The Starflare Ballroomsteals my breath the moment Oliver and I step through the towering doors.
The space is massive and circular, crowned by a domed ceiling of enchanted crystal that displays the night sky. Stars twinkle and pulse in real time, and I swear I see a meteor streak across the darkness.
But what truly commands attention are the seven fireplaces spaced evenly around the walls.
Each one is enormous—tall enough that I could walk through them without ducking—and each burns with a different purpose. Because the flames in them aren’t just decorative. They’re reactive, alive in ways that make power crackle under my skin.
The nearest fireplace erupts in a shower of purple sparks the moment Oliver and I pass, the flames leaping higher and burning brighter. It’s the same shade of purple as the flames I created with Logan during the sigil ceremony.
“The Passion Fire.” Oliver sounds pleased. “It responds to well… you know.”
To desire. To want. To everything Oliver’s apparently feeling that makes guilt twist in my gut like a living thing.
The flames in another fireplace flicker and dance in perfect time with the orchestra’s melody—it must be the Music Fire. Another, which I assume is the Memory Flame, shows fleeting images, shadows of past dancers and celebrations. Near the bar, orange fire flickers irregularly as someone tells what must be a lie—the Truth Fire.
“They each have their own personality,” Oliver explains, even though I already know this from one of Evie’s many rundowns. “The Spirit Flame shows shapes based on emotions, the Revelation Flame shows people’s true feelings, and?—“
“That one’s the Unity Flame?” I nod toward the center of the room where a single, perfect flame burns steady and tall.
“If that goes out, the ball ends immediately.” His voice drops. “Bad omen.”
I shiver at the two words, and the Unity Flame flickers, like a candle in a breeze that shouldn’t exist in this enclosed space.
Not wanting to look at it further, I turn my attention to the other students. Greek gods mingle with fairy tale characters, and mythical creatures dance with historical figures. Floor-to-ceiling windows between each fireplace offer views of the dark island beyond, while a balcony level above provides intimate alcoves for more private conversations.
Then, I see him.
Logan’s standing near the Revelation Flame on the far side of the ballroom. He’s dressed as some kind of dark prince—black leather and silver accents that make him look dangerous and untouchable.
How is it legal for someone to look that good? The leather fits like it was painted on, and I have to force myself not to stare at the way it moves when he shifts.
Callie’s next to him, clinging to his arm in a siren costume that’s more paint than fabric, her nails digging into his bicep like she’s marking her territory.
When her eyes meet mine, the Revelation Flame flickers, shifting from its steady orange to a flash of deep green. Jealousy, raw and unmistakable. Then, just as quicky, it returns to normal.
“You should stay away from Logan Ashford.” Oliver’s voice has gone hard, pulling my attention back to him. “I don’t like how he looks at you.”
I freeze, the intensity in his tone surprising me. Oliver’s always been easygoing and friendly to everyone. But right now, he sounds almost... threatening.
“How does Logan look at me?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
His jaw tightens. “Like he wants to consume every last drop of you.”
Heat floods my face. “No, he doesn’t. Or if he does, I haven’t noticed.” I scramble for words that won’t give everything away. “Speaking of consuming, maybe we should get drinks?”
“Drinks. Sure. Sounds good.” He steers me to the bar and hands me a glass of red wine, looking a lot less happy than he was when we entered the ballroom.
“So,” I say, desperate for safe conversation, “Professor Thaddeus is already recruiting me for his advanced studies course.”
Oliver freezes, his glass halfway to his lips. “What?”
“He approached me after class today and said I showed potential.” I shrug, as if this is an offhand comment instead of something I’ve been thinking about all day. “You’re in the course, right? What do you know about?—”
“Don’t.” Oliver sets his glass down so hard that wine sloshes over the rim. “Whatever he told you, whatever he promised—don’t accept his invite.”
I blink at the sudden shift of attitude. “Okay, you’re officially freaking me out. What’s wrong with the course?”
“Just trust me.” His hazel eyes have gone dark, almost wild. “It isn’t what you think it is.”
