By the time Foundations spat us back into the hallway, my head felt overfull and underprepared at the same time. Students spilled out like startled birds, muttering about homework, instructors, and Equinox tomorrow night. Rhea stretched like she was recovering from an exorcism.
"Another day survived," she announced. "I expect applause. Or pastry. Mostly pastry."
"You talked through half the lecture."
"That was survival."
We made it back to the dorm corridor. Our door was halfway down the hall when someone turned the corner—an Academy messenger in formal navy, carrying a small rectangular box wrapped in deep wine-colored paper.
They walked straight toward us, stopped, and bowed.
"For Lady Ashford," they said.
Rhea froze. Pointed at herself."Me?"
"Yes, my lady."
And then the messenger handed her the box, bowed again, and walked off with the dignity of someone who'd been trained never to run even during fires.
Rhea stared at the box like it contained answers to ancient riddles.
"Leslie," she whispered, "I am holding something addressed to me. Wrapped. With technique. Technique. Do you understand the implications?"
"A gift," I said.
"A high-society gift," she corrected. "Sent to me. Me. I am—momentarily—speechless."
"That is concerning."
She shoved the box toward me. "Open it."
"It's yours."
"I am emotionally compromised. You do it."
She peeled the ribbon anyway, with trembling theatrical fingers, then lifted the lid like she expected a banshee to leap out.
Inside was a thick black card with gold lettering.
Her eyes widened as she read:
"Lady Rhea Ashford, you are cordially invited to the Crestborn Equinox Prelude. You may bring a guest."
She read the last line again, louder.
"You may bring a guest. Farrell, do you grasp the magnitude of this? I have been granted the holy privilege of a plus one."
"And?"
"And you're my plus one," she declared. "Obviously."
I blinked. "Why me?"
"Because I refuse to walk in there alone with those peacocks. And because if anyone questions you, I'll simply tell them you're my dangerous exotic friend from the provinces."
"That sounds… inaccurate."
"Accurate enough," she said, waving that away.
She lifted the velvet lining from the box. Beneath it lay a mask—midnight-dark, elegantly shaped, smooth in a way that suggested someone spent far too much money designing something intentionally understated.
"Look at this," she whispered. "This is not for the faint of fashion. This is prestige. This is artistry. This is..." She looked up sharply at me. "This is going to look absurd next to your usual clothing."
"I don't have anything else."
"Exactly." She grabbed my wrist triumphantly. "Which means I must intervene before the social gods smite us both."
"I didn't agree—"
"You don't get to agree," she said, already dragging me inside the room. "You're my plus one. My social responsibility. My personal project."
"I'm not..."
"Hush."
She dove under her bed again, pulling out the trunk of impossible wealth. Clothes spilled out like shadows— silks, velvets, deep colors that made the morning light retreat.
Rhea tossed aside five garments before making a sound that could only mean victory.
She held up a long, dark cloak— not heavy, not flashy, but cut with elegant lines that would pair with almost anything. Beneath it she added a fitted black tunic with a high collar and a simple silver clasp.
"This," she announced, "will make you look intentionally mysterious instead of tragically under-resourced."
"I don't know how to wear that."
"Good thing I do," she said. "Hold still."
I did. Mostly. She adjusted seams, tugged at cloth, stepped back, nodded, adjusted again.
When she finally let go of me, she snapped her fingers like she'd completed a masterpiece.
"There," she said. "Passable. Even alluring, if someone squints."
"That's encouraging."
"I'm a realist."
She turned back to her own mask—the one from the box—and lifted it as though it might ascend into the sky on its own.
"I still can't believe it," she whispered. "A plus one. Me. With a plus one."
She placed the mask delicately back into the box, then looked at me with a sudden burst of wicked excitement.
"Farrell," she said slowly, "tonight… we are not entering as background characters."
I folded my arms. "I don't enter anywhere."
"You do tonight," she said, grinning like she had stolen the sun.
"And trust me—"She tapped the invitation card with her fingertip, eyes bright."—this is going to be so much better than either of us deserve."
Rhea tapped the invitation card a final time, eyes glittering with victory and danger and something almost too bright."— this is going to be so much better than either of us deserve."
I groaned quietly into my palms. "You're enjoying this too much."
"Obviously," she said, sweeping her hand toward her trunk with a flourish so dramatic the air itself felt obligated to follow her gesture. "Now, back to the real tragedy: your wardrobe."
"I have clothing."
"You have… fabric," she corrected gently, like speaking to a confused child. "Fabric that looks like it has witnessed wars, heartbreak, and possibly mildew."
"It's fine."
"No," she said, already flinging garments across the room, "it's not. Not even slightly. Farrell, if you walk into the Prelude wearing your usual coat, someone will press a coin into your hand out of pity."
I rolled my eyes. "They won't."
"They might offer you soup," she said darkly. "Rich people are unpredictable when confronted with sadness."
I opened my mouth to argue, but she was already elbow-deep in her wardrobe, muttering curses at hangers. Velvet clouds and silk storms erupted into the room as she threw out anything deemed unworthy.
Then she froze.
"Oh."A single, dangerous syllable.
She turned around slowly, holding something on both palms like a sacred relic.
A dress.
A long, dark one — ink-black, falling in clean, straight lines, the fabric quiet, soft, and heavier than it looked. It wasn't flashy or sparkly or noble-bright. It was… precise. Sharp. Almost military in its simplicity. A garment someone might wear to slip into a crowd and vanish.
For a second, I forgot to breathe.
Rhea's eyes narrowed with satisfaction. "Well. Look what the gods dropped into my trunk."
"No," I said instantly.
"Yes," she countered, equally instantly.
"I don't wear dresses."
"You do now."
