It's hard to believe Leona now when he says that he doesn't like kids. I mean, it was more believable back in NRC, but now, with two kids of his own running around as he is "napping" under a tree in the palace garden, and you're pregnant with the third, you notice small things like how one of his ears is flicking backwards to check on you, so you make some noise gently to reassure him you're ok. Then they would flicker back toward the kids, and you would sometimes see him crack an eye open to see if the kids were ok when he heard a small omf from one of them.
The Batcave was never truly silent. It breathed. The distant drip of water from stalactites older than Gotham, the subsonic hum of the supercomputer, the chittering of bats far above in the endless dark. But tonight, the silence was a living thing, a predator that had devoured all other sound. It was a silence of absence.
The Batcomputerâs main screen was dark, but a single, smaller monitor on the desk glowed with a frozen image: a girl, mid-laugh, flour on her nose. Her eyes were squeezed shut in joy, a streak of purple in her hair. The cursor hovered over the play button, trembling as if the hand guiding it was caught in an earthquake.
Bruce Wayne, stripped of the cowl but still wearing the armor, sat in the chair. He wasnât Batman. He wasnât Bruce. He was just a man made of fractured bones and a heart pumping pure, unadulterated agony. He hadnât slept in seventy-two hours. He hadnât spoken in twenty-four. On the floor, slumped against the base of the massive computer, was Dick Grayson. The first Robin. The golden boy. Now, his eyes were red-rimmed craters in a face the color of old ash. He held a small, silly-looking stuffed bat youâd won at a rigged carnival game. The one heâd complained about buying, but secretly loved seeing you clutch when you watched scary movies.
In the shadows, beyond the circle of light, Jason Todd stood with his arms crossed, a statue of rage barely contained. The white streak in his hair seemed to glow with its own furious light. He refused to sit. Sitting meant accepting this, and he would burn the world down before he accepted this. Tim Drake was curled in a chair, a laptop with a cracked screen open but ignored on his knees. He was looking at nothing, his brilliant, tactical mind having finally found an equation he couldn't solve: a world without you.
And Damian. Damian Wayne, the son of the Bat, the heir to the Demonâs Head, was sitting cross-legged on the cold stone floor directly in front of the monitor. His katana lay across his lap, unsheathed, his small, calloused hands resting on the blade. His eyes, usually so sharp and defiant, were glassy and vacant, fixed on your frozen, laughing face. A single tear, perfectly formed, traced a path through the grime on his cheek, but he made no move to wipe it away. He was waiting. They all were.
You, Y/N, had been the sun. And suns, by their nature, make everything orbit them. They didn't realize it until you were gone, collapsing into a black hole of your own making, and their orbits were failing. You were only sixteen. And you were the only one who ever insisted on making these stupid videos. The videos Bruce was now, with a breath that sounded like a death rattle, about to play.
///
Your life with them wasnât normal. âNormalâ was a fairytale told to children who didnât have to check their Christmas presents for Joker toxin. Youâd been taken in by Bruce Wayne after a mission gone sideways, a dark night where your own familyâs lawlessnessâa small-time crew whoâd tried to pull a job on a Falcone shipmentâhad put you in the crossfire. You were twelve, a feral, observant thing who could pick a pocket faster than a starving raccoon and lie to a cop with a cherubâs smile. You werenât a sidekick, not in the traditional sense. You were⌠you. The glue, as Alfred would later, with trembling hands, call you.
Breakfast at Wayne Manor was a warzone before you. Bruce, silent behind the newspaper, a specter of exhaustion. Dick, glaring at his cereal for the crime of being in the same room as Bruce. Jason, provoking Damian, who would respond with threats of unspeakable violence. Tim, trying to mediate while simultaneously reading a case file on his tablet, his coffee growing cold. It was a cacophony of clashing egos, a collection of broken, brilliant individuals sharing a roof but not a life.
You changed the physics of the house. You didn't do it with grand gestures, but with a gravitational pull that was uniquely your own. A lawless, chaotic, loving gravity.
It started with you stealing Bruceâs newspaper.
âYouâre not even reading it,â youâd said at thirteen, sliding it across the mahogany table. âYouâre hiding. Your brooding has a physical presence, you know. Itâs like a seventh person at the table, and itâs very rude. It never passes the salt.â
Jason had choked on his orange juice. Damian had stared, aghast at your audacity. But Bruce, after a stunned moment, had let out a low chuckle, a sound so unfamiliar it made Alfred pause in the doorway, a silver platter tilting precariously.
âAnd what do you suggest?â Bruce had asked, his voice a low gravel.
âWe start a tradition,â you declared, ignoring Timâs wide-eyed look of warning. âTell me something about your patrol. Something weird. Not dark, not gruesome. Weird. Like⌠did you know Condiment King has a carefully curated collection of vintage mustard jars? I saw it when I was hacking the traffic cams for you last night.â
A new ritual was born that day. Weird Patrol Stories became the morning anchor.
That was your genius. You understood that a family of lawless, traumatized vigilantes couldn't be stitched together with heartfelt conversations. They needed a shared language, and your language was beautiful, calculated, affectionate chaos. You were the only one who could touch Jason when he was in a pit-madness haze, not with fear or pity, but with a blunt, âYouâre being a theatrical ass. The brooding corner is taken. Bruce is already there, communing with the shadows. Go brood in the library, youâll clash.â Heâd be so offended heâd snap out of it just to argue with you.
You were the only one who could get Damian to be a child. Not by forcing him, but by challenging him to a rooftop parkour race, the loser having to groom Titus with a glittery pink brush. Youâd lost on purpose half the time, not that he ever knew. Youâd sit for an hour, carefully brushing purple glitter from a massive Great Dane, while Damian lectured you on proper stance and the disgrace of your defeat. The video was your idea. âWe need to document this, Dami! Proof youâre not a total gremlin!â Heâd grumbled, called you an imbecile, but heâd sat perfectly still as you both, faces covered in dog glitter, smiled for the camera.
You were Timâs anchor to reality. When heâd go three days without sleep, chasing a digital ghost through the dark web, you wouldnât plead or lecture. Youâd simply sit on the floor of his room, back against his desk, and start reading aloud from the trashiest, most absurd romance novel you could find in the manorâs vast library. The sheer, weaponized cringe of the prose would eventually break through his hyper-focus. Heâd uncurl from his screen, a faint, exhausted smile on his face. âYouâre a menace, Y/N.â âAnd you need to drink this,â youâd say, pushing a glass of water into his hand, the video camera on your phone already recording the rare sight of a caffeine-free Tim Drake. âTell the camera the title of the chapter. âPirates of the Pleasure Lagoon.â Say it, Tim. This is blackmail material.â
And for Dick, you were the little sister who saw past the performance. You saw the pressure of being the first, the gold standard, the emotional caretaker who had no one to take care of him. Youâd find him on the roof of the manor after a bitter argument with Bruce, staring at Bludhavenâs distant skyline. Youâd just sit with him. Then, youâd bump your shoulder against his. âFor a guy made of elastic, youâre really bad at bouncing back from feelings, Grayson.â Youâd always use his last name, like a teammate. Heâd sling an arm around you, his sadness a tangible weight youâd willingly share. âLetâs take a video,â youâd say, pulling out your phone. âA message for future-us. Whatâs one good thing from today?â It was your thing. One Good Thing. A video diary for a family that forgot to remember the light.
You were Bruceâs unexpected mirror. You, with your lawless past and your sharp, thieving instincts, understood the darkness he was afraid to show. You never flinched. You called it like you saw it. âYouâre not their general, youâre their father. The Bat may command, but Bruce has to love. Those are different operating systems, and you keep using the wrong one.â Heâd look at you, this small sixteen-year-old who had broken into his heart as easily as you used to break into safes, and heâd feel a terrifying, unfamiliar hope. Youâd pull him into the videos too. âSmile, Dad-Man. Itâs not a toxin, itâs a facial expression.â Youâd forced him to wear a party hat on his birthday, a video Jason still cackled about.
You were the gravitational center of their entire universe, the sun they orbited. And the sun, on a rainy Tuesday in October, went out. The Joker, in his relentless, nihilistic war against Batman, finally understood a truth the Dark Knight himself had missed: to break the Bat, you didn't target his body, or even his Robins. You targeted the one who held the broken pieces together. The laugh, the videos, the glitter, the lawless little ghost whoâd stolen their heartsâyou were the single, irreplaceable point of failure.
///
The alert didnât come through the usual channels. It erupted on every screen in the Batcave simultaneously, a hacking so invasive it felt like a hand reaching into their sanctuary. The feed was grainy, saturated in a sickly yellow that bled the world of color, transforming it into a jaundiced nightmare. Rain slanted through the frame in silver needles, striking a lone bulb that swung on a bare wire, making the shadows lurch and sway like drunken mourners. And there, in the center of the frame, was you.
You were tied to a rusted metal chair, the kind pulled from a derelict warehouse, its paint peeling in leprous curls. Your reinforced jacket was torn at the shoulder, the dark fabric glistening wetly. Blood traced a slow, deliberate path from your hairline down the plane of your cheek, diluting in the rain before dripping from your jaw. Your domino mask was cracked, a jagged fissure bisecting the left lens, but your eyes behind it were not wide with fear. They burned with a quiet, furious contempt. Your chin was lifted, not in defiance for the camera, but as if the monster holding it was too boring to merit your full attention. You looked not like a victim, but like a captured sun, still radiating heat in the face of an endless, hungry void.
Bruceâs hand stopped an inch from the console, his body turned to stone. The caveâs ambient hum became a roar in his ears, the sound of blood rushing, a tidal wave of dread. He couldnât look away. Dick was already moving, his chair clattering to the floor behind him, but his eyes were nailed to the screen, his pupils blown wide. Timâs fingers flew across a secondary keyboard, his lips moving in a silent, frantic prayer of code, tracing the signal. Jason, who had been cleaning his guns in the corner, stood so abruptly the table overturned. He didnât make a sound. He just stared, the color draining from his face until the white streak in his hair seemed to glow against a mask of ash. Damian, small and rigid in the doorway, had come to deliver a report and instead walked into a mausoleum.
The Jokerâs voice oozed from the speakers, a sing-song, intimate poison. âSaaay cheese for the birdie, little sunbeam! No, wait, youâre not the sun. Youâre just a black hole pretending. Letâs see if the big bad Bat can find you before the punchline lands!â
A crowbar, slick with rain and something darker, swung lazily into the frame, held by a gloved hand with theatrical nonchalance. It tapped your cheek once, a mockery of a caress. You didnât flinch. You spat at the lens. The feed dissolved into static with a high, keening laugh that seemed to claw its way into their skulls and refuse to leave.
