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"Okay… sir?" I say, because I still have no idea why he's telling me this. "That sounds great."

"You'll be performing that night."

I stare at him. "What?"

"You'll receive the formal program packet before dinner," he continues over me without pause. "The dress code will be sent to your multi-slate, and you'll report to the west recital suite an hour before the reception begins."

Something cold slides into my ribs. "Sir, I didn't know I was being considered."

He glances down at his multi-slate as if he's already moved on to the next thing. "Why not? You're here on one of the rarest scholarship placements this institute has made in over a decade, Mr. Ashford. Scholarship recipients are often expected to represent the academy. This should not come as a surprise. Visibility was always part of the arrangement."

I frown. "Arrangement?"

"The academy doesn't create placements like yours often. When it does, people tend to notice."

Something in the way he says it makes me uneasy. Like the reception existed long before anyone decided I would be playing at it.

"I was told I'd be studying."

One brow lifts. "And you are. Angela Virel will also be performing that evening." He turns toward the glass, looking back at the practice room below. "When I knew her, every conservatory on Sero was convinced she would become the greatest Noctis performer of her generation. I've known her for a very long time. Since long before you arrived at Caervast."

I hesitate. "Ciaran Virel's mother?"

"And heir to the Virel empire through her own bloodline." His gaze lingers on me. "I believe you've already met Ciaran, yes?"

Heat climbs into my face. "We've crossed paths."

"I thought you might have." Professor Halvern bends to collect the slim black pointer from the ledge beside the gallery window, sliding it neatly into its case before picking up his glasses. "I'd advise you to consider it an opportunity. Like I said, the program packet and music selection will be sent before dinner. It would be wise to prepare the piece carefully and respect the dress code."

"Thank you, sir," I say, hating how tight my voice sounds.

A room full of legacy families, donors, trustees, and Angela Virel. The reception feels less like a performance and more like something I don't understand.

I don't know if I'll be able to play.

Halvern looks back down at his things, then up again, faintly surprised to still find me there. "You are dismissed, Mr. Ashford. Thank you for your cooperation."

I leave before he can say anything else, pausing once I'm out of view to steady my pulse. Damaris is probably exactly where he always is this time of day, somewhere between the fabrication terraces and whatever project has swallowed him whole, so I cut through the canteen, grab sandwiches and coffees to go, and head outside, my thoughts still catching on Halvern's words.

If Professor Halvern is hosting, could it be the same kind of event as the one in the photograph? And if it is, could Sola be there too?

I push through the annex doors and out into the cold, cutting across the upper walk and down toward the fabrication terraces, my coffee warming one hand and the paper bag tucked beneath the other arm.

The terraces spill down the side of the science annex in wide black stone steps, each level lined with work tables and half-built projects in various stages of assembly. Students cluster beneath the pale awnings, bent over tablets, arguing over projections and testing prototypes that flash or spark in brief controlled bursts.

I spot Damaris halfway down the second terrace. He's kneeling beside a waist-high work stand, dark hair falling into his eyes, sleeves shoved up, one knee braced against the stone while three thin silver filaments hover above his open toolkit. Delicate strips of metal no longer than my hand, they drift in a slow orbit around a disc-shaped emitter. When he taps a setting on his slate, they flare blue and shift, angling toward each other like they're listening.

I stop beside him. "What is that?"

Damaris glances up, and his whole face changes when he sees me. "There you are, boo." He flicks a strand of hair out of his eyes with the back of his wrist. "I thought you went straight back."

"Of course not." I hold up the bag. "I got you lunch. And coffee. I didn't know if you'd eaten."

His expression softens. "You're a lifesaver." He takes the coffee first, lifting it for a quick sip before glancing into the bag. The second he spots the sandwich, he grabs it like he hasn't eaten in hours and takes a huge bite.

"Oh, sweet," he says around the mouthful. "You got the smoked chicken."

"You still don't know who gave you the extra credits?"