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I know the voice before I turn. My smile becomes real. Caelen crosses the ballroom toward me.

Three months. That's how long it's been since I've seen my brother.

Three months since the Academy swallowed him for his third year and returned only occasional letters containing approximately four useful sentences and fourteen complaints about his professors.

I barely manage to put my glass down before he reaches me. His arms wrap around me.

For one second, I am not Eirea Vaelith. Not Don Vaelith's daughter. Not the newest vampire heir entering the Academy. Just his little sister.

"I missed you." His voice is quieter than the ballroom around us.

"I know." I squeeze him harder. "I missed you too." Then I pull back. "And you're terrible at writing."

"There she is."

"Three months, Caelen."

"I wrote."

"You sent me a drawing of Professor Vayne falling down stairs." I scoff.

"It was historically significant."

Soren snorts beside us. Caelen finally notices him. "You're corrupting her already?" He asks.

"We've been discussing your many flaws." Soren says.

"Then you'll need another drink." Caelen laughs.

"I like him." I tell Caelen.

"Don't." Caelen answers immediatly. Soren looks wounded.

"Why does everyone say that?" He asks.

"Experience." Caelen takes my hand. "Come on."

"Where?" I ask.

"You're meeting everyone." The words immediately make me suspicious.

"Everyone sounds exhausting." I admit.

"It is."

Soren follows us. "He's not exaggerating."

Caelen leads us through the crowd toward the western side of the ballroom. I recognize several faces before we reach them.

A broad-shouldered wolf leaning against a column, arguing animatedly with a Medusa girl whose expression suggests she's considering turning him into decorative stone.

A siren woman with silver-blue braids sits on the edge of a table despite the perfectly good chairs surrounding her. Another boy stands beside her, apparently attempting to balance three champagne glasses on one hand.

And then there is him. For one embarrassing second, my brain stops providing useful information. He's leaning against the balcony doors. Tall. That is the first thing I register. The second is shoulders. The third is that whoever designed the Academy's formal uniform clearly had no intention of preserving anyone's dignity.

Black trousers. Black shirt. Sleeves rolled to his forearms despite the formal dress code. No jacket. Of course. Dark hair falls carelessly over his forehead. Tanned skin. A tattoo disappears beneath the fabric at his wrist and appears again along the side of his neck.

And his eyes— Gold. Not hazel. Not amber. Gold. Dragon rider. He is beautiful in a way that feels mildly offensive. Not polished. Not elegant. Dangerous. Like someone carved a man out of bad decisions and then gave him cheekbones.