Morning pressed in with thin gray light edging the curtains, the kind that made stone look colder. I stayed still a moment, letting the quiet settle before the Academy woke and remembered how to be loud.
Across the room, Rhea snored softly. Her mask lay facedown beside her pillow, abandoned like it had lost a fight.
My muscles complained when I sat up— too many hours tense. The black dress hung from the wardrobe door, deliberate and waiting. Rhea would call that dramatic. She wouldn't be wrong.
I stretched, ignoring the faint twitch in my hands. Aether had given me a few hours of peace, but its silence felt temporary.
Outside, the hallway held the soft hush of early students heading toward baths or breakfast. I descended the stairwell, counting steps out of habit, listening for anything out of place. Nothing stood out. That was either good or suspicious. Hard to tell here.
The main corridor smelled of old books and cleaning oils. Lanterns from the night shift still burned, throwing narrow patches of warmth across cold floor tile. The dining hall's chatter swelled ahead—too many voices blending into a single noise that made my stomach tighten. Crowds always felt like willingly stepping into a trap.
Still, food was required if I planned to survive the day.
I slipped inside, keeping to the shadows along the wall. No sign of Rhea; she preferred theatrical entrances to punctuality. I gathered a tray and scanned for an empty table.
The Crestborn nobles glittered in the center, masks arranged beside their plates like accessories in a museum display. Selene Vael sat with perfect posture. Her younger sister whispered sharp commentary at her shoulder.
I chose a distant corner, calm and unremarkable.
Halfway through my food, someone stepped into my path. I looked up to find Mirelle Ashborne offering her best polite cruelty.
"Farrell," she said. "Early breakfast? How diligent."
"Morning."
"I suppose you'll attend the Prelude tonight. The East Wing can be… refined."
"Good for it."
She smiled like she wasn't sure whether I'd insulted her. "Do be careful not to wander. Some areas are restricted."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"Wonderful." She dipped her head with Crestborn precision. "Events like these reveal who truly belongs."
She left before a reply was possible. Typical.
I finished my meal quickly—no reason to stay long enough for Rhea to sweep in and offer commentary about nobles and their fragile egos.
Outside, the corridors were brighter. Students gathered in clusters, buzzing about tonight's event. The Academy thrived on masks, gossip, and the illusion of significance.
I headed for the Aether Arts wing. Saturday classes were mercifully short, but Vaelen liked to extract maximum suffering from limited time.
The practice hall smelled of chalk and faintly burnt wood. Instructor Vaelen stood near the front, spine straight, eyes sharp. He watched us enter like someone expecting imminent chaos.
Rhea slipped inside just before the door closed, hair only half-tamed.
"Darling," she muttered. "You abandoned me."
"You were unconscious."
"I was resting with artistic intention."
I arched a brow.
"Fine," she sighed. "I overslept. Happy?"
Before I could reply, Vaelen clapped once—loud enough to silence the room.
"Control precedes intention," he said. "Aether reacts to your state before your thoughts. Today, we test stability under external pressure."
Perfect. Just what my headache deserved.
We paired off. I ended up with a jittery first-year whose magic sparked inconsistently. The exercise—holding a steady pulse between our palms—was simple in theory. Aether hated theory.
For a few seconds, my pulse held. Then the first-year panicked, his surge breaking the balance. The jolt hit me hard—heat up my arms, chest tightening, vision narrowing.
Aether pushed outward.
Not enough to cause damage, but enough for Vaelen's gaze to cut toward me.
I forced my breathing calm, waiting out the backlash. Head heavy. Fingers trembling. Rhea watched from across the room, concern masked under her usual unimpressed stare. I gave her a small nod. Manageable.
The rest of the lesson crawled. Each irritation tugged at Aether, fraying what little control I had. When Vaelen finally dismissed us, my temples pulsed.
I stepped into the hallway—straight into a crowd. Voices overlapped. Footsteps echoed off stone. I slipped along the edge, searching for space.
Then someone said my name.
"Farrell."
Kael leaned against a pillar, composed in the way only someone trained not to be could manage. His uniform was irritatingly neat. That usually meant he was pretending to behave.
"Morning," he said, amused. "You look prepared for battle."
"That's my face."
He clicked his tongue. "And here I hoped it was about tonight."
"Why would it be?"
"The Prelude tends to bring… complications." His gaze followed a group of Crestborn nobles drifting past. "People pretend more than usual."
"Noted."
His attention shifted back to me—sharp, assessing. "How's your magic?"
My shoulders tightened. "Fine."
He gave a soft, disbelieving hum. "Tonight will be loud. If you need space, take it."
"I don't."
"That wasn't an insult."
"It sounded like one."
His mouth curved slightly. "You're defensive today."
"I'm surrounded."
"Fair point."
Rhea arrived, sliding between us with dramatic precision.
"Already bothering my plus one?" she asked.
"Making conversation," Kael replied.
"Impossible. You provoke."
He offered her a half-bow, lazy and unbothered. "If you insist."
She rolled her eyes and tugged my sleeve. "We're leaving before he lectures us on etiquette."
I moved to follow, but Kael's gaze lingered.
"See you tonight, Farrell. Try not to vanish."
"I'll consider it."
We walked. Rhea circled me like a suspicious cat.
"Well?" she demanded.
"Well what?"
"What did he want?"
"Conversation."
She grimaced. "Terrifying."
"Accurate."
Back in the dorms, noise from the courtyard seeped through the windows—music rehearsals, laughter, the build-up to something overly dramatic.
Inside our room, Rhea shut the door with more force than necessary.
"Rest," she said. "I need to choose which mask conveys disdain most effectively."
"It was assigned."
"I can improve upon it."
I sat on the bed, letting pressure ease from my spine. The throbbing subsided. Rhea rummaged through her trunk.
"Need anything?" she asked. "Tea? Quiet? Someone discreetly removed?"
"Quiet."
"Predictable," she sighed, but honored it.
Clouds dimmed the room. I closed my eyes briefly, steadying the last tremor in my hands. When I looked again, Rhea sat on her bed, mask in her lap, pretending not to worry.
"Tonight's going to be chaos," she said.
"It's a party."
"Darling, nobles don't have parties. They have disasters with music."
I didn't argue. She wasn't wrong.
Hours passed. The halls filled with noise and anticipation. Eventually Rhea stood.
"Preparation," she announced. "Before someone tries to borrow my jewelry."
She moved to the mirror, adjusting her hair until it reached her preferred level of threatening elegance.
I rose. The dress hung where I'd left it—dark, sharp-edged, waiting.
"Ready to terrify the East Wing?" she asked.
"No."
"Perfect. Authenticity."
I reached for the dress.
Saturday had arrived.The Prelude waited.And somewhere in the East Wing, corridor 3C would be close enough to see.
Not enough to understand. Just enough to pull me forward. Something in the East Wing would go wrong tonight. It usually did. The question was how early— and for whom.