”

I tug my hood into place, the gold constellations catching faint light as I move. “If you two are done incriminating yourselves, help me with this clasp.”

Cassie stands, stepping behind me to fix the silver chain that secures my cape. Her fingers are steady, warm against the cool fabric. “You look like you walked out of a myth,” she murmurs.

“Or a tarot card,” Kael adds. “The Veiled Star. Dramatic. Mysterious. Definitely foreshadowing.”

“It’s just sparkly,” I insist.

Cassie grins at me in the mirror. “Whatever you say, mysterious sorceress chic.”

Kael sweeps her long coat dramatically, revealing violet runes stitched into the lining. “Meanwhile, I’m the only one who dressed like an adult. Which is saying something.”

Rori fastens her vambrace with a decisive click, testing its weight before lifting her chin. “You’re all ridiculous.”

“And you love it,” Cassie fires back.

Rori smirks, but there’s warmth behind it now. “Maybe I do.”

For a heartbeat, the room glows golden from the overhead lights and the chaos of laughter, fabric, and shared eyeliner. For all the danger that still lingers outside these walls, we’re just girls again—fixing costumes, teasing each other, choosing who we want to be.

Then, as I tighten the silver mask against my face, a soft hum stirs beneath my feet. It’s faint—like a heartbeat muffled under stone.

I glance down, frowning. The tile looks normal.

Cassie notices. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” I force a smile, brushing it off. “Just nerves.”

She gives me a look that says she doesn’t buy it but lets it go.

The others keep chattering, unaware of the quiet pulse under the floor, the whisper I pretend not to hear.

The leyline is awake tonight.

And I can feel it breathing.

The gym smells like caramel corn, sweat, and ozone—exactly the kind of mix that means a storm’s coming, whether anyone admits it or not.

Streamers of gold and violet hang from the rafters, curling in the faint electric hum of the lights. The marching band thunders from the bleachers, too loud, too triumphant, brass instruments flaring under Veilwake banners painted with grinning jack-o’-lanterns and wolves.

Cassie and I stand near the back, half-hidden behind a cluster of cheerleaders in glow-painted uniforms. I can feel the leyline underneath the gym floor—its pulse keeping time with the drums.

The crowd roars as Bree Halden steps onto the stage.

Even from here, she looks like she was designed for it—hair catching the light like spun gold, crown gleaming just enough to make mortals swoon. Nate, perfect and forgettable, stands beside her in a matching sash that reads King of Ravenrest.

It should feel ridiculous. It doesn’t.

Her presence warps the air, and the shimmer around her isn’t glamour—it’s something heavier, slicker, like a polished lie. The charm at her throat pulses faintly, a dull opal glow that hums against the leyline’s rhythm. Veiltech, no question. Whatever it’s doing, it isn’t just decoration.

The noise of the crowd thins to static in my ears. My pulse echoes it—metal on metal, the taste of rain and copper sharp on my tongue.

Cassie leans close enough that I can feel her breath brush my ear. “Don’t engage,” she murmurs, eyes locked on Bree.

I nod once, jaw tightening. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

But the charm’s glow keeps tugging at me, pulling my attention back every time I look away. It doesn’t belong to her—it doesn’t even like her. The air knows it, too; it ripples faintly, uneasy.

“Smile!” Kael calls from behind us, voice light, teasing. “We’re blending in, remember?”

I force my lips into something that might pass as neutral. Rori, in her armor-like costume, stands beside Kael with her arms folded, gaze sweeping the crowd like she’s expecting trouble.

Then Bree’s gaze sweeps the gym.

It finds me like gravity finds planets—inevitable.

She smiles. The crowd cheers louder, thinking it’s for them.

Cassie swears softly under her breath. “Of course she sees you.”

I don’t answer. The noise fades again, replaced by that strange hum in my veins. Every hair on my arms stands on end.

Bree steps off the stage, her heels clicking perfectly in time with the band’s drumline. The air bends around her as she moves—Veiltech or not, she’s learned to weaponize the performance.

