“Move.”
“I promise nothing happened,” she rushes out. Her eyes look somewhatsincere. Yeah, right, since when has she ever looked at me without that smug little glare? My eyes narrow.
“And I’m supposed to believe you? Why? Because you suddenly grew a conscience? Well, good for you. I don’t care.”
I go to move past her when Heather hesitates, swallows hard, and blurts, “Because I don’t want to be your enemy… Not anymore. And… I was wrong. I’m… I am sorry. Honest.” I can tell that was difficult for her, and it only makes her words hit harder. My fingers loosen, the hem of my dress falling from my grasp. Heather holds out her hand. White glove, flawless against that black gown, silver stars twinkling across the stitches, old-fashioned much?
I roll my eyes.
But then she persists, “Truce?”
I hold her gaze, waiting, thinking.
“Fine… For tonight.”
“That’s a start,” she says distractedly. My eyes drift to where she’s looking, just over my shoulder. The way Heather watches Nalaka–softly, almost… longing. It’s all the confirmation I need. I might not know why she clings to Kai, but I’m realizing maybe it wasn’t really about him. And that expression, open, almost wistful… I’ve never seen her wear it for him, not once. And that’s when Vanessa makes her move. In one smooth, deliberate motion, she slips her arm around Nalaka’s waist and leans in, her mouth brushing just beneath the elf’s ear as she nuzzles her neck. The gesture is bold, intimate, and perfectly meant to be seen.
“God, Nalaka, you smelldelicious. I know exactly what I want for dessert.” Van purrs, locking eyes with Heather. Hergrin is wicked, savouring every second of the game she’s playing. Nalaka’s panicked eyes dart around, but from a distance, it looks like two friends sharing some gossip.
And that’s exactly why Vanessa’s my best friend.
Heather flushes, not a shy or an embarrassed blush, but a full-blooded fury masked by a tight, brittle smile. Her hand twitches at her side, as if she’s debating whether to hurl that pristine white purse at Vanessa’s head or leave.
I almost feel bad for her,almost.
Kai’s hand finds the bare skin of my lower back, guiding me away from the volcano ready to erupt. His touch is grounding, yet light, as if he’s asking for permission.
Wyll and Caleb are already at the table, halfway through a bottle of something expensive and amber-hued. Their jackets are flung over their chairs, collars undone, looking far too relaxed for a black-tie event. As if they’ve forgotten there’s still a war going on and that we’re on a mission.
“Slow down,” Nalaka snaps, snatching the bottle as Caleb is reaching to pour another round. “In case you’ve forgotten, you’ll need your head later.” She sets the bottle on the silver tray of a passing waiter.
“We know. Relax,” Wyll says, voice all charm and annoyance. “We’re big boys. We can handle a little liquor.” Then, without so much as a pause, Wyll reaches out and pulls Van onto his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he murmurs against her ear. Low, teasing, and just loud enough for the nearby tables to catch every word. “Naughty, naughty.”
Vanessa leans back slowly, meeting Wyll’s gaze with a measured, almost amused smile. “Handle it?” she repeats, voice like honey. “That’s adorable,” she taps his cheeks twice, then shoves him and slides into the nearby chair. Leaving a stunned Wyll in her wake.
Sakura slips into the seat beside Caleb, her dress shimmering faintly in the candlelight. Soft rose gold with intricate embroidery that mirrors the accents of his tie. Sinclair notices immediately, posture straightening as a small, proud smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
Sakura is unsurprisingly utterly oblivious and leans in, whispering, “We found a solution to the constraint.”
The General denied Vanessa access to the ball for defying protocol and slipping off the Institute grounds. Plus a full week of extra cleaning duties, a punishment none of us could escape. The fact that we probably would all be dead if it weren’t for Hawthorne didn’t matter, not to the General. Still, we weren’t going to let him win. So here she is, hiding in plain sight, wrapped in a glamour that softens her features just enough to keep the wrong people from recognizing her. Their minds skip right over her, fog on a mirror, a twenty-four-hour cloak inked on her shoulder. Just enough to slip through the evening unnoticed, hear the speech, and disappear.
Meanwhile, Kai and Nalaka are expected to stay until the formal dances begin. The moment when the Institute’s elite either drift to the General’s manor for private festivities or retreat to their own estates to toast with family. Making sure they’ve written their gratitudes for this season, and hung them on the Griandstad, before midnight. It’s all part of the ritual. The choreography of politics wrapped in crystal flutes and custom-tailored deceit.
And tonight, we’re playing a dangerous game beneath the chandeliers. The hush descends slowly, as falling snow. Conversations fade, laughter dims, and all eyes turn to the raised dais where the General stands. A tall, immovable shadow framed by firelight and frost-kissed garlands. His glass catches the chandelier’s glow as he raises it, carrying the weight of a thousand watchful eyes.
“Honoured guests,” he begins, his voice slicing through the silence. “Welcome to the Grianstad Eve Ball. This night marks more than a season’s turning. It is the heart of our winter, the marrow of tradition. A celebration, yes, but not of triviality.” The General paces slowly. Each footfall is silent on the marble as the fire flickers behind him, casting his long, jagged shadow against the columns.
“We gather to remember what outlasts the warmth. What endures when the lights dim? Loyalty. Discipline. Legacy.” His cold gaze sweeps the room, gliding over noble families in gowns and polished armour, instructors draped in deep House colours, and us. The students, the Legion in training. His eyes settle briefly on the table, then Kai, and finally me, lingering just long enough to sting.
“These values are not ornaments,” he continues, voice dropping, darkening. “They are forged through history. Tempered in hardship. In the dead of winter, we do not cower. We do not forget. We sharpen our blades, we watch, and we remember who we are.” Shouts of agreement ripple through the room as he raises his glass a little higher.
“To the blood that binds us by name, by vow, and by snow.”
A beat of silence follows Kallahan’s mantra, before Elgar’s follow suit.
“Fada beò Kvirr. May we all be worthy of the names we carry.”
The room echoes the toast, uneven and subdued,Fada beò Kvirr, as crystal glasses lift into the air, long live Kvirr.