The cave erupted. Not into chaos, but into a perfectly orchestrated nightmare ballet. Bruce was in the Batmobile before the static cleared, the engineâs roar a primal scream. Jason was already gone, the squeal of his motorcycle tires leaving burnt rubber ghosts on the stone floor. Dick launched himself upward into the dark, grappling through the manorâs clock entrance, his body a projectile of pure terror. Tim stayed, his face illuminated by the cold blue of his screen, his voice a monotone crackling over the comms, feeding coordinates even as his hands shook violently enough to make typing a battle. Damian, ignored, forbidden, left behind by a single wordless glance from Bruce, waited exactly three seconds before mounting his own cycle and tearing into the night. No one would order him to stay. Not tonight. Not when his sun was in eclipse.
The alley was a wound in the cityâs side, a narrow, forgotten artery tucked between condemned buildings that sagged toward each other like exhausted giants. The rain here fell harder, funneled by the brick walls into a deluge that filled the air with the sound of a hundred tiny drums. The scent of ozone, rust, and something coppery and warm clung to the shadows. A speaker, cheap plastic molded into a grinning face, was still mounted crookedly on the wall, spilling a looped, mechanical laugh into the storm. It was the first thing Jason saw. The second was the crowbar, lying abandoned in a puddle that was more crimson than water.
Then he saw you.
His world collapsed into a single, silent point. The laugh, the rain, the roar of the distant Batmobileâall of it fell away. There was only the stillness of your chest, the wrong angle of your body against the chair, your head tilted slightly to the side as if you were simply resting. But your eyes were open, half-lidded, and the fire that had blazed through the cracked lens was gone. You were no longer looking at the monster. You were looking at nothing.
Jason Todd, , the man who had crawled out of his own grave and taught his heart to beat again through sheer, bloody-minded rage, walked forward on legs that felt like fractured stone. He didnât run. Running meant there was hope, and the pit of his stomach had already filled with an ice so absolute it froze every nerve. When he reached you, he sank downânot a controlled kneel, but a collapse, his knees hitting the flooded asphalt with a splash that sent ripples through the blood-tinged water. His hands, the hands that had held guns and thrown punches and rebuilt himself from shattered bone, reached for the ropes that bound your wrists. His fingers were clumsy, thick with a tremor that made the simple act of untying a knot an impossibility.
âCome on, kid,â he muttered, his voice a ragged, unfamiliar thing. âJokeâs over. You win. You always win, you little menace. Get up.â
The ropes fell away. Your arm slid limply into the water. He caught it, cradling it as if it were made of glass, and pulled you against his chest. Your head lolled against his shoulder, the purple streak in your hair plastered to his jacket. The cold of your skin was a physical blow, a truth his mind refused to parse. He rocked forward, his forehead touching your temple, his massive frame curling around you as if he could shield you from a threat that had already passed, as if his body heat could reignite the sun.
âDonât do this,â he whispered, his voice cracking. âIâm the one who dies. Thatâs the deal. Youâre the one who drags me back. Remember? On the roof. âOne good thing.â You said it. You promised. You donât get to break the promise.â
The laugh from the speaker jeered on, a relentless, tinny soundtrack. Jasonâs head snapped up, and the grief that had softened his features an instant before twisted into something monstrous. A sound tore from himânot a word, not a roar, but a raw, guttural scream that scraped his throat bloody. It was the sound of a man who had already died once and now understood that resurrection was a curse, because he had survived only to bury the one person who made survival feel like something other than penance. The scream echoed off the wet brick, swallowed by the rain, and Jason held you tighter, his body shaking with sobs that seemed to originate from the very core of the earth.
Bruce arrived to that sound. He moved through the alleyâs mouth like a specter, the rain sheeted off the angles of his cowl. He saw Jason on his knees, saw the slack, grey-white hand trailing in the water, and the world tilted on its axis. For one suspended heartbeat, the Batman disappeared. In his place was a father confronted with the unthinkable, a man whose every contingency, every protocol, every sleepless night spent planning for catastrophe had failed to account for the simplest, most devastating variable: the universe did not care for his preparation. It had taken you anyway.
He crossed the distance and crouched, his cape pooling in the bloodied water. His gauntleted hands closed gently but firmly over Jasonâs shoulders. âJason,â he said, and his voice was not Batmanâs. It was Bruceâs, a low, broken gravel that had no authority left. âLet me see her. Please.â
Jason wrenched away, his face a mask of grief and fury. âDonât touch her. Donât you dare touch her.â His arms tightened possessively, as if giving you over would make it real. But his strength was gone, hollowed out by a sorrow too vast for anger to fill. Bruce didnât pull. He simply waited, his own hands trembling, until Jasonâs resistance crumbled and he let go with a sound like a wounded animal. Bruce gathered you then, lifting you as if you weighed nothing, as if you were made of spent light. Your head fell back, rain washing the blood from your still face, and for a moment you looked peacefulâa cruel, unbearable illusion.
Dick landed on the fire escape above, his breath a ragged knife in his lungs. He had run across the city with his heart pounding a desperate mantra: Not her, not her, not her. He saw Bruce holding you, and the mantra died. His hand flew to his mouth, pressing hard against a sound he couldnât allow to escape. His world narrowed to a single, impossible detail: your chest, which should have been rising and falling with that stubborn, chaotic life you carried everywhere, was still. Utterly, horrifyingly still. He slid down the brick wall, his suit scraping against the mortar, and sat in the pooling water, his legs refusing the command to stand. The Golden Boy, the acrobat who had laughed at gravity, had finally fallen.
Tim arrived not on his feet but doubled over, his stomach rejecting the reality before his mind could process it. He vomited into the gutter, his body wracked with spasms that had nothing to do with physical exertion. His mind, a cathedral of logic and pattern recognition, slammed against the walls of a problem it could not solve. There was no algorithm to rewind time. No code to rewrite this moment. He straightened, wiping his mouth with a shaking hand, and his eyes, usually sharp and calculating, were blank with a kind of intellectual horror. The data was in, and it was unacceptable.
And then there was Damian.
He came last, a small, dark figure slipping through the shadows that the rain couldnât touch. He moved with a mechanical, deliberate gait, his katana already drawn, the blade gleaming wetly. He didnât look at Bruce or Jason or the body. He walked past them all, his eyes fixed on the grinning speaker, the source of the laugh that still mocked them with its mindless, looping glee. He raised his sword. The blade sang through the rain, a high, keening note, and bisected the speaker in a single, perfect stroke. The laugh died with a pitiful electronic squeal, leaving only the drumming of the storm.
Damian turned. His face was a porcelain mask, utterly still, but his eyesâthose sharp, defiant eyes that had learned to soften only for youâwere swimming with a grief so immense it had no outlet. He saw you in Bruceâs arms, and the mask shattered.
âYou cannot be dead.â His voice was small, a childâs voice stripped of all its armor. He took a step forward, then another, his sword lowering until the tip scraped the ground. âYou are intolerably stubborn. You would not concede to this⌠this clown. Get up, Y/N. Get up right now.â The command wavered, cracking around the edges. âThat is an order.â
Silence. Rain.
âGet up!â The word became a plea, the plea a sob that ripped from his ten-year-old chest with a force that doubled him over. The sword clattered from his fingers, splashing into the water, forgotten. He crumpled, not like a warrior, but like a little boy whose world had just been extinguished. Dick moved then, crossing the space in three staggering strides, and wrapped his arms around Damian, pulling the child against his chest. Damian fought him, small fists beating against Dickâs shoulders, his screams wordless and raw, the cries of a soul being forged into something harder and colder. Dick held on, his own tears mixing with the rain on Damianâs hair, and said nothing. There were no words for this.
There was no debriefing. No strategy. No stoic return. They brought you home through the secret passages of the manor, a silent procession of the shattered and the damned. Alfred was waiting in the medbay, his posture as impeccable as ever, but his face was the color of old parchment. When Bruce laid you on the examination table, the old butlerâs hand went to his chest. He let out a single, choked soundâa dry, splintering gaspâand for a terrible moment, his knees buckled. He caught himself on the edge of the table, his gloved fingers inches from your cold, still hand. This was the child who called him Alfie. The one who stole biscuits and left clever, silly notes that made him laugh when no one was looking. He did not weep. His dignity would not permit such a display. He simply turned away, his shoulders quaking with a silent, ocean-deep grief, and began preparing the room for a vigil that would never end.
In the days that followed, the family did not simply grieve. They atomized. Bruce retreated into the cave and became a ghost of computation, replaying the Jokerâs ten-second video on a loop, searching for a frame he had missed, a shadow, a soundâanything that could be transformed into a target. He did not eat. He did not sleep. The Bruce Wayne persona was abandoned like an outgrown skin; only the machine of vengeance remained, and it was calibrated to a single, blinding purpose: find the clown.
Jason shattered the armory. He smashed workbenches, threw a crowbar through a monitor, and screamed at Bruce with a fury that seemed to shake the stalactites. âYour rule! Your precious, stupid rule! He keeps coming back and he keeps takingâand you just put him in a box! This is your blood on the ground, Bruce! Yours!â Bruce absorbed it all in silence, each word a lash he believed he had earned a thousand times over.
Tim vanished into a digital necropolis. He didnât hunt the Joker. He hunted the ghost of you, building a vast, sorrowful archiveâevery video, every text, every security frame of your faceâfeeding it into a post-cognition algorithm that, in his feverish logic, might reveal the single variable he could have changed to save you. He was trying to solve the unsolvable, to find an equation that would give his guilt a shape he could bear.
Dick stayed in BlĂźdhaven for two days before the silence became unbearable. He came back to the manor, but he didnât stay in the common rooms. He couldnât. He started finding his way to your room, sitting on the floor with his back against your bed, a bottle in his hand that he never seemed to finish and never let go of. Heâd pull out his phone and stare at your contact photoâa silly selfie with flour on your noseâuntil the screen blurred. Then heâd type out a text he would never send: One good thing today? I need one, Y/N. Please. Every unsent message was a fresh, bleeding wound.
Damian stopped speaking. Words were inadequate; they belonged to a world where you existed. He took up residence in your room, which Alfred, with a reverence that bordered on sacrosanct, left untouched. The half-empty can of soda. The books on forensic science beside a worn copy of a romance novel Tim must have planted as a joke. The wall of printed photographsâsnapshots of the videos you had made them film. Damian would sit in your desk chair, Alfred the Cat curled in his lap, and stare at the corkboard for hours. His rage had cooled into a cold, absolute nihilism, a planet-sized why that had no answer. What was honor? What was legacy? What was Robin, if the sun could be blotted out so easily and so senselessly?
The only thing they all shared, in their isolated, soundless orbits, was an unspoken, collective avoidance. The folder on the Batcomputer. The one with the string of emojis: a sun, a bat, a bird, a sparkle heart. Inside was a sub-folder labeled in your handwriting, recorded for the camera youâd propped up on the console: âFAMILY PROOF (watch together!!).â
It waited there, a repository of voices and laughter and a love so fierce it had once held their fractured solar system in perfect, golden alignment. They avoided it like a black hole. Because to open it was to hear your voice again, and to hear your voice was to admit that you were gone. And none of them, not a single one, was ready to admit that the light had truly and irrevocably gone out.