Students part for her without realizing it, drawn to her the way moths lean into flame. The confetti swirls around her like she’s walking through her own private storm of gold and light.

I can feel Cassie tense beside me, Kael’s murmured, “Oh, shit,” barely audible over the cheers.

Rori shifts, instinctively stepping half a pace closer to me, hand ghosting toward where her blade would be if we weren’t in a gym full of mortals.

Bree keeps coming—radiant, smiling, untouchable.

And she’s heading straight for me.

Bree stops a few feet away, close enough that the crowd’s noise drops into a low, expectant hum. The fake crown glints against the gym lights, and the faint scent of roses and static trails in her wake.

“Didn’t expect you to show up,” she purrs.

I exhale slowly, already shaping something sharp enough to draw blood—but the air moves first.

It folds.

A pulse of invisible pressure ripples between us, bending sound and light like heat off asphalt. The charm at her throat flickers once, twice—then crackles, white light spiderwebbing through the gem like lightning trapped in glass.

The leyline under the floor jerks in answer. My knees lock; my breath catches. It feels like being caught between inhale and exhale, like the whole world forgot how to move.

Bree’s confident smirk falters. “What did you—”

The rest of her words twist into static.

The gym lights strobe hard, a thousand bulbs blinking in chaotic rhythm. The air tastes like ozone and burnt sugar. Music distorts—notes stretching, snapping. Then, without warning, the glittering Veilwake confetti suspended above us ignites midair, each spark a tiny gold flame.

Students scream. The marching band stops mid-beat.

Bree stumbles backward, crown tilting, hair disheveled for the first time in her life. The charm flares again—too bright, too hot—and splits down the center with a sharp crack.

The sound cuts straight through my chest.

Something inside me answers it.

A rush of warmth surges from my core to my fingertips, wild and unrestrained. I try to breathe it down, but it’s everywhere—through my pulse, through the floor, through every inch of the air. My vision blurs; the gym shimmers like it’s submerged underwater.

Cassie’s voice reaches me, distant and fractured. “Mira—stop—”

“I’m not—” I start, but the words collapse under the pressure building behind my ribs.

The world turns white.

Light flares around me—not fire, not exactly. More like a reflection of light itself, feathered and weightless, spilling from the edges of my costume’s cape. For a second, it shapes itself—like wings caught in a mirage—then scatters into smoke and gold dust that rain down like dying stars.

I hear gasps, shouts, the squeal of sneakers on tile. Somewhere, someone yells to cut the power.

The last thing I see is Bree, her crown cracked clean in half, staring at me with something like horror.

Then the floor tilts.

The world narrows to light and heartbeat.

