Caspian Ashford entered with Cosima Verraine at his side.
A few people straightened when they saw them together.
They had walked in together before. A hundred times, probably. The school had understood that version of them.
This time, people looked at Cosima and then at me.
The whispers had done their work. Everyone knew whose name the Council meant to put beside Caspian’s at the formal, and suddenly Cosima standing next to him looked like something the room was waiting for her to lose.
Then Caspian saw me.
And then he saw Kieran.
The Mark under my sleeve pulled once, hard enough that my fingers curled against the table.
Kieran felt it.
Caspian felt it too.
Cosima was the only one who looked around at the room as Caspian crossed the hall.
She caught his sleeve.
Only for a breath.
He stopped because she had touched him, not because she had stopped him.
Whatever passed between them was old enough that I felt like I had walked in on it.
Then Caspian gently removed her hand from his sleeve and kept walking.
Kieran pushed back from the table.
“Kieran, whatever you’re thinking, don’t,” Rev said.
He didn’t even glance at her.
Caspian stopped at the end of our table.
“Astra.”
My name in his mouth steadied one part of me and disturbed the rest.
“Hello, Caspian.”
His gaze cut past me. Found Kieran.
“Marsh.”
“Ashford.”
The dining hall forgot to pretend it was eating. Forks paused. Conversation thinned to nothing.
“You went to the lower archive,” Caspian said to me without shifting his gaze from Kieran. He already knew what I knewsomehow.
The Pull came in twice. Cold marble and burnt sugar at my left where he stood. Green apple and sun on stone at my right where Kieran hadn’t moved yet. Two signatures bracketing one body. The chord they made was off — half a step from harmony, half a step from a fight.
“Careful,” Kieran said. “Say that any louder and they’ll call you involved.”