///
The cave had become a tomb.
Not in the physical senseâthe stalactites still dripped, the bats still chittered in their distant perches, the supercomputer still hummed its endless, patient humâbut in the way a church becomes a tomb when the god it worshipped has abandoned it. The air was thick with a stillness that felt deliberate, as if the cave itself understood that something sacred had been extinguished and was holding its breath in deference.
Three weeks had passed since the alley. Three weeks of silence that was not silence but a cacophony of absences. The absence of your footsteps on the metal grating. The absence of your voice calling up the stairs for someone to taste-test a recipe you'd stolen from Alfred's private collection. The absence of your laugh, which had always seemed to find the cracks in their armor and slip through, warm and unexpected as sunlight through cloud cover.
Bruce had not left the cave in seventy-two hours. He sat at the console like a gargoyle misplaced from its cathedral, the glow of the monitors carving hollows beneath his cheekbones, turning his face into a landscape of exhaustion and grief. He had stopped reviewing the Joker's video. That particular form of self-flagellation had yielded nothing but a deeper, more intimate acquaintance with madness. Now he simply sat, his hands motionless on the armrests, staring at a screen that displayed nothing but the Manor's security feeds. Your room. Your door. Closed. Unchanged. A shrine of pixels.
Dick had returned to the Manor two days ago, though "returned" was a generous word. He had washed up like flotsam, deposited on the Manor's doorstep by tides he could no longer navigate. He stood now at the edge of the cave's main platform, one hand resting on a stalagmite as if he needed its cold, mineral certainty to keep himself upright. His eyes were bloodshot, the kind of red that came from too little sleep and too much of the whiskey he thought no one noticed. He hadn't changed out of his civilian clothes in two days. The fabric smelled stale, a faint note of bar smoke and something sourer beneathâthe scent of a man slowly dissolving.
Jason was a statue of contained violence in the shadows beyond the computer's light. He had refused to come closer, refused to sit, refused to acknowledge that this gathering was happening at all. His arms were crossed over his chest, the muscles beneath his jacket coiled with a tension that had not released since he'd held your body in the rain. The split knuckles from punching the cave wall had scabbed over and been split again, a cycle of wounding and re-wounding that he pursued with almost liturgical dedication. He spoke to no one. He looked at no one. He was a planet that had been flung from its orbit and now drifted through an endless, freezing void, burning with a cold fire that illuminated nothing.
Tim was already seated, but the word "seated" implied a degree of voluntary presence. He had been welded to that chair for hours, maybe longerâtime had become a foreign concept, a measurement system from a universe that no longer existed. His laptop was open before him, but its screen was dark. This was unprecedented. Tim Drake did not sit before dark screens. Tim Drake filled dark screens with light and data and purpose. But the purpose had drained out of him, leaving behind only the shell of a boy genius who had finally encountered a problem that could not be optimized, only endured.
And Damian.
Damian sat on the floor directly before the main monitor, his katana laid across his knees like an offering. He had not spoken a single word in six days. Alfred had attempted to coax him with tea, with food, with the quiet, dignified presence that had soothed so many broken birds before. Damian had looked through him as if he were made of glass. The boy who had once declared himself the heir to empires now sat with the hollow, distant gaze of a child who had discovered that empires were built on sand and blood, and neither substance could bring back the dead.
It was Tim who broke first.
Not with words. Tim had no words left. But his hand movedâan involuntary spasm of muscle memoryâand touched the trackpad of his laptop. The screen blazed to life, and there it was. The folder. The one he had found three days ago in the depths of his search for your digital ghost, the search that had consumed him so completely he had forgotten to eat, forgotten to sleep, forgotten that the ghost he was chasing was not a puzzle to be solved but a wound to be survived. He had opened the folder then, seen the thumbnail of you and Bruce covered in flour, and slammed the laptop shut with a violence that had cracked the screen. But he had not closed the folder. He had left it there, a bright, toxic sun burning in the cold digital architecture of the Batcomputer, waiting to be noticed.
Dick noticed.
He had drifted toward the console not out of curiosity but out of the gravitational pull of old habitsâthe big brother checking in, the caretaker making his rounds. His eyes skimmed the open folder, the string of emojis that you had chosen with such deliberate, ridiculous care, and his breath stopped in his chest. A sun. A bat. A bird. A sparkle heart. He understood instantly, the way a man understands he is about to be shot the moment before the trigger is pulled. These were not files. These were your memories. Your voice. Your laugh. The sound he had been trying and failing to recall with perfect clarity for three weeks, the sound that slipped away every time he reached for it like water through desperate fingers.
He stumbled backward, one hand flying to his mouth, the other grasping for something solid and finding only air. The nausea hit him in a waveânot the nausea of disgust but the nausea of standing at the edge of an abyss and feeling it call to you, whisper to you, promise you that falling would be so much easier than standing.
"Bruce." His voice cracked on the single syllable. He swallowed, tried again. "Bruce, you need to see this."
Bruce turned his head with the slow, mechanical precision of a man who had forgotten how to move his body and was re-learning the process through sheer will. His eyesâthose dark, hollowed eyes that had seen cities burn and friends fallâflicked to the screen, and something in him that had been frozen solid for three weeks began, horribly, to thaw.
Within the hour, they were all assembled.
It was the first time since the alley that they had been in the same space without the buffer of a mission, without the excuse of strategy or the anesthesia of violence. They did not look at each other. They looked at the screen, at the folder, at the sub-folder labeled in your voice, your cadence, your impossible, irreverent joy: "FAMILY PROOF (watch together!!)."
Bruce's hand moved to the mouse. It was trembling againânot the tremor of age or exhaustion but the tremor of a man holding his own heart in his hands and preparing to squeeze. The cursor hovered over the first thumbnail. You, beaming, your arm slung around a stiff, furious Damian. "Dami's Glittery Defeat (Feat. Titus)."
He clicked.
Your voice filled the cave like light flooding a catacomb.
"Okay, for the record, this is not my fault."
Damian flinched. It was a small movement, barely perceptibleâthe tightening of his fingers on the katana's sheath, the sharp intake of breath that he immediately suppressed. But it was the first sign of life he had shown in days. Your voice was a key turning in a lock he had welded shut, and the door was beginning to open whether he willed it or not.
On screen, you were alive. Your face filled the frame, your eyes gleaming with that particular mischievousness that always brought Damian to the brink of murderous rage and back again. You were explaining the terms of the race, your voice mingling with barely suppressed glee, and then the camera turned and showed Damianâsmall, angry, self-importantâsitting on the library floor with Titus's enormous head in his lap and a pink glittery brush in his hand.
"You cheated, L/N," the Damian on the screen snarled.
Your laugh answered himâa bell-like, cascading sound that seemed to resonate in the cave's vast darkness, finding every corner, every shadow, every heart.
The Damian on the floor did not move. But his eyesâthose sharp, hawkish eyes that had learned to see threats in every shadowâwere fixed on the screen with an intensity that bordered on violence. He was watching himself. The self that had existed in a universe where you were still alive. The self that had scowled and complained and secretly, desperately, treasured every moment of your attention. The self that had not yet learned what it meant to lose something irreplaceable.
"See?" your voice came again, soft now, gentle in the way you always were when you'd finished teasing and wanted to make sure the joke hadn't drawn blood. "Good things come in weird packages. This is a good thing, Dami. One Good Thing."
A sound escaped Dick's throatânot a sob, not yet, but the precursor to one, the tectonic shift that heralds an earthquake. One Good Thing. The ritual you had built, day by day, video by video, until it had become the foundation upon which this fractured family had learned to stand. You had given them a language for hope, and they had not realized until this moment that they had forgotten how to speak it.
Damian's tear was silent. It traced a path from the corner of his eye to the line of his jaw, a single silver thread in the blue glow of the monitor. He did not wipe it away. He did not acknowledge it. He simply watched, and remembered the feel of glitter on his fingers, the weight of Titus's head on his knee, the infuriating, irreplaceable sound of your laugh. He wanted to crawl into the video. He wanted to live inside that moment forever, a bug trapped in amber, frozen at the exact instant before the world ended.
Bruce did not pause. He could not pause. To pause was to feel, and to feel was to drown. He clicked the next video with the mechanical precision of a surgeon, or an executioner.
"Tim vs. The Pleasure Lagoon."
The thumbnail was absurdâTim, bleary-eyed and horrified, holding a romance novel with a cover so lurid it seemed to glow. On the screen, the Tim of the past was hunched over his computer, lost in the labyrinth of code, while your voice, disembodied and theatrical, began to read prose so purple it was practically ultraviolet.
"Chapter fourteen. Rodrigo's cutlass was not the only hard thing pressing against Lady Seraphina'sâ"
"STOP!" the on-screen Tim shrieked, spinning with an expression of pure, primal terror.
The Tim in the cave did not smile. The Tim in the cave had buried his face in his hands the moment the video began, his cracked laptop forgotten on the floor, his shoulders hunched as if bracing for a blow. But the blow was not external. It came from withinâthe memory of that night, the exhaustion that had felt so monumental and now seemed so trivial, the way you had weaponized absurdity to pull him back from the brink. The parrot joke. God, the parrot joke. It was theirs, a secret stupid beautiful thing, and he would never hear you tell it again.
"It's the filth I'm subjected to," your recorded voice declared, "in order to get you to look away from a screen for five seconds. What's it gonna be? Sleep and a glass of water, or do I read the part with the parrot? Trust me, nobody wants the parrot part."
The video ended on your villainous cackle. The cave was silent. Tim's shoulders were shaking with a grief he could not voiceâa grief that had no algorithm, no solution, no elegant code that could make it run cleanly and terminate. The failure, he understood now, was not in the data. The failure was in the world. The world that had allowed this. The world that had taken a girl who weaponized bad romance novels and left behind a silence that no amount of brilliance could fill.
Bruce clicked the next file. His hand was steadier now, but it was the steadiness of a man who had moved beyond feeling into a realm of pure, mechanical endurance. He was a diver descending into the wreckage of his own heart, and he would not stop until he reached the bottom.
"Jay and the Shakespearean Brood."
The setting was the Manor roof at dusk. Gotham's skyline jutted against a sky the color of a bruise, and you were leaning your head on Jason's shoulder, your legs dangling over the edge. Jason was smoking. The tip of his cigarette flared orange, a tiny sun in the gathering dark.
"So," your voice was gentle, stripped of the chaotic energy you brought to the other videos. "You've been in the brooding corner for three days. Bruce is getting worried his spot's been stolen."
Jason, the Jason on the screen, took a long drag. The silence stretched like a wound. "He's not worried, kid. He's just pissed I went too far with those dealers in the Narrows."