And everything goes dark.

~~~~~~~~~~Cassie~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The moment Mira hit the floor, I was already there.

Her body felt too hot under my hands, heat radiating through the thin fabric of her costume. “She’s burning up,” I muttered, pressing my palm against her cheek. Her skin was damp, pulse fluttering wild beneath my fingers.

“Space!” Rori’s voice cut through the chaos like a blade. Students stumbled back on instinct, making room without realizing why. Kael was already moving—steady, efficient—keeping the crowd at bay while the teachers shouted about faulty wiring and sparks overhead.

The air stank of caramel smoke and ozone. My ears rang. None of it mattered. All I saw was Mira—pale and trembling, light still ghosting under her skin like something alive refused to leave.

“Hey,” I whispered, tapping her cheek. “C’mon, Firefly. Open those pretty eyes for me.”

Her lashes fluttered. For a second, that strange silver-gold shimmer flickered behind them. “It wasn’t me…” she breathed. “It was… everything.”

My chest tightened. “Not now,” I said, forcing my voice steady even as fear clawed up my throat. “We’ll deal with it later. Just stay with me.”

Rori crouched beside us, eyes scanning the exits. “Clear path to the doors. Kael’s got rear guard.”

“Good,” I said, hooking an arm under Mira’s shoulders while Rori lifted the other side. Mira sagged between us, limp but breathing, her mask tilted off-kilter. The silver filigree that had shimmered earlier was dull now—lifeless metal.

The gym was chaos—students screaming, teachers shouting over each other, the sound of popping lights and the reek of burnt circuitry. People were herding toward the exits, convinced it was some kind of electrical surge. Perfect cover.

“Keep your head down,” I murmured to Rori as we pushed into the moving current of bodies. “We’re ghosts, remember?”

She snorted softly. “Easy for you to say. I’m wearing half a damn armory.”

“Then try not to look like you’re about to draw a sword,” I hissed back, though the edge in my voice softened at the end. Even half-dragging Mira, we could still banter. That had to count for something.

The double doors loomed ahead, light spilling through the glass panels like salvation. The closer we got, the more the air crackled—thick with leftover magic, the kind that makes your teeth ache. I should’ve been used to it by now. I wasn’t.

We slipped through the exit just as another teacher shouted for everyone to stay calm. The night hit like a shock—cold, wet, the rain sharp enough to sting.

Rori adjusted her grip on Mira’s arm. “Where to?”

“Anywhere but here,” I said, scanning the lot, the mist curling under the streetlights like smoke. “She’s not safe in that place.”

Rori nodded once, jaw tight.

Something made me glance back—instinct, maybe.

Through the open gym doors, I caught a glimpse of Bree Halden on the floor, crown split in two, smoke still rising from the broken charm at her throat. Her eyes weren’t furious like I expected. They were terrified.

Good.

I turned away, tightening my grip on Mira’s shoulders as we slipped into the Veilwake mist. The night pulsed faintly around us—alive, restless, whispering in the language of storms.

“We’ve got you, Firefly,” I murmured, half to her, half to whatever power was listening. “No one’s taking you from me.”

The city swallowed us whole.

The night feels heavier once we’re outside—like the mist itself is holding its breath. Faint traces of magic shimmer through it, fading in and out with every heartbeat. It’s beautiful in that dangerous way lightning is—something alive pretending to be calm.

Kael’s the one driving, thank the gods. My hands are still shaking too hard to hold the wheel steady. Rori rides shotgun, every muscle tight, scanning the empty streets like she’s expecting another explosion.

I’m in the backseat with Mira. She’s half-awake, head on my shoulder, skin pale but burning hot beneath my jacket. Every few seconds, her breath hitches like she’s fighting something I can’t see.

I brush damp hair off her forehead. “Easy, Firefly. You’re safe now.”

Her lips move—barely. “The threads… feel like they’re pulling apart.”

My throat goes tight. “Then we’ll tie them back together.” The words come out automatic, low, like a promise I’ve made a hundred times before and somehow still mean more every time.

She doesn’t answer, just exhales shakily, eyes half-closed. There’s a faint silver glow under her lashes, like light trying to escape but losing strength before it can.

Rori’s voice breaks the silence. “The city’s breathing wrong.”

I glance up, following her gaze. Out the window, Duskrun’s skyline flickers in strange pulses—streetlights flashing out of rhythm, bursts of energy sparking across the rooftops. Veilwake magic gone wild, like the world’s heartbeat stumbled.

Kael’s knuckles are white on the steering wheel. “Residual discharge,” she mutters, though none of us believe that’s all it is. “It’ll settle.”

“Will it?” Rori asks quietly.

No one answers.

I tighten my hold on Mira, listening to the sound of the rain on the roof, to her breathing, to the quiet hum that still clings to the air like static.

We pass the gym on the way out of the lot. For a moment, the whole building glows—soft violet bleeding through the mist. Then it fades, leaving nothing but shadow and smoke.

Mira stirs. Her voice is faint, distant. “The Veil shuddered… like it recognized my voice—”

She pauses, breath trembling.

“—but I didn’t speak.”

The car goes silent. Even the rain sounds different, thinner, like the world’s holding itself together by instinct alone.

I don’t know what to say, so I just press my hand over hers. “Rest,” I whisper. “We’ll figure it out tomorrow.”

But in the back of my mind, one thought keeps looping:

Whatever happened tonight, the Veil remembered her.

And that terrifies me more than anything else.