I bite down on the reply that burns my tongue. My thesis on blood magic stabilization restructured three entire research disciplines. Even if Ididwrite half of it in Dom’s lap during parties. But Ruby never cared for substance when scandal made a better headline.
Luna shifts beside me and Ruby’s attention snaps to her. “At least one Ellis daughter remembers what that name means. Top marks in every class. A coveted research post straight out of graduation. Walking the path your parents paved, instead of . . .” Her eyes cut over me. “Whatever this extended wallow is meant to accomplish.”
“Mrs. Silva,” Luna says brightly, “I was hoping to catch you and Mr. Silva tonight. The work you’ve done preserving our heritage is just extraordinary. Father always said the Silva family are the true guardians of our history.” She leans in, a practiced tilt to her voice. “I’d love to discuss a few of the restricted texts. With your permission, of course. The way you’ve archived and protected those volumes . . . it’s invaluable to magical progress.”
I suppress a snort. Luna could teach a masterclass in ego-stroking. She knows exactly how to play to Ruby’s pride in the Silvaarchives—their sprawling collection of rare texts and hoarded knowledge they guard like holy relics.
“Edmund would be delighted,” Ruby says, and this time, her smile is genuine. “He’s in the gallery, speaking with Dr. Eric Vale about some newly acquired scrolls. Do find us later. The archives were built for minds like yours.” Her gaze slides back to me. “Unlike some who squander access to such privilege.”
“I’m not here for another lecture,” I say, letting frost crystallize every word.
“No. You’re here to waste a mind that could’ve redefined our field. Your parents would be devastated.”
“The only thing devastating is watching you feign grief now that they’re gone.”
Luna inhales sharply beside me. “Aria, please!”
But Ruby remains perfectly composed. “The Archives still hold space for Ellis brilliance. Should you remember where you came from.” She pauses, letting the weight of her next words settle. “Though perhaps the Scholar’s Wing was wasted on someone who clearly prefers other pursuits. Do give Dominic my regards. I hear The Den’s facilities are quite . . .stimulating.”
Then she turns, gliding away with a dismissal that only decades of wielding academic power can perfect.
“You couldn’t just let her believe you’re recovering quietly?” Luna hisses. “Some of us actually need Silva support. You know how fast Ruby’s disapproval circulates through the research networks.”
I drain my champagne instead of answering.
Let Ruby report back to her precious archives. They can catalog my failures right next to my breakthroughs. At least then they’ll have the complete set. After all, isn’t that what the Silvas do best? Preserve our worst moments alongside our greatest achievements, keeping score for generations to come.
The main ballroom unfolds in gilded excess, a carefully curated spectacle of power and tradition. Overhead, the enchanted ceiling stretches into a flawless night sky.
Once, magic like this made my heart race, and dream of crafting my own impossibilities. Now, I see the strings behind the spectacle. The manipulations disguised as marvels. Each constellation is too perfect, too precisely placed. A celestial hierarchy, mirroring the one unfolding beneath it.
Even the stars bow to the Darkmoors.
“Oh, it’s magnificent!” Luna practically vibrates beside me, eyes wide with wonder.
I can’t help but smile. Gone is the trembling little sister who used to hide behind my skirts. The one I had to teach which Founding Family members to charm and which to avoid. The one who’d memorize my lessons like scripture.
Never accept drinks from a Blackwood unless you want to wake up married to their latest scheme.
Always compliment a Silva’s research before their outfit.
And, for the love of all things sacred, don’t mention aging around the Vales, unless you’re ready for a one-hour sermon on their latest “revolutionary” youth serum guaranteed to erase ten years—and only sometimes cause spontaneous dental regrowth.
As if half of Crown Heights hasn’t already been magically lifted and smoothed by Vale’s perfectly legal “medical innovations.”
Now, Luna stands straighter than I ever did, and perfectly poised to take the legacy I never wanted. Maybe that’s how it should be. Let her have the grants, the approval, Alexander’s attention. Let her navigate these vipers while I . . . what? Hide in The Den with Dom?
Real heroic, Aria.
I snag a floating glass of Moonbite, watching the liquid shift between silver and pale violet, a telltale sign of crushed moongems steeped in arctic herbs, fresh from the Blackwoods’ private reserves. The first sip coats my tongue in cold fire, then it spreads through me in waves; a pulse of something glacial and electric that doesn’t dull my edges but sharpens them.
Amateur hour.
Dom would laugh at this careful choreography of intoxication. In The Den, drinks are weapons, designed to strip you down to bone and sinew. Here, they’re just another prop in this elaborate performance of power.
“Stop glaring at the champagne like it personally offended you.” Luna’s fingers clamp around my arm. “You promised to behave.”
“I promised toattend. Behavior was never part of the deal.”