"Did you go too far?"
Another pause. Then, quietly: "Probably." He looked at youâthe real you, the you who was holding the camera and asking questions no one else dared to askâand his eyes, even through the screen, were full of a pain he had never learned to name. "Why do you do this? These videos."
You were quiet for a moment, and the quality of your silence was different from hisânot a wound, but a lullaby waiting to begin. "Because⌠one day, it might all go to shit. It always does, doesn't it? We're the Wayne family. Chaos is in the job description. And I just⌠I want proof. Proof that we weren't just a war council. That we were⌠this." You gestured, a small, sweeping motion that encompassed the sunset, the skyline, the two of you. "A grumpy crime lord and a reformed pickpocket, watching a sunset and not killing anyone. That's a Good Thing, Jason. A really big one."
On the screen, Jason didn't answer. He just ashed his cigarette and put his arm around you, pulling you closer, and kissed the top of your head with a tenderness that seemed almost furtive, as if affection were a language he was still learning to speak. "You're a sap, Y/N," he murmured into your hair.
"One of us has to be," you whispered back. "It's a hard job, but someone's gotta do it."
The video ended on that image: the two of you, small and dark against the dying sky, holding on.
The sound that came from the shadows was not human.
Jason had not cried when he found you. He had screamed, a raw animal sound that had torn through the rain and echoed off the brick and offered no comfort, no release. But now, in the darkness of the cave, watching the ghost of a sunset he would never see again, he broke. It was not a quiet breaking. It was a rupture, a cataclysm, a sound that seemed to originate from somewhere deeper than his bodyâthe sound of a soul that had already died once and now understood, with terrible clarity, that the second death was so much worse.
He turned and drove his fist into the wall. The rock split his knuckles, fresh blood welling over the half-healed scars, but the pain was a distant star, a pinprick of light in a void of agony. He struck the wall again. And again. And then his strength gave out, and he slumped against the cold stone, his forehead pressed to the rock, his shoulders heaving.
. The video had ended, and your ghost had receded into the machine, leaving behind only the echo of your words and the unbearable silence that followed.
Bruce had not moved. He had absorbed Jason's words the way he absorbed everythingâin silence, without deflection, without defense. But something in him was shifting. The mask of the stoic general, the armor he had worn for so long it had fused to his skin, was cracking. His hand moved to the mouse with a deliberation that was almost ceremonial.
The final video. "Brucie's Birthday."
He clicked.
The sitting room at Wayne Manor. Firelight. Alfred behind the camera, his dignified presence steadying the frame. And youâyou, alive, radiant, your purple streak catching the firelight, a pointy party hat in your handsâwrestling it onto Bruce's head while he sat in his sweater, looking for all the world like a man who had faced down gods and monsters but was utterly defenseless against a sixteen-year-old girl with a party hat.
"Y/N, this is undignified."
"It's a party hat, not a tiara, you big baby! See? He looks human!"
Alfred's laugh was a soft jiggle of the camera. You produced a cupcake, a single candle flickering in the dim room.
"Okay, Dad-Man. Make a wish. And don't say 'for a quiet night in Gotham.' The universe will laugh at you. You have to wish for something⌠good. For you."
The Bruce on the screen looked at you. The firelight caught the purple in your hair, the earnest command in your eyes. He closed his eyes. He wished. He opened them again, and the look he gave you was not Batman's. It was not the general's. It was a father'sâraw, unguarded, full of a desperate, hopeful gratitude he had never been able to articulate. He blew out the candle. You whooped and lunged forward to smear frosting on his nose, and his laughterâhis rare, full-bodied, human laughterârumbled through the speakers like a benediction.
The video ended.
The cave was silent.
And then Bruce Wayne, the Dark Knight, the man who had built an empire on the unshakable foundation of his own will, placed his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into his hands. His shoulders began to shake. The sobs that came were silent at firstâgreat, heaving convulsions that he tried to suppress, tried to contain, tried to armor against. But there was no armor for this. There was no protocol, no contingency, no strategy. There was only a father who had lost his child, and a wish made on a birthday candle that the universe had answered with the Joker's laugh.
Dick moved first. He crossed the space between them and placed a hand on Bruce's backânot as a soldier, not as a protĂŠgĂŠ, but as a son who understood, finally, that his father was not a monument. He was a man, and he was breaking.
Tim looked up from his hands. His face was wet, his eyes red, but something in the rigid architecture of his grief had shifted. He did not move toward Bruceâhe was not ready for that, might never be ready for thatâbut he did not retreat either. He stayed. In the rubble of his shattered equations, he stayed.
Damian had not taken his eyes from the screen. The video was over, but your face was still thereâfrozen in the final frame, mid-laugh, frosting on your thumb. He reached out, slowly, and touched the screen with his fingertips. The glass was cold. Of course it was cold. What had he expected? Warmth? Life? You?
"Tt." The sound was barely audible, a ghost of his old disdain. But his voice, when he spoke, was not disdainful. It was empty. "You told me to find the good thing. But you took it with you. How am I supposed to find what you took?"
No one answered. The bats chittered in the distant dark. The stalactites dripped their slow, mineral tears.
Jason did not leave the shadows. He stood with his back against the wall, his bloody knuckles dripping onto the stone floor, his eyes fixed on the frozen image of your face. He had stopped crying. The well was dry, and what remained was a cold, adamantine fury that had no target and no outlet. You had told him not to let this send him back to the pit. You had told him to avenge you by remembering. But memory was a blade, and every moment of it cut.
The folder remained open on the Batcomputer. A sun, a bat, a bird, a sparkle heart. FAMILY PROOF. You had built it for them, a digital testament, a time capsule of light to be opened in the event of darkness. You had knownâof course you had known, you had always seen more clearly than any of themâthat the darkness would come. You had prepared for it. You had left them a map back to themselves.
But a map is only useful if the travelers are willing to follow it.
The Bat Family sat in their separate silences, bathed in the blue glow of a screen that held the last, fading echoes of your voice. They had come together to honor you. They had come together to find you. But grief is not a reunion; it is an archipelago. Each of them was an island, and the sea between them was rising.
Somewhere in the depths of the cave, a single bat detached itself from the ceiling and flew into the dark. The sound of its wings was soft, rhythmic, a heartbeat fading into silence.
And the sun did not rise.
///
When the sun goes out, the planets orbiting it continue to hurtle forward for a while, unaware of its absence. But the light does not return. The warmth does not return. And what was once a system turns into a graveyard; each planet in its own darkness, its own silence, its own endless winter.
When you died, you left them a map. But maps only work for those who have the courage to follow them. You had loved them. You had understood them. You had reminded them of one another. But remembering is not living. Remembering is a ghost. And ghosts cannot embrace, cannot comfort, cannot hold a family together.
The Gotham sky was as gray as ever. Wayne Manor was as silent as ever. Alfred was waiting in the kitchen, just as he always did. But the breakfast table was empty. The chairs were empty. And a world waiting for the sun to rise was frozen in an eternal twilight.
You had once told them to find "one good thing." But some darknesses are too deep to harbor even a single star. And some families, unfortunately, are too fragile to be saved.
All that remained was your voice in the videos, your laughter echoing in a dark cave, and a question that would never be answered again:
"What was today's good thing?"
The answer, forever, was silence.
///
The sun went out. The planets were lost. And the constellation never came together again.
summary: just a small series of riddle attempting to flirt with you.
starring. . . riddle rosehearts x reader
HOW IT STARTED:
RIDDLE didn't embark upon his romantic phase merely on a whim. To stand as the person he is today, he had to make a difference in how he wanted to behave towards you and others. It was easier for him to conduct himself toward other people, as he is usually more direct and authoritative. He is used to the sight of others nervously squirming under his intense gaze, especially those who reside in Heartslabyul, where his position of power is absolute, as it is necessary for an assertive leader to maintain a sense of control and respect. He can hold his head high to equally meet the eyes of anyone who dares to shake his confidence, be they foes or allies. It was a book that he lived by, one that dictated his every move and decision for many years.
However, with you, there were several books where he could learn how to capture your interest, yet most of them did not fit his usual persona. Your presence forced him to lift his head from the pages and look beyond the rigid rules he had always followed, to allow his bluish-gray eyes to trust in himself that he could pursue you with his own unique approach, rather than relying solely on the guidance of his usual book, knowing that there was no need for a predetermined script if he truly wanted to build a genuine connection with you.
GO FOR IT, RIDDLE-KUN!
RIDDLE had a rough, awkward start in mastering the nuances of flirtation. Never in his life had he had to navigate the complexities of romantic interactions with such clumsy grace. He welcomed this new chapter by surprising you at your door early in the morning with a single red rose that he carefully picked from his garden of red-painted blooms in his trembling hand, with a tense smile playing on his lips. "Good morning," he greeted, his voice slightly shaky as he tried to maintain eye contact.
Meanwhile, as your hair fell in disarray from sleep and the wariness in your eyes was still present, you were surprised by his abrupt appearance, considering he was the last person you'd think would personally greet you in such a manner for someone who prioritizes professional conduct over sentimental gestures. Moving your muddled gaze from him to the red rose in his hand, you couldn't help but question him. "Is that for me?" you asked.
His face heated with a blush, he nodded and cleared his throat, attempting to sound formal. "Why, yes." He thrust the rose to you once more in an insistent manner. "I carefully handpicked the most beautiful one I could find for you." His bluish-gray eyes bashfully looked away, refraining from seeing your honest reaction as his pale cheeks continued to warm from the embarrassment and fear of being turned down. You stared at him for a second; at first, you thought you were seeing an uncanny resemblance to his once innocent, adorable self. Your fingers subtly touch his, seizing the stem of the rose as you accept the flower with a gentle smile. You instinctively lifted the flower closer to your nose, smelling the earthy yet sweet fragrance from the delicate petals. It was a refreshing scent, and it indeed felt pleasant to the touch. Your eyes softened with warmth, not realize the man before you also shared the same look of longing in his eyes; it was not directed at the rose but at you.
Riddle's faux cough ruptured your moment of reverie, bringing you back to the present as he cleared his throat awkwardly. "I wish not to delay your morning, as I have already taken up too much of your time," he said softly, a hint of reluctance in his voice. Though his intent was to leave and also start his morning to fulfill his responsibilities as Housewarden of Heartslabyul, his quivering hands tell a different story: that he would rather stay a little longer in your presence. He wanted to prolong the moment a little bit, even if it meant he'd set aside his principles. He shakes his head at the mere thought. No, he must set an exemplary example for himself.
