“Coming,” I call out, though my voice sounds tight and brittle even to my own ears.
Naera hurries to open the heavy oak door, but it’s not Locke’s imposing figure or Sam’s reassuring bulk standing in the threshold. Instead, I’m struck by a face so achingly familiar that homesickness hits me like a physical blow. Suddenly I can almost smell the musty corridors of HellNight Academy, hear the echo of Ty and Trys’s relentless teasing bouncing off stone walls, feel the warmth of Micah’s laughter filling empty spaces in my chest.
Miss Margaret stands there or Mageetha, as she’s known by her true fae name. Her ageless face breaks into a smile that’s both proud and gentle.
“Miss Blu,” she greets, her eyes shining with genuine affection as she takes in my transformation. “Wait until I tell Miss Bertha how absolutely radiant you look tonight. She’s been so terribly worried about you, dear.”
Relief washes over me like a tide, loosening knots in my shoulders I didn’t realize had formed. “I wasn’t entirely sure you’d be here,” I breathe, stepping toward her instinctively.
“I wouldn’t have missed this for all the magic in both realms,” she says firmly, her voice carrying the same maternal warmth I remember from lonely Academy days. “Just look at you, child. I always told you that you were so much more than what that bitter high priestess tried to make you believe. You’ve truly bloomed, haven’t you? The timing of this ceremony feels providential. The Academy will be reopening its doors soon, though I’m afraid I won’t be returning for quite some time.”
The mention of the Academy reopening sends another wave of longing through me. A desperate, almost childish desire to run back to those familiar stone halls and hide from everything that’s happened since I arrived in this realm. I wish I could slip back into that simpler life, back when my biggest worry was whether my magic would finally manifest properly. I know with bone-deep certainty that I’m here for reasons bigger than my own comfort. Fate, with all its cruel wisdom, has deemed it so.
I step forward quickly, pressing the carefully folded letter into her warm palm with urgent fingers.
“Will you give this to her?” I whisper, my voice barely audible. “To Micah?”
Her fingers close around the letter without the slightest hesitation, protective and sure. “She’ll be overjoyed to have word from you, dear. She’s been asking about you constantly.”
“Is she. . .is she okay?” The question cracks my voice in half, guilt and worry spilling out like blood from a wound. “I should have been there when everything fell apart. I could have helped, could have?—”
“She grieves your absence the same way she grieves the Professor’s,” Miss Margaret interrupts gently, her hand finding my shoulder with motherly comfort. “Micah is stronger than you know, child. The poor girl has thrown herself into helping with the Academy’s recovery efforts, exhausting her powers to restore the grounds, helping repair the wards, and preparing for the new students from Callum. She’s taking it one day at a time, but I won’t lie to you, it hasn’t been easy for her.”
Her words nearly shatter what little composure I’ve managed to maintain. The thought of Micah struggling alone, dealing with loss and trauma while I’m here playing dress-up in another realm, makes my chest ache with guilt so sharp it feels like drowning.
“But remember this,” Miss Margaret continues, her voice taking on the tone she used when talking to stubborn injured students in the hospital ward. “She’s still Tethered to you, Esme. That connection transcends physical distance. She can feel that you’re alive and well, and you can feel her strength in return. Hold onto that truth and let it give you solace when the nights grow dark.”
I nod frantically, looking away before the threatening tears spill and ruin Naera’s hours of meticulous work on my appearance. Miss Margaret steps closer, pressing her forehead lightly against mine in a gesture so familiar and comforting that if she held me any longer I might break apart right where I stand.
“Go now,” she murmurs with quiet authority. “Embrace the future that’s calling to you, Miss Blu. And when you’re ready, truly ready, both HellNight Academy and Micah will be waiting with open arms.”
I squeeze her hand one final time, memorizing the warmth of her touch, then follow Naera’s rustling skirts down the torch-lit corridor. The stones beneath my feet are smooth, worn down by centuries of royal footsteps, and the tapestries lining the walls seem to watch my progress with woven eyes.
Two familiar shadows wait outside the ceremonial antechamber and my heart does something complicated at the sight of them.
Sam stands resplendent in a deep navy tunic that’s been embroidered with obsidian thread in patterns that catch the torchlight like captured midnight. The formal attire suits him in ways that surprise me, he looks every inch the nobleman, though I know he feels anything but comfortable in such finery. His green eyes light up when he sees me, drinking in my appearance like he hasn’t laid eyes on me in weeks instead of mere hours. He offers his arm with a smile that’s both proud and tender.
“You look like true royalty, Angel,” he says, bending to brush his lips over my cheek with reverent softness. The familiar endearment settles some of my nerves.
I lift my eyebrows in what I hope is a flirtatious arch, attempting to inject some levity into the moment despite my growing anxiety. “You clean up remarkably well yourself, Mr. Baker.”
Locke clears his throat pointedly from where he stands nearby, and I turn to find him handsomely dressed in polished black leather armor that’s been buffed to a mirror shine. His ceremonial cloak is clasped at one shoulder with a silver brooch bearing his family’s crest, and his twin swords gleam from the sheaths on his back. His thick locs have been pulled back into a style that’s both practical and elegant, revealing the sharp angles of his face. His expression remains carefully blank, but his eyes flicker with something unreadable as they land on me.
Something passes between us in that moment. A current of understanding and longing that has nothing to do with my Tether or bond to Sam and everything to do with the complicated feelings that have been growing between us like wildflowers in forbidden soil. The ache that settles in my chest is dull but persistent, a constant reminder of roads not taken and choices not yet made.
“Truly a vision, Starlight,” he says with a slight inclination of his head that manages to be both respectful and intimate.
I offer him a faint smile, though the weight of responsibilities I haven’t yet claimed already presses heavy on my head like an invisible crown.
Locke steps forward with military precision, offering his arm with formal courtesy. “Protocol demands it,” he explains simply.
I switch arms reluctantly, feeling Sam’s immediate tension radiating from behind me. I want desperately to turn and offer him reassurance, but the massive double doors to the GreatHall loom ahead like the mouth of some great beast, and all my carefully planned words of comfort scatter like leaves in a storm.
“Sam,” Locke says evenly, his voice carrying the authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed. “Your seat is reserved with the king’s personal guard. Front row, directly in her line of sight. You’ll be close enough to reach her if needed.”
Sam’s gaze finds mine, searching my face for signs of distress, ready to argue if he senses I need him closer. The protective instinct radiating from him is almost tangible. I give him what I hope is a confident nod.
“I’ll be right there waiting,” he promises, squeezing my hand once with gentle strength before turning to follow a liveried court attendant through a side corridor. I watch until he disappears into the shadows beyond what I assume leads to the main dais.
