THE NEXT DAY, I STOOD just beyond the royal dorm, my boots sinking slightly into frost-laced grass. The tower’s curved stone cast a long shadow across the path, splitting the view—student dorms and dining hall to the left, the open hush of gardens and the spired silhouette of the royal dorm to the right. Cold bit at my cheeks, pine sharp in the air as distant woodsmoke curled up from chimneys near the library wing.
The wellspring stirred faintly beneath the earth. My necromancy reached toward it without effort now. A pulse of recognition came back—warm, steady, and aware. I could feel the signature of the master’s magic in the distance, like rot veined through stone, waiting. If the corruption spread here again, I’d feel it first.
At least this part of me worked—the magic, the knowing, the one piece that made me feel useful instead of symbolic.
You’re doing it again, Keane said.
I turned. He approached across the frost-crisp lawn, his hands curled around two steaming mugs.
Doing what?
Listing all the reasons you don’t belong here, he said simply, passing me one mug. His fingers brushed mine, warm and steady. For a second I just held on to that contact like it meant something.
It did.
I looked at him. Hair slightly mussed from wind, blue eyes unreadable in the fading light, scar at his jaw catching just enough of the sunset to burn gold. He was beautiful in that quiet, unshakable way—always had been.
I’m not sure I’m cut out for this, I said, twisting my ring on its cord.
Maybe, maybe not, he said. But you’re still doing it. Every day. Even when it costs you.
I didn’t answer, just leaned into him, my shoulder against his chest. He let me as one arm came around my waist.
The students trust me more with you here, I said quietly. You make me credible.
No, he said into my hair. You make me human.
My throat tightened. I missed Cyrus’s fire and Elio’s sharpness. I missed the way the four of us had felt like a team—tenuous, yes, but real. Now it felt like I was playing their parts on top of my own.
Keane turned his head and pressed a kiss to my temple, light and sure.
You’re not disposable, he said softly. Not to me. Not to them either. They just don’t know how to show it yet.
I looked up at him. Promise?
He brushed his knuckles down my cheek. Always.
8
Marigold
THE NEXT MORNING’S EVACUATION DRILL went smoothly. Too smoothly. They moved like it was practice. Like Raven hadn’t been taken in front of us.
I stood at the edge of the courtyard, feeling the dead stir faintly beneath the frost-laced ground—calm but wary.
Scout leaned forward like he was sniffing at the air, the wisps of shadow around his snout pulling forward like smoke drawn to scent.
Students moved through protocols with mechanical precision, following orders without engagement. No one questioned. No one challenged. They… complied.
It should have felt like success.
Instead, it felt like they were humoring me. Going through motions because refusing an heir’s orders wasn’t worth the consequences.
Eastern dormitory cleared in ninety seconds, Keane reported through his portal. His voice through the portal was steady—clean lines and quiet reassurance. I’d learned to measure my own steadiness against it.
Western in two minutes, he continued. Well within acceptable parameters.
Good. I made notes. I stood in the courtyard, observing and trying to focus on logistics instead of the hollow feeling in my chest