Riddle straightened his posture and took a deep breath, preparing himself to bid you farewell, while you looked at him curiously for his next move. "I must get going," he said with a slight smile. "But before that," with little courage he had to spare, he took your hand and lifted it to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss on the back of it. He did not meet your flustered gaze after he let go of your hand, clearing his throat. "I will see you again later, [Y/N]." With a final nod, Riddle turned on his heel and walked away, with a lingering reddish flush dusting his cheeks, as you watched his retreating figure disappear into the distance. Alone by himself, he started to march his steps into the empty corridors after realizing his bold, foreign actions. What was he thinking?! What kind of a gentleman kisses the hand of someone he admires without permission?! Because he was in haste, he acted impulsively!
âŚOr maybe that's just how it was supposed to be when pursuing someone as captivating as you. Either way, he made himself look ridiculous in front of you, and now, how will he confront the upcoming shared moments with you if he continues to act in such a daring manner? He sighed wearily. Love is such a tiring game, he thought to himself.
MINI HEADCANONS!
RIDDLE is a gentleman by heart. You were graciously invited once more to celebrate another unbirthday party by the Heartslabyul housewarden himself. Before the event started with a merry-making toast, Riddle guaranteed you had the best seat in the house, intentionally right next to him. You were about to sit at your assigned position when Riddle stood behind your chair, insisting he would pull it out for you as a courtesy of the host. Then he pulled the back of it with such terrible timing that you missed the seat completely and ended up falling to the floor. Riddle had to be escorted by Cater afterwards to steam off the embarrassment. At the same time, Trey helped you up and made sure you were comfortable, reassuring you that Riddle only intended to help, but his execution was just a bit off.
RIDDLE exhibits tremendous pride as a horseback rider. One delightful afternoon, he requested your presence to accompany him on a short ride on his horse, Vorpal, ever since you had been curious about his equestrian skills. He stabled his horse, muttering comforting words to ease its queasy heart while simultaneously scratching its chin. Once the horse was settled, Riddle extended a kind hand to help you mount Vorpal, his other hand subtly supporting the small section of your back to prevent you from falling over by accident. He followed suit by mounting his own horse with ease, your back pressed against his chest as his slightly trembling hands covered yours to assist with the lead of the reins. Riddle tried to remain calm by explaining the basics of horseback riding, attempting to resist taking a closer whiff of the sweet, lingering scent of your hair as he spoke while you were distracted listening to his instructions. As if the situation couldn't get any more intimate, his horse suddenly reacted, which caused you to slide closer to Riddle, who immediately encased your waist in a protective hold. His face almost inches closer to yours if you dare to turn your head, his warm breath brushing against your cheek as a cheeky Vorpal successfully brings the two students even closer together.
Imagine your lover, Sylus, had to stifle his laugh when he was watching you grimace over expensive price tags at the designer store.
"Why is it over 500 dollars?!" you shrieked, gripping the price tag tightly in your hand; it could almost crumple in your frustration.
Your monthly salary wasn't even close to covering the cost of one item!
Behind you, you heard your lover let out a deep, suppressed giggle. Offended by the mere sound, assuming it was one of mockery or amusement at your expense, you whipped around to shoot him a glare, only to see a fond twinkle in his crimson eyes.
"What's so funny, huh?" you demanded, crossing your arms then sizing up your much taller partner with a scowl.
Oh, how badly Sylus wanted to gobble you up.
He pinched the fat of your cheek affectionately, chuckling softly. "I just find it amusing how worked up you get over mere pocket change," he said, gazing at your preferred attire with a mixture of amusement and adoration. "It's endearing, really."
You gave him a look, now letting go of the price tag. You're fully aware that your lover is a wealthy man, not only dominating a dangerous underground territory but also being in possession of several luxurious properties that fingers are insufficient to count. You loved that quality in him; it gives you security and reassurance that he can provide for you in ways beyond material possessions.
But sometimes it irked you how cocky he is when flaunting his wealth.
You smacked his broad chest with your hand, turning away from him with a huff. "Whatever, I'm leaving," you said, crossing your arms over your chest.
Then a few hours later, after arriving at your shared penthouse, the conclusion of a shopping spree is where you didn't actually buy anything because of your pettiness.
Sylus walked behind you with a smirk on his face, watching you turn the doorknob and walk inside the living room until you stopped in your tracks.
The living room is cluttered with designer boxes and shopping bags, from the couch to the coffee table, evidence that a certain someone had gone overboard with their spending without your knowledge. It's the same designer brand you complained about hours ago, now greeting you with its presence in your home.
Sylus chuckles at your still reaction, his cheeky arms wrapped around your waist, pulling his body closer to yours. He planted a subtle kiss on the top of your head, his smile faintly visible as he whispered, "If you want something," and he leaned closer to your flustered ear. "You don't need to complain when you have a lover who is more than willing to spoil you."
He dragged his lips to your neck, just smoothing over your skin with a teasing touch, as his warm breath makes you tickle. "I was planning to buy the whole mall just for you earlier."
"But a certain kitten was being fussy that I had to cancel those plans."
You are trying so hard not to give in to his sweet words and the temptation he brings with his gentle caresses.
Oh well, even if you try hard to resist, he'll give it to you regardless.
Masquerade! hide your face so the world'll never found you
SUMMARY:Â You're always supposed to travel with the delegation, whether you want to or not. This time, you did want to attend the festivalâbut Crowley decided your name wasn't on the official list.
Naturally, you ignored him. With Grim at your side and a plan held together by stubbornness alone, you slipped into Fleur City and its dazzling masqueradeâthe most colorful, musical night the city had to offer.
The only problem? You hadnât planned on running into the seven dorm leaders of NRCâŚor on being personally escorted by them straight to the gates of Noble Bell College.
CHARACTERS:Â Riddle Rosehearts / Leona Kingscholar / Azul Ashengrotto / Kalim Al-Asim / Vil Schoenheit / Idia Shroud / Malleus Draconia x F!Yuu (reader) ft. Crowley and Rollo Flamme
TAGS:Â crack, humor, drama, flirting without knowing.
WORD COUNT:Â 23k
COMMENTS:Â this is hella long, so buckle up!! I took some narrative liberties, maybe not entirely event canon but oh well, there's full chaos.
Soundtrack recommendation: God help the outcast - Topsy Turvy - The Bell Tower - Paris Burning - Make a Wish - Masquerade - Bells of Notre Dame
What does one have to do to get a little peace in the middle of a haunted dormitory thatâs almost crumbling down to its foundations, with a cat shooting fire left and right?
That was what you were thinking when a letter showed up carried along by a cascade of black feathers. It was as if peace and order didnât exist in the vocabulary of this magic-filled school.
One moment Ramshackle was quiet, or as quiet as it could get with Grim arguing with one of the ghosts, who had stolen a can of tuna just to mess with him, and the next, a whirl of glossy black feathers burst in through the broken window and spiraled dramatically down onto the first steps of the lounge staircase.
âHEY! Weâre under attack!â Grim growled, jumping back when the envelope landed with an unnecessarily theatrical thump on the coffee table. âProtect me, Henchman!â
You sighed, keeping Grim upright as he climbed up your arm until he settled on your shoulder. You picked up the letter and looked it over; burgundy-colored, with a wax seal faintly gleaming in gold.
A letter that screamed official and important no matter how you looked at it.
It definitely wasnât a bill or some annoying request from the administration. Crowley never handed those out in person, much less with a flock of black feathers; which meant the bird-brained headmaster was nearby.
And with that, the front door swung wide open on its own with a creak.
âWell, well, my most honorable and dependable residents!â he said in a voice far too cheerful and far too polished, stepping into the dorm as if it belonged to him and not like he had dumped it on you in terrible condition. âWhat fortune to find both of you at home! Truly, the stars themselves align for the diligent!â
Grim shot him a flat look and narrowed his eyes. âWhen you talk like that it means nothing goodâ
Crowley brushed off the comment with professional skill. âMy dear prefect,â he continued, turning toward you with a wide smile, his cape swishing as if he had practiced the move in the mirror about ten times. âI require your presence in my office immediately. It concerns a matter of prestige, honor, and, naturally, inter-academic relationsâ
In other words⌠trouble.
You glanced sideways at Grim; the cat met your look, and you murmured to him when you saw Crowley turn to head out of the lounge without even checking whether you were following or not. âYeah, nothing good ever comes from himâ
The office gleamed and buzzed more than usual, once again showing off dear Headmaster Crowleyâs vanity.
The dorm leaders were gathered around the table, composed, radiating different levels of authority, boredom, or barely-contained chaos. Kalim was practically vibrating with happiness, just like Idia⌠although he was probably vibrating because he wanted to go back and lock himself inside his room; the fact that he was here, surrounded by people, was already an achievement.
Yes, obviously something was about to go down.
There were expectant looks from the othersâexcept Leona, obviously. He was one step away from turning around and heading off to sleep in his usual spot in the botanical garden. The atmosphere had that specific tense shine that meant the announcement about to drop was going to be, indeed, catastrophic.
You took your place beside Kalim, who bumped your hip in greeting and grinned from ear to ear. You returned the gesture, lightly bumping his hip back, and let Grim settle himself on top of your head.
Crowley cleared his throat, which was always the beginning of one of his boring, overly theatrical, and unbearable monologues.
âMy dear dorm leaders,â his eyes gleamed at the sight of the seven young men waiting in front of him. Grim coughed, and Crowleyâs expression tightened slightly. âAnd prefect,â he continued. âToday we have received an extraordinary honorâ
With a flourish, he raised seven invitations, seven burgundy letters with shining golden seals.
âNoble Bell College has kindly sent official invitations requesting the presence of representatives from Night Raven College at their upcoming cultural festivalâ
Your eyes widened. An event outside NRC, allowing you to explore more of this world and see another school; considering they barely let you leave for the nearby town on the Island of Sages, and RSA was still out of the questionâ that school was still a mystery to you.
So Noble Bell College would be your next magical stop.
Grim looked excited too, gripping your hair tightly and whispering to himself all the things he was already plotting in his small and chaotic head about what he was going to do: eat lots of tasty things, maybe sweets or bread, or tuna made in some way he had never tried before; the possibilities were endless for your little cat.
âAnd to enhance the experience, the school will treat this event as a masquerade. Isnât that fascinating?â
Okay, the pinnacle of dramaticsâvery Twisted Wonderland and very Crowley⌠you like it.
Crowley was smiling like a man who definitely intended to send teenagers straight into imminent student chaos. He opened one of the invitations and read the contents in his characteristic dramatic voice.
âThe event celebrates unity, refinement, and the highest traditions of academia. Naturally, they have requested our⌠most distinguished students. And of course this dear and most generous headmasterâ
And that was where the seven invitations came into play. Seven letters addressed to each of the seven dorm leaders⌠and to no one else. He didnât mention the vice leadersâ names, nor your name, nor Grimâs.
Crowley lowered the letter with a satisfied nod. âAnd with that, the official delegation is concludedâ
On your end, silence. A small, polite silence, while the others were already straightening their postures, ready to hear when they would depart and how they should present themselves.
