“Evie.”
A hand closes around my wrist. The thermal signature registers before anything else—hot and steady, burning with the controlled strength that only belongs to one person at this academy. It’s the same signature I’ve been cataloguing across training circles for weeks, the one that runs hotter than every student and faculty member I’ve scanned since arriving at Blaze.
Kieran Cross.
He’s positioning himself between me and the third-year table like a shield, his green eyes scanning my face with an intensity that would normally make me stumble over my words.
Right now, I can barely remember how to breathe.
“You need to step back,” he murmurs, close enough that only I can hear.
“Oliver’s missing.” The words come out fractured. “He’s not here. He’s never not here. And no one cares.”
“I’m aware.” His grip on my wrist tightens so much it hurts, his thumb pressing into the soft underside of my hammering pulse. “But you’re about to set the dining hall on fire, and that won’t help anyone.”
I look up. The chandeliers aren’t just flickering anymore—they’re blazing. Flames strain against their iron cages, casting wild shadows across the ceiling.
“I can’t control it.” My voice breaks. “Oliver?—”
“Forget Oliver for thirty seconds.” His other hand grips my shoulder, his nails biting through the fabric of my shirt hard enough to leave marks. “Focus on me. Just me.”
Focus on him.
His green eyes have striking amber flecks. There’s a quiver of arrows tattooed along his right forearm. He smells like a forge, but in a good way—hot metal and smoke. And beneath all of it, his heat signature is doing what it always does when I scan him in class: running hotter than his calm voice suggests and his controlled expression warrants.
His eyes hold mine with that same intensity he has during combat training. He digs his nails in even harder—the focus of a man who knows exactly how much pressure a body can take before it breaks—and the heat in my chest stops climbing. The chandeliers dim from white-hot to merely blazing.
His nails ease out of my shoulder, but his hand stays, warm and heavy through the fabric. His heat signature hasn’t dropped. Most people cool down once a crisis passes, but Kieran’s burning at the same elevated level he was when he grabbed my wrist, as if the crisis isn’t over for him just because the chandeliers stopped trying to melt.
“There,” he says, softer now. “Better.”
“I’m not better,” I say.
“We’ll find Oliver.” He starts guiding me back to the first-year table. “But you can’t help anyone if you’re having a breakdown in the middle of breakfast.”
“I’m not having a breakdown.” My protest sounds weak, even to my own ears, and I don’t fight him any further.
When we reach the first-year table, I’m suddenly aware of everyone watching us. Nina’s abandoned her notebook, Felix is frozen mid-bite, and even Sam’s looking up from his book.
Jade’s standing at the edge of the table, her face pale.
“Are you okay?” She steps forward, reaching for me like she’s not sure I’ll accept the touch. “The chandeliers…”
“I’m fine.” The lie is automatic. “I just need to sit down.”
“I’ll check the training grounds and the Scorched Circles,” Kieran says, and then he’s gone before I can thank him, cutting through the dining hall with the quiet efficiency of a drawn blade.
His heat signature is a bright, steady flare weaving between cooler bodies, burning hotter than every person he passes. It doesn’t dim when he reaches the doors or waver when he disappears through them. It just cuts off, sharp and sudden, leaving coldness in its wake.
Jade guides me to my seat, her hand trembling where it grips my elbow.
“Here.” Felix pushes a glass of water to me. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”
“I’m not going to pass out,” I say, but I take the water anyway, my hands shaking badly enough that some of it sloshes over the rim. “I just need to find my brother.”
“Maybe he’s with Professor Thaddeus?” Sam offers. “Oliver’s in his advanced studies group, right? They could be having an early meeting.”
“Maybe,” I hear myself say.
