Next to Avery, Alessandra tosses her hair over one shoulder, and okay, Felix wasn’t wrong. Her highlights are aggressively brassy. But that’s what happens when you’re stuck using box dye on a volcanic island with no salons.
Not that I feel bad for her. She tried to kill me in the Drowned Tower during the first Forge Party.
Focus. Council members. Floating fire eyeballs. Double homicide coverup. Illegal magic. Not the time to critique someone’s hair choices.
The tension in the hall grows as more people trickle in. Weekend breakfasts are usually relaxed—no announcements or formalities. There’s just food, gossip, and the occasional hungover student regretting their life choices. But today, everyone’s speaking in whispers and shooting nervous glances at the head table like they expect the Council members to start flinging fireballs at any moment.
Which, honestly? Not outside the realm of possibility.
Once the last stragglers have taken their seats, Headmistress Constance rises.
The hall goes silent. The floating orbs pulse brighter, as if they’re paying attention, too.
“Good morning,” Constance says, her voice carrying easily through the hall. Her hair is pulled back in its usual severe style, and her expression gives away nothing. “I trust you’ve all noticed our guests.”
Hard to miss the floating fire surveillance system, but sure.
“As explained yesterday, recent events have necessitated a formal investigation.” Her gaze sweeps the room, and I swear it lingers on our table for a fraction of a second too long. “The death of Miles Devereaux and the disappearances of Oliver Thorne and Professor Thaddeus Morgrave require answers. The Council has sent three of their most capable investigators to ensure we find them.”
She gestures to the woman with the black bob first.
“Councilwoman Helen Finchman specializes in history preservation and documentation. Her recording orbs will ensure no detail is overlooked. Every conversation, every movement, and every magical signature within their range will be catalogued for review.”
Helen gives us a small, sympathetic smile—the kind a concerned aunt might offer at a family gathering. Her fingers brush the string of pearls at her throat.
“Councilman Michael Aldridge.” Constance nods at the older man, and Nina stiffens beside me. “His expertise lies in temporal recreation. He can recreate the last twenty-four hours of magical activity in any location.”
Michael doesn’t look up from his journal. His pen just keeps moving, steady and precise, as if Constance’s introduction is simply another data point to record.
“And Councilman Tobias Cane.” Constance gestures to the younger man with the pale blue eyes. “A memory specialist of unprecedented skill. He can access, search, and verify memories with remarkable accuracy.”
Translation: He can look inside your head and see what you’re hiding.
“The investigation will begin immediately.” Constance’s eyes land on our table. “First and second years will meet with Councilman Cane in the Observatory for memory verification sessions to establish timelines for Halloween night. Third and fourth years will follow tomorrow.”
Memory. Verification. Sessions.
He’s going to see the Crown, the blood, Logan’s time travel, and Thaddeus plunging his dagger into Oliver’s chest. He’ll see all three times I died. If he lives through our memories with us, that’s an experience I absolutely do not recommend.
Electricity arcs between my index finger and thumb under the table, and I press both hands flat against my thighs and hold them there, breathing through the metallic taste flooding my mouth.
Once my magic is under control, I look at Logan. Really look, not just a stolen glance.
He’s already watching me.
Worry flickers in those storm-gray eyes. But then he nods, barely perceptible, and his composure locks back into place as the kitchen staff emerges to serve breakfast.
The nod is supposed to meaneverything will be okay.
But my hands are still pressed flat against my thighs, pinning down sparks that want to fly. Three investigators with impossible powers are sitting at the head table cataloging every nervous glance in this room.
I pick up my fork when the food arrives, eat without tasting anything, and try very,veryhard not to look at Logan again.
JADE
The Starflare Ballroomlooks wrong in the daylight.
Two nights ago, the enchanted dome displayed shooting stars, the seven massive fireplaces burned with purpose, and couples spun across the constellation-mapped floor while the orchestra played. I walked through those towering doors on Oliver’s arm, dressed as the Persephone to his Hades, guilt burning a hole through my chest with every step.