"I don't..."
She cut me off with a dismissive wave. "Leslie. My dear terrifying roommate. This isn't a dress. This is power disguised as etiquette. This says: 'I might smile at you, but I'm also capable of stepping on your pride.' It is perfect."
I stared at it.It stared back, quietly judging me.
"It looks… expensive."
"It is," she said proudly. "My aunt sent it. Said I needed 'something appropriate for funerals and court hearings.' Which tells you everything about my family."
"I'm not wearing that."
"You are absolutely wearing this," she said. "It's dark. It's functional. It moves like water. And most importantly, it won't make you look like you crawled out of a storage closet five minutes before arrival."
I snorted.She pounced.
"Oh, you snorted. That means you like it."
"I said nothing."
"You snorted," she insisted. "That is the closest you ever come to approval."
She shoved the dress at me.I held it reluctantly, suspicious of how soft it felt.
Rhea stepped back, hands on hips, judging me aggressively."Well? Put it on."
"Now?"
"Yes, now," she said. "Do you think transformations happen by staring at the fabric? Clothes do not magically attach themselves— unless you're a noble with servants, and sadly, you are not."
I raised an eyebrow. She raised both in triumphant challenge.
Fine. I took the dress into the shared washroom. At least the walls didn't judge me.
Changing into it felt strange— like stepping into someone else's shadow. The fabric settled against my skin cool at first, then warm, forming neat lines down my body. It fit almost too well, as if Rhea's aunt had predicted my measurements out of spite.
I stepped back into the room.
Rhea gasped. Loudly. Dramatically.
"Oh, this is illegal," she declared. "Leslie, how dare you look like that with zero effort? It's offensive."
I tried not to shift uncomfortably. "Is it… good?"
"It's devastating," she said. "You look like the villain of a very artistic play. Or the tragic love interest the audience roots for even though you definitely ruin lives."
"That's not..."
"Shh," she said, waving her hand again. "Don't ruin the moment."
She grabbed her comb and marched toward me with the authority of someone appointed by fate to fix me.
I stepped back. "No."
"Yes."
"I don't need..."
"You need everything," she cut in. Then added solemnly, "But mostly hair."
She tugged me onto the stool. I obeyed because exhaustion won over pride.
Rhea combed through my hair with meticulous speed, twisting a few strands back, pinning them without harming my scalp.
"How do you know how to do this?" I asked.
"My mother made me assist her at five different charity galas," she said. "I learned out of survival. Also because nobles are useless and need constant maintenance."
She twisted another strand, braid loose and deliberate, framing my jaw.
"There," she said, stepping back. "You look like you might start reciting ominous poetry at someone."
"That's not reassuring."
"It is to me," she said.
She placed my new cloak around my shoulders, straightened the clasp, then circled me like a predator assessing the worth of her prey.
"Yes," she murmured. "The Prelude won't know what hit it. I won't know what hit it. You won't know what hit it."
I lifted an eyebrow. "Is that… good?"
"It's spectacular," she said.
As she spoke, footsteps thudded down the hall.
A single, hurried knock.
"Dear skies," Rhea muttered. "If this is Mirenne, I refuse."
It wasn't.
Another first-year stood in the doorway—this one red-faced, holding a narrow, tall box wrapped in gold paper. His voice squeaked.
"F-for Lady Ashford," he sputtered.
Rhea's jaw dropped. "Another one? What am I, a shrine?"
He shoved the box into her hands and fled before she could interrogate him.
She stared at it.
I stared at her.
She blinked, then blinked again.
"Oh dear heavens," she whispered. "I've become popular."
"Tragic."
"Truly," she said.
She tore the paper with no grace whatsoever and revealed—
A single long ribbon of black silk. Thick. Smooth. Meant to be tied around the wrist or throat.
Rhea lifted it by two fingers."This is scandalous," she whispered reverently.
"To wear?"
"No," she said. "To receive anonymously."
She thrust it at me. "You take it."
"Why?"
"Because I can't handle two mysterious gifts in one day," she said. "My soul isn't built for this level of attention."
I folded it neatly. "You're unraveling."
"I'm thriving," she corrected.
The sky outside the windows faded into early evening, shadows stretching across the floor. The hum of the Academy quieted as students sank into study or scheming or early sleep before tomorrow.
Rhea sat on her bed, legs crossed, mask laid out in her lap like a prize she'd clawed from fate.
She looked at me.Really looked.
"Leslie," she said. "Tomorrow… we walk into something different."
I swallowed. "Different how?"
"It's the first event of the term," she said. "Masks. Music. Nobles everywhere. Strange rules. People showing off. People hiding."
"That's every day here."
"Not like this."
Her tone sharpened."Tomorrow is when people try to be their best selves… or their most dangerous ones. That's why they hide behind masks."
I didn't answer.
She nudged me with her foot.
"But lucky for you, you have me. Your social compass. Your guide. Your beacon of moral ambiguity."
I snorted.
Rhea's grin widened. "There it is. Your little almost-laugh. I cherish it."
Night seeped in through the window.
We cleaned the room a little—mostly Rhea shrieking at stray socks and me ignoring her. Then we laid out the outfits carefully, like artifacts. Sat in our beds. Let the evening settle.
Rhea fell asleep mid-sentence, mask still beside her hand.
I stayed awake longer, staring at the dress hanging neatly against the wardrobe.
It felt wrong to wear it.Dangerous to like it.Stranger still to feel… almost steady in something so unbroken.
Saturday would come fast.
The Prelude.
The Equinox.
Masks. Music.Crowds. Eyes everywhere.
And for the first time since arriving at the Academy, the thought crept in, quiet but real:
Maybe tomorrow… something would finally make sense.
Or shatter everything.