“Clearly, he hasn’t learned a thing,” Wyll mumbles, barely able to hold back a smirk.
“Clearlynot,” Nalaka adds dryly, in exasperation.
“I either come with you or go on my own, which you know I’mmorethan capable of,” Avilyna says, crossing her arms stubbornly.
“Not if I lock you up in your room.”
“You’ll have to go through me,” Vanessa threatens, lightning marks shimmering over the surface of her skin.
“Very cute, blondie. But we both know you don’t stand a chance.” I don’t even look at her, keeping my eyes locked on Vi.
“Be reasonable, Kai. We’re doing this so I can remember. If there’s a chance the General is hiding something that could trigger my memory, I’ll be the best person to know it.”
My father always saw the Institute as his true home, so if he had any secrets worth hiding, what better place than a military academy?
“Fine.”
The brightest smile lights up Avilyna’s face, and for a moment, that’s all I need to, hopefully, not regret my decision.
56
Kai
THE GRIANSTAD EVE BALL
Today is the day,not just for the Grianstad Eve Ball but for our mission. The girls decided to get ready at Sakura’s place, which made perfect sense; her closet could pass for a boutique. Since she doesn’t live on campus, her family’s estate–practically woven into the Institute’s border–offers much more space, more privacy and definitely more mirror angles.
I’ve been nursing my drink for ten minutes now, sprawled lazily across Wyll’s couch while my two best friends are getting ready. Wyll stands in front of the mirror, slipping into his tailored black duster; the fabric hugs him. just right. He’s applying black eyeliner with a practiced flick, drawing sharp lines around his hazel eyes.
Sinclair is buried in a mess of ties and bows, still undecided on the colour or the shape. He’s been debating for as long as I’ve been drinking. Exasperated, I push myself up with a grunt and wander over to the fruit platter we’ve barely touched. Taking a raspberry, I cross the room to the elf, who eyes me with suspicion. He doesn’t protest when I pluck the tie from his hand, murmur a glamour, and shift it to the exact cherry blossom pink of a certain someone who’s been haunting his thoughts lately. Caleb stares at the tie, then at me, unimpressed.
“Really?”
“Really,” I deadpan.
“Fine.” He can fake annoyance all he wants, but if he really hated it, the tie would’ve changed colour three minutes ago.
Wyll grabs his signature black hat from the nearby chair. He looks like a more polished version of himself, still trouble, he’s simply dressed for a better room. Caleb and I are in suits, mine tieless, the collar open to mid-chest, a silver chain resting against my skin. The only splash of colour is a crisp crimson pocket square, folded. My hair is tied into a half-bun, and a loose strand frames my profile. Looking like the troublemakers that we are.
By the time we arrive,the sun has long since slipped below the horizon, and the Institute lies wrapped in winter’s hush. Frost traces the stone paths, crunching softly beneath our boots. Breath curling in the air as smoke. The night is cold, still, an ink-black sky scattered with stars, each one glittering as ice caught in candlelight.
Grianstad has always been my favourite celebration, except that for a long time, the memories were too tinted. Stained by everything that came after. But tonight, the void doesn’t feel like a beast waiting to eat me whole. It just feels like an annoying companion, lingering quietly at my side. And for the first time in a while, I remember how beautiful Kallahan looks this time of the year. It was the only time Sammy and I followed our mother everywhere. Through the markets, into the bakery, weaving between silk and ribbon shops. Always in quest for the prettiestgratitude card. We never complained; we didn’t need to, our hands were full of sweets, our hearts full of laughter.
Avilyna makes me remember what that felt like.
The ballroom sits at the heart of the old building. Usually austere and imposing, only opened for special occasions like tonight. When the room gets transformed, not by showy spellwork, but with quiet enchantments, woven into the very bones of the place. Into the lighting, the details, just enough magic to make everything feel deliberate,dreamlike.
Tall windows are draped in evergreen garlands, their needles dusted with snow that never melts, charmed to shimmer as frost under moonlight. Warm golden sconces line the walls, their flames flickering without smoke, swaying in time with the music as if the fire itself were listening to the orchestra. The heavy doors stay open, warded to hold back the sharp edge of winter. Only the crispest breath slips in with each new guest, enough to raise goosebumps. Waitstaff in crisp white uniforms move as ghosts through the crowd, balancing flutes of honey champagne and trays of savoury or sweet delicacies.
Caleb exhales beside me, adjusting his lapels. “Ready?” His tie still holds that soft cherry-blossom hue.
“Ready.” Wyll brushes frost from his shoulder, and I hum in agreement.
We don’t need to announce ourselves; we never have. People already know we’re the ones you don’t cross. The ones with stories behind our names, rumours like shadows that cling too close. Tonight, we’re just dressed in formal wear. We walk toward our table, the soft click of our boots falling in time with the deliberate notes of the string quartet. The air is thick with the scent of pine and aged cologne, layered over the dry, smoky edge of a hearth fire burning somewhere beyond the far wall.
The ballroom hums with polite conversation. Glasses clink, laughter is practiced, voices are low and smooth. People driftfrom group to group in a slow current of silk, velvet and carefully chosen words. Everyone’s waiting for the speeches to start and for the final guests to arrive. But beneath the polished charm, something colder lingers, especially near the nobility. Eyes flit, watchful and calculating, and backs never fully turn. A silent game unfolds beneath the surface. This isn’t just a celebration. It’s a board, and the pieces are in motion.
I’m halfway out of my chair, trying to move quietly, which is never easy when you’re built like me. But a hand stops me, closing hesitantly around my forearm, looking down. Heather’s black hair is pinned back on one side with a silver barrette, the rest falling in soft waves that catch the light as she shifts nervously. There’s something vulnerable in her eyes, something that makes me feel bad about how I treated her… So I pause and give her the courtesy of listening to what she has to say.