Then Crowleyâs head tilted, looking forward, not directly at you, nor at Grim, as if remembering something slightly inconvenient. His eyes were fixed firmly on the office door.
âAh! But of course⌠our reliable prefect!â he turned toward you with a bright, performative smile. âAs the head of Ramshackle dorm, it would be inappropriate not to include you in this announcement. Transparency is the hallmark of this benevolent administration, after all.â
You heard Leona snort loudly, as if the words âbenevolent administrationâ were completely accurate. If you werenât harboring a bad feeling right then and there, you would have snorted along with him.
Grim puffed out his chest when he saw that the headmaster was now addressing his beloved henchman. âI knew it! Weâre going toââ
âHoweverâŚâ Crowley cut him off, and you felt Grimâs tail deflate against the back of your head. The bird-brain laced his fingers together in front of him. âThe invitation, unfortunately, extends specifically to recognized magical students who participate in the official exchange. As you do not possess any measurable magical abilityâŚâ
Grim opened his mouth to argue back, ready to launch a fireball that would leave him flat on his back after such humiliation.
âMaster Grim, you and the prefect are essentially one student,â he cut him off again. âAnd given that Ramshackle is, shall we say, administratively⌠uniqueâŚâ he made a vague motion with his hand, annoyed at having to find the word that best fit the situation without making it more tense than it already was.
Reading between the lines: youâre not invited, and neither is the cat. Itâs not negotiable. Not even by accident.
Crowley gave a sympathetic nod, his eyes showing a very well-acted sadness. âHow unfortunate! Truly unfortunate. Perhaps next timeâ
Next time⌠like being told there was no more of the cake you liked in the cafeteria and youâd have to wait until tomorrow to eat it. Or like being told you had to try a little harder on the next assignment.
As if you hadnât literally fought overblots throughout the school year, monsters, ghosts, and whatever the hell lives in the schoolâs ventilation ducts.
Life isnât fair, right?
The other leaders didnât react strongly, but they didnât give you the reactions you expected either. A couple of shrugs, Kalim looking at you with genuine sadness at not being able to enjoy the evening by your side.
Crowley broke the silence, and the damn spell, with a clap. âVery well then! Preparations begin immediately!â
The meeting dissolved into excited chatter from the headmaster and completely formal, rather critically thought-out discussion from the leaders. Malleus, in particular, looked especially fascinated by the idea of having been invited.
Grimâs tail flicked over your shoulder. ââŚtheyâre really not taking usâ
The office suddenly felt a little louder⌠and a little farther away while the two of you watched the others discuss travel plans, formal attire provided by the school, speculation about the festival, music, foreign food.
âMake sure to keep the dorm in order while weâre away, prefect! Such an important responsibility!â Crowley waved a hand at you, signaling you were already dismissed from the meeting.
Grimâs ears flattened against his small head as you headed for the exit.
ââŚthis is bullshit.â
âYeah,â you huffed. âYeah, it really is.â
The murmuring followed you out of the office like static.
Crowley was talking louder than usual, Vil was already arguing about the weight of the luggage and the makeup heâd have to do for everyone, yes, even Leona, whom you heard growl when Vil so much as mentioned it. Azul was bringing up the odds of expanding NRCâs prestige to other cities and colleges.
None of it helped.
Grim walked beside you on two legs, stomping down the hallway, his tail bristling, the claws of his hind paws visible and tapping against the stone.
âThis is a total scam!â he shouted, his voice echoing through the stone corridor. âWe beat ghosts, monsters, more overblots than I can countââ
ââand we still arenât âofficialâ enough for a school trip,â you finished with the same level of offense.
âEXACTLY!â Grim threw his paws into the air.
You shoved the castle doors open harder than necessary, grumbling under your breath. That damn bird-brain was really getting under your skin; any moment now youâd kick him in the rear so hard youâd send him flying⌠if it werenât for the small amount of money the school administration paid you.
The cool afternoon air hit your face, but it didnât loosen the tight knot in your chest. The voices continued behind you, just as enthusiastic; a glance over your shoulder was enough to make you blow out a breath and start walking down the steps.
âEven Idiaâs going,â you muttered.
Maybe bringing up the most antisocial and anxious guy in the school wasnât the fairest or most honorable move right now, but you were really angry. Not at him, obviously, you were angry at the damn headmaster.
âRIGHT?!â Grim went down the steps jumping two at a time, ears pointed up and seconds away from shouting all the injustices he had suffered thanks to our beloved headmaster. âThat guy considers opening his bedroom door a major life event!â
You flinched. âOkay, that was too much, Grim,â you said, your voice a little sharp, staring at the steps because you knew that the moment you took your eyes off the stone it was statistically likely youâd trip, considering the anger leaking out of every pore.
âHey! You started itâ He raised a paw and pointed at you.
âYeah, wellâŚâ you continued, âI didnât mean it to put him down. Idia comes from a prestigious family and has plenty of money...of course he got an invitation.â You crossed your arms as you reached the last steps. âWhatâs surprising is that heâs physically goingâ
Grim kicked a pebble down the steps and jumped the last stretch again.
âHeâs physically going and weâre stuck here doing⌠what. Guarding our dorm from the ghosts we already live with?â
You crossed your arms tighter and rolled your eyes. âI canât even step off campus without paperwork, supervision, or a miracle,â your voice came out laced with venom, and with every second you were losing what little patience you had left. Spiraling with a grumpy cat wasnât helping the situation. âBut sure, letâs send the entire walking disaster of NRC abroadâ
âI should be famous,â he growled. âHero Grim saves the day again! Whereâs my cultural exchange, huh?â
You snorted a laugh despite everything. âApparently saving the school multiple times doesnât count as an extracurricular activityâ
You crossed the courtyard, the fountain, the last stretch of stone that led toward the castleâs back doors and the path back to Ramshackle. The words kept coming outâhalf complaints, half that tired bitterness that shows up when something unfair hits a little too close.
When you reached the door, the bridge visible connecting the next stretch of poorly kept land, you stopped. Grim kept walking, now on four paws, and lifted his tail when he realized you had stopped and he was crossing the bridge alone.
You looked at the horizon, spotting the haunted house in the distance and the perfect midday sun over the skyline.
The idea began to take shape slowly, putting down roots little by little, but decisively. The solution to both your frustrations was right there; simple, obvious, both stupid and perfect.
âWhy did you stop?â Grim asked, walking back toward you.
You didnât answer right away. You let the idea keep forming in your mind, running through all the chances of it going right and the ones where it wouldnât, mapping out everything needed for it to actually work.
Your fingers tapped against your arm. ââŚitâs a masqueradeâ
Grim tilted his head. ââŚyeah?â
Your eyes met his, now wide as he looked at you in a way he hadnât all year. Your face carried an expression that meant trouble; the kind of trouble that historically ended in explosions, rule violations, accidental heroics, and at least three disciplinary reports from Crewel.
âA masquerade ball,â you repeated slowly, tilting your head toward him, silently urging him to catch on quickly. âEveryone wears masksâ
Grimâs ears twitched.
âNo oneâs supposed to stand out,â you crouched down so you were closer to him. âNo oneâs supposed to know whoâs whoâ
You let the words settle in his mind, letting the silence guide the realization. One second passed, two, threeâuntil Grimâs eyes flew open wide, pupils dilating and his tail shooting upright as your words finally clicked.
âOh⌠youâre kiddingâ
Your lips curled into a dangerous smile, the kind that promised a thousand reprimands if you got caught, but that would be worth every damn second.
âIf no one knows whoâs who,â you said quietly, making sure the conversation stayed between the two of you, âthen no one knows who wasnât invited eitherâ
Grim gasped like someone had just handed him the keys to a kingdom made entirely of cans and cans of fresh tuna.
âPrefect⌠who wouldâve thought you could be so deviousâ
âWe definitely shouldnât do this,â you said, staring at him.
ââŚbut weâre going to do it anyway,â he shot back.
A second of silence passed. Then another. And a third.
âYeah.â
âHEIST MODE!â Grim threw his paws in the air, jumping with excitement.
You shut the castle door, not a trace of frustration left on your face. No, that had disappeared, replaced by determination. Who wouldâve thought your mind could be just as troublesome as Aceâs?
Your steps were decisive, and you didnât head toward Ramshackle. If you were going to sneak into a cultural event where formality and proper attire were the currency, nothing in that dusty shack would do. No; there werenât any clothes formal enough or well-made enough there without getting you exposed the moment you set foot, or paw, into the cultural event.
âWe need supplies,â you said, veering off the path to the right, following the dirt road.
âSupplies to commit a crime?â
âSupplies to attend formally without prior authorizationâ
ââŚcrime then,â Grim confirmed, running after you.
The path to Samâs shop felt like walking deeper and deeper into a very bad idea; and at the same time, a very promising one. The campus stretched around you, wrapped in that late-afternoon haze where the stone towers glowed gold and the buzz of excitement over the news drifted through the cool air.
âOkay, but... I canât just put on a mask and call it a day. Iâm a talking, flame-shooting, very handsome catâ
âYes, thatâs the main problemâ Samâs shack was already in sightâjust a few more yards and youâd step into territory both familiar and unknown, ready to show off its haunted wonders.
âMy ears! My tail! My flames! My incredible natural charisma, nya!â
âMostly the flamesâ you gave him a look.
Grim deflated a little. ââŚyeah, okay, the flamesâ
A few more steps and you were already standing in front of the shack. That mystical atmosphere around it always made the hairs on your arms stand on end.
You pushed open the crooked wooden door and a small bell chimed. The air inside the shop wrapped around you like warm smoke, carrying a faint scent of cinnamon, something that made the place feel both comforting and creepy. The shelves were stacked to the top with all kinds of things: enchanted fabrics, suspiciously labeled bottles, and objects that definitely moved when you werenât looking straight at them. You could swear a pearl necklace you had seen on a shelf near the door was now resting on a display in the main window.
âWell, well,â Samâs smooth, enchanted voice echoed through the shop from behind the counter. When he had gotten there, you had no ideaâfive seconds ago the counter had been completely empty. âIf it isnât my favorite prefect⌠and judging by the look on your face and on your cute and definitely not troublesome catâŚâ he leaned forward, ââŚyouâre not here for anything legal.â
Grim puffed out his chest, slightly offended by the comment, but he was still the first to speak, or rather, yell.
âWe need stealth!â
Youâre never going to get that by shouting
Samâs smile widened, as dangerous as someone could look while being the entrepreneur running one of the most useful and necessary shops on a school campus. âSay no moreâ
With a snap of his fingers, the counter suddenly looked like the backstage of a theatrical crime, or a theater dressing room, which worked better for carrying out the plan.
Masks, capes, gloves, fabric samples, a monocle that Grim definitely tried on and that you definitely didnât let him keep; with the way he walked heâd break it any second.
Sam tapped the counter thoughtfully with one finger.
âSo,â his voice sounded as soft as velvet, but you knew underneath it hid the layer of a hardened entrepreneur who always kept an enchanted clause up his sleeve, âyou need formal masquerade outfits convincing enough⌠while hiding the presence of a highly combustible felineâ
Grim bristled. âHMNYA! Iâm not combustibleâ!â
âHow did you know we needed masquerade outfits?â you cut in. Your eyes narrowed at Sam suspiciously.
âMy Queen⌠nothing happens in this school without me hearing about it.â It was a vague answer, but also a very unsettling one. But this wasnât the moment to stop and argue, so for now you let it slide.
âHeâs the real problem. I can blend in with a dressââ
âAnd masking your scent.â You still werenât used to the way Sam interrupted conversations to drop information as if you were already supposed to know what it meant.
âExcuse me?â
âIf my informants havenât failed me,â Sam drummed his fingers on the counter and gave you a sly look, âa certain lion and a high fae will be attending the event, meaning they would be the first to spot both of you just by catching your scent.â
Damn it. He was right.
ââŚokay, point takenâ You sighed, resigning yourself to the fact that youâd have to pay for more than just fancy clothes. âWith something to mask my scent, a dress, and a mask, I can blend in. But himâŚâ you pointed at Grim without looking at him, âhe needs to look⌠like a normal familiar.â
Sam hummed and gave Grim a full look from head to toeâand if it had been biologically possible, he wouldâve circled him with his eyes.
âNot normal,â he corrected at last. âExpectedâ
ââŚexpected?â you repeated, frowning.
Sam opened a drawer and pulled out a violet velvet cloak with a hood; deep, formal, the kind that screamed ceremonial elegance. Another of the great mysteries of Samâs shop: who knows why the entrepreneur had a cloak exactly Grimâs size waiting inside a drawer.
âCultural events in magical academies bring familiars all the time,â Sam commented as he adjusted the hood over Grimâs ears. âMagical creatures, bound spirits, enchanted companions. Half the time nobody even knows what species they areâ
The cloak, now arranged over Grimâs small body, wrapped around him completely, barely showing his shape. The fall of the fabric looked heavy and dramatic; the flames of his ears illuminated the inside in a way that felt very theatrical and very on-theme. Then Sam added a carved masquerade mask, elongated, elegant, slightly decorated with claw-like details but still stylized enough to look ceremonial rather than suspicious.
Only Grimâs bright eyes were visible beneath the shadow of the hood and mask. Sam stepped back, admiring his work.
âWith the hood down, the mask set properly forward, and strict instructions not to shoutâŚâ
Grim shifted his posture. Now almost none of his face showed and his tail was hidden neatly beneath the cloak. Suddenly he looked less like âchaotic campus threatâ and more like âarcane familiar belonging to someone extremely important.â
ââŚwow,â Grim whispered when he saw his cloaked figure reflected in the glass of the counter.
âPretty convincing,â you added.
Samâs smile widened as he leaned over the counter, both hands holding up his head. âExactlyâ
âI look expensiveâ Grim spun in a small circle to admire himself, the heavy cloak barely making a dramatic swirl and giving no hint that he might be exposed when he moved.
âYou are expensive,â you shot back. âYou eat like youâve got a black hole in your stomachâ
Grim decided to ignore you and kept spinning around admiring himself. Sam, meanwhile, straightened and clapped his hands once, making your attention snap back to him.
âNow for you, prefectâ
Another snap of his fingers and a dress slid onto the counterâdark, outrageously expensive fabric, black brocade with elegant lace details and a red overlay that made the black stand out even more. Off-shoulder, low-cut, with a skirt that would obviously require a crinoline.
Elegant wasnât the right word, it was more than that. It was refined, breathing opulence and formality. Semi-transparent sleeves, ruffles and lace layered over more lace.
âA mask that hides, not dazzlesâ Sam placed a light black fabric mask on the counter, decorated with brocade and gothic embroidery, soft to the touch and perfect for covering half your face. âThe best disguise isnât the loudest oneâŚâ
He set the last pieces down on the counter: a choker of black pearls with a rose in the center, the strands long enough that when worn they would drape over the shoulders; a pair of short black lace gloves; and a very gothic-style hat, pompous, with a fall of fabric that resembled a veil.
A very gothic set⌠perfect for a masquerade.
ââŚbut the one no one remembersâ
You lifted the dress carefully with both hands, making sure not to snag the lace on anything, not even the buttons of your uniform.
ââŚhow much is this going to hurt?â you asked cautiously. You knew a dress this extravagant wasnât cheap.
Sam leaned on the counter again. âOh, donât worryâ He paused dramatically, clearly fascinated by how your whole body tensed as you worried internally. âThis goes on creditâ
âOh⌠thatâs worse,â Grim whispered in horror.
Sam burst out laughing and straightened again, quite satisfied with himself at the sight of the desperate, horrified expressions on both your faces.
âRelax. Consider it⌠an investment in the chaos the two of you are about to unleash at an international diplomatic eventâ
Fleur City shone as if it had stepped straight out of a Renaissance painting.
The warm glow of lanterns spilled across the white stone streets, reflecting in long ribbons of gold and amber. Garlands of flowers hung from the balconies, woven so densely that the scent of wildflowers lingered in the air, sweet and heavy. From somewhere along the cobblestone corners came music: violins, laughter, the slow rhythmic pulse of festival trumpets.
Around you there were people, so many people. It was barely possible to walk peacefully through the streets. Carnival decorations and food and trinket stalls made both you and Grim stop every five steps.
And everywhere⌠masks. White porcelain, golden filigree, feathers, silks, velvet. Cloaks gliding over the stone and polished shoes gleaming in the lanternlight. There were no faces, no questions, no names.
You adjusted the delicate fabric mask slightly as you moved with the crowd, letting the flow of festival guests carry you naturally along the wide avenue leading to the central plaza. In the daylight the dress blended in exactly as Sam had promised: elegant and formal, perfectly matching the spirit of the festivalâjust another face in the tide.
Beside you, a small hooded figure walked with a rather exaggerated air of importance, little paws tapping lightly against the stone as he took one step, then another. Grim walked as if he were leading his own theatrical march toward the main stage.
âThis is the best thing weâve ever done in our livesâ Even though his steps were determined, and fairly amusing to watch from your taller perspective, Grimâs words came out in a whisper; for once he had understood he needed to keep his voice down.
âYou also said that when you stole extra pudding from the cafeteriaâ You gathered your skirt with one hand, adjusting it so you wouldnât end up face-first on the ground. The dress was beautiful, yes, but the crinoline made walking a bit difficult.
âTHAT WAS HISTORIC TOO!â Apparently his lesson in stealth hadnât lasted long. You hid a smile behind the back of your hand.
Grim looked around at the glowing towers, the decorated bridges, the endless swirl of masked students and nobles. Your gaze drifted to the pink and violet decorations hanging between the rustic, colorful houses. One more step and you nearly collided with the long leg of someone obviously walking on stilts. You managed to turn in time and grabbed Grim so he wouldnât get crushed under the wooden stilts.
âWoowâ Grim settled into your arms and lifted his head to watch the person gracefully walking toward the end of the avenue. âThis place is insaneâ
He wasnât wrong.
Farther ahead there were people dressed in multicolored outfitsâdiamonds and pompoms, ribbons and exaggerated patterns showing off immense amounts of fabric in sleeves and trousers. Orange and red jesters, violet and burgundy ones too, with painted faces and five-pointed hats tipped with bells. The lantern lights flickered along the walls of the houses and the stone structures, turning the shop windows into vivid, deep colors. In the main plaza, dancers spunâskirts and cloaks flashing in carefully choreographed circles.
Everything around you looked mundanely normal, peaceful within the limits of what a carnival could call âpeaceful.â No fire, no chaos, no problems to solve.
âWith this many people, itâll be impossible for them to find us,â Grim said as he jumped back down to the ground to keep walking.
âIf you say it out loud, youâll jinx itâ
âRight. Silence. Stealth modeâ
You moved deeper into the plaza, letting the enormous scale of the festival unfold around you. Masked performers breathed streams of colored fire, puppeteers staged small dramatic and amusing shows for the children, and the food stalls now had floating lanterns illuminating them in orange and ochre tones, making the shine of the food look even more appetizing.
Grim sniffed as he stopped in front of one of the stalls.
ââŚis that roasted meat?â
You sighed and grabbed him by the sides, lifting him until he was level with the food on the stall.
âOne stall. And eat quietlyâ
âBEST HENCHMAN IN HISTORY!â
He jumped toward the vendor, still trying to look dignified in the ceremonial cloakâand failing completely the moment food entered the equation.
You shook your head, but you couldnât stop the slow, dangerous smile spreading across your face as you watched him try to cram two roasted meat skewers into his mouth in one bite.
For the first time since the invitation announcement, the pressure in your chest eased. You hadnât been left behind. You hadnât been left out. This might not be entirely legalâand if you got caught the punishment would probably be worse than anything Ace and Deuce had ever gottenâbut seeing Grim enjoy himself was worth every second you spent outside Ramshackle.
Youâd do it again a thousand times. To hell with Crowley and his official invitations. You had the right to enjoy an event without worrying about running errands for the headmaster.
âTarget locatedâ Grim sniffed the air again after finishing the meat. âHoney buns with a light sugar glaze, ten steps aheadâ
What a remarkable nose
âGrim, slow down,â you said, walking after him at a reasonably quick pace.
âYouâre the slow oneâ Unfortunately, he had a point about the damn crinoline. You were starting to hate it a little more with every step.
You lifted the skirt with both hands, mentally calculating how much more you could afford to spend at the festival. Considering how much this cat ate, and how little you had managed to eat thanks to the nerves from traveling through the mirror, youâd have to find some way to stop Grim from devouring everything in sight.
âI said one stall!â You barely raised your voice, but Grim ignored you, as always when he didnât want to hear that you were right.
As you followed him, out of the corner of your eye you spotted a pair of figures you absolutely did not want to spot heading your way.
On the other side of the plaza, near the staircase leading to the main road toward the cathedral, a very specific formation of figures held a perfect alignment: Crowley at the front, with seven leaders behind him, each displaying different levels of diplomacy, excitement, or boredom.
Riddle walked with a rigid posture even in this festive setting, though he wasnât oblivious to the fun happening around him. Leona was slouched, visibly bored at being dragged into an official event. Azul carried himself with a calculating air, probably already visualizing his next clients. Kalim was the most energetic of them all, practically glowing even while standing still. Vil was sculpted perfection, every step immaculate. Idia was trying to occupy the smallest possible amount of physical and emotional space. And Malleus simply followed the flow of people, hands behind his back, looking around with complete fascination.
Crowley, meanwhile, walked with an annoyingly radiant and pompous stride while speaking with another figure: tall, composed, with a firm and controlled posture. If you had to guess, that person wrapped in an air of ceremonial authority must have been someone important from Noble Bell College.
Your throat let out a tiny squeak and your shoulders curled inward. You were in danger mode.
You stepped sideways, avoiding turning your back on them all, but also not walking backward so obviously that it would make it clear your focus was on those figures who werenât threatening at first glanceâbut were extremely inconvenient for your enjoyment. You reached Grim just as he was about to buy a small honey bun and crouched to whisper in his ear.
âDonât even think about movingâ
Grimâs small body went completely rigid. âWhatâs going on?â
âIf you turn two degrees to the left,â you continued, the dorm leaders getting closer and closer, âyouâll be in their direct line of sightâ
Grim, completely ignoring your instruction, slowly followed your gaze, barely turning his body to get a good look. Then he inhaled so sharply he nearly vacuumed the honey bun straight into his mouth.
You clamped a hand over his mouth and grabbed his cloak, dragging him behind the stall and hiding behind the side canvas. The vendor shot you both an irritated look but said nothing, another customer was already asking for an entire bag of buns.
âOkay, new planâ You let go of Grimâs mouth but still signaled for silence. Now he had to act like a normal familiar. âWe walk calmly in the opposite direction, and you⌠quietâ
Grim nodded with the intensity of someone trying very hard to be stealthy and stay out of trouble, still holding the sweet in one paw. You adjusted him on your arm and stepped away from the stall.
One step. Then another. And a third.
Someone in the crowd suddenly turned toward your direction. You bumped their shoulder, jolting back in surprise.
ââSorry!â you blurted automatically, trying to step backward.
Exactly the wrong move.
Because stepping back made you collide with someone else in the crowd. Your shoe stepped on an expensive, heavy cloak, and as you lifted your foot to avoid ruining it further, your heel caught on the uneven stone. You felt your balance tip backward.
For one horrible second, the world tilted; the lantern light, the masks, the people, the realization of oh yes, this is how we die⌠physically or from embarrassment, falling face-first in front of a crowd.
But the fall never came.
A gloved hand shot forward and caught your wrist just in time, stopping you a few inches before disaster.
ââŚplease be careful,â a smooth, composed voice said. âThese festival streets can be treacherous if one isnât paying attentionâ
You turned your head toward the voice and saw Azul looking at you with concern...but without the slightest hint of recognition. Your disguise was working perfectly, even in a situation as dangerous as the one you were currently in.
You straightened carefully, pulse hammering, but posture controlled. Out of nervous reflex you adjusted Grimâs hood so his face was completely hidden, forcing his body to hunch so heâd look like an ordinary cat.
âThank you,â you said in a neutral voice, though anyone paying attention might have noticed the nervous edge and the faint grinding of teeth as you forced yourself not to scream.
Azul released your wrist slowly, waiting for you to fix your dress before stepping back to a polite distance, still close enough while observing you with that sharp, polite curiosity so characteristic of someone whose entire life ran on information.
Behind him, the others had already turned, abandoning whatever conversation they had been having. Six new pairs of eyes locked onto youâthe young lady unlucky enough to collide with the octopus entrepreneur.
Grim made a small strangled noise inside his hood, and you felt a tiny vibration against your arm. It was obvious he wanted to bolt as fast as his four paws could carry him, and if you were honest with yourself⌠you wanted to do the same.
You didnât look at anyone in particular; certainly not at Crowley, nor at the tall, composed figure representing Noble Bell College in this diplomatic procession. You made the smallest formal bow of your head, the kind appropriate for slipping by unnoticed even after such a collision. You even tilted your hat slightly lower to cover more of your face.
âApologies for the collision. The crowd is⌠lively tonightâ
Vilâs gaze traveled over you from head to toe. Knowing him, he was evaluating the outfit the way an art critic would analyze a gallery piece; or in this case, the way Vil always did, searching for wrinkles, imperfections, or cracks.
That crack was about to split wide open if he didnât stop looking at you so intently.
âFinally someone who knows how to dress appropriately,â he murmured loud enough that everyone else heard.
âHey! Weâre all dressed for the occasion,â Kalim huffed, though he didnât sound offended.
âYes, because we were dressedâ Vil replied.
If that was the case, then point to Vil.
âWatch where youâre stepping next timeâ Leona exhaled through his nose.
âThat is no way to address a young lady!â Vil snapped back, shooting him the most venomous look imaginable without losing an ounce of grace or letting a single wrinkle touch his face.
Leona simply crossed his arms and held Vilâs stare. The tension between rivals was thick enough to feel.
Azul took the opportunity to cut through that tension and prevent an international incident. He inclined his head toward you again, adjusting his glove.
âWell then,â he said, extending his hand toward you, palm open and facing up, âplease be careful, missââ
Your entire body went rigid in a single heartbeat. On your arm, Grim was seconds away from combusting from the stress this situation was causing him.
You returned the slight bow of your head, just formal enough not to raise suspicion despite your heart pounding at a thousand beats per minute.
âIsnât the whole point of tonight that we donât ask those kinds of questions?â
There was a pause long enough for you to offer a sideways smile, hoping you hadnât sounded rude.
Vilâs lips curled upward slightly, approving, almost amused, mentally acknowledging that at least someone knew the rules of the evening.
Azulâs smile changed immediately, shifting from his usual interrogation-ready expression to one suited for social performance.
âAh,â he murmured. âQuite right. My mistake. A masquerade loses its charm when identities come to lightâ
Okay. The plan was working beautifullyâfar better than you had expected. You made a mental note to thank Sam for that potion masking your essence, since neither Leona nor Malleus seemed suspicious of anything.
âIf it helps,â you said, testing the waters a little more to confirm your theory, âIâve never seen figures quite so⌠uniqueâ Your gaze drifted across each of them. âSo your identities would remain a mysteryâwith or without masksâ
Riddle gave a small nod at your comment. âIndeed. The evening discourages such personal revelations unless they are formally necessaryâ
Thank the Seven that Riddle bought it. And luckily for you, it seemed Idia had too, he was muttering in the background nonstop.
âThank the gods⌠minimal social interaction with anonymity settings enabledâŚâ
You let out a quiet breath through your nose, trying to keep it as subtle as possible despite the pressure tightening in your chest during such a surreal interaction. You bowed your head again, ready to give your farewell and move along, taking your first steps toward the plaza.
That should have been the end of it.
âAlthoughâŚâ
Damn it, Azul.
His voice rose again, smooth and composed, turning just enough to place himself at your side as you began to walk.
âIt would be negligence on my part not to ensure the safety of the young lady I nearly caused to fallâ
Vil moved at the same time, with a grace so natural it was almost insulting; suddenly you had two impeccably dressed elites flanking you like the most elegant bodyguards in the world.
âCobblestone streets tend to be unevenâespecially in heels,â Vil commented, evaluating your posture. Of course he would notice that beneath all those meters of expensive fabric you were wearing heels. Not very high, but high enough to alter your height. âAnd the crowd is quite enthusiastic, as you mentioned earlier. You shouldnât be wandering aloneâ
Azul nodded slightly, adjusting his glasses. âParticularly when a certain tendency toward accidents has already been demonstratedâ
The arm holding Grim tightened slightly, drawing a faint squeak from him that only you heard. You looked from side to side, first at Azul, then at Vil, and your gaze dropped straight to the cobblestones.
Oh no. This is very bad.
Behind you, Leonaâs voice sounded rough.
âHey. Donât crowd herâ
All three of you turned to look at him. Leona was dragging a hand down his face, visibly irritated by the situation.
Vil arched a brow, stopping with runway elegance.
âI beg you pardon?â
Azul did the same, forcing you to stop as well and remain right between them. The height difference, privately, was a little funny, if you hadnât been the center of attention for a very irritated lion.
âCourtesyâŚâ Leona scoffed. âThatâs what they call it now?â
You heard Kalim whisper, âAre they flirting?â
And Riddle respond, sounding slightly tired of his classmates, âKnowing them⌠yes. They are flirtingâ
You wanted the ground to swallow you whole.
Leona shoved both hands into his pockets, leaning back slightly as he approached, glancing sideways at your two escorts.
âThe girl almost fell. You caught her. End of story. You donât need to start an escort mission for every stranger you run intoâ
Vil crossed his arms and offered him a sharp smile. âAnd since when do you care about social manners?â
âSince watching you two circle her like peacocks in heat started giving me a headache,â Leona shot back.
You let out a quiet snort, covering your mouth with your free hand. Grim seemed to snort too, barely holding back laughter, the vibration against your chest made it obvious.
Azul released a soft sigh and pressed his fingers to his temple. âHonestly, is it necessary to reduce every refined interaction to such vulgar interpretations?â
âYes,â he replied without hesitation, flashing them a half-smile, fangs included. âItâs funny and irritating at the same time watching you act so confident about something that isnât one of your contractsâ
The situation would have been comedic if you werenât still stuck in the middle of itâand if you werenât one wrong sentence away from catastrophic exposure.
Unfortunately, you locked eyes with Malleus.
He looked taller than the last time youâd seen him. A glance down confirmed itâhe was wearing heeled shoes. This fae added a few extra inches whenever he felt like it, and in the process made you look even smaller.
From his height, Malleus observed you in silence. One arm rested over the other, a finger beneath his chin, studying you. As if he were chasing an echo, something about your voice, your posture, the way you held your shoulders like someone used to dealing with chaos every day.
Your heart thumped harder in your chest.
You looked away and gave another small nod, taking a step back, hoping this time you could finally continue your evening.
âI appreciate the concern, gentlemen,â you said, keeping your voice calm and neutral even though internally you were screaming. âBut I assure you I would hate to delay such distinguished guests during their eveningâ
Both Azul and Vil inclined their heads, accepting the farewell with grace. Leona simply clicked his tongue and turned back toward the othersâhe had been ready to leave five minutes ago.
With elegance you werenât even sure where you pulled from, you stepped toward the crowd, letting the skirt spin slightly as the crinoline gave the movement the air of something taken straight from a royal etiquette manual.
âAhâŚâ
Just that single word was enough to cut off your second escape attempt and push your frustration even higher.
The same notable figure Crowley had been speaking with earlier approached the group. The Noble Bell College uniform was immaculate. Perfect posture, perfect alignment, an expression composed, though clearly carefully practiced to appear so.
âGentlemen,â he said calmly, âif you would be so kind as to proceed. The welcoming is prepared at the academy, and the festival program is⌠quite structuredâ
Crowley, who five minutes ago hadnât been remotely in sight, reacted immediately, suddenly appearing from behind you and making you jump.
âAh! Of course, of course! We wouldnât wish to delay such a beautiful evening!â
Then the studentâs eyes shifted toward you, finally registering why the seven leaders had stopped or drifted away from their intended path instead of following him.
And in that precise moment, his gaze changed to recognition.
Recognition that didnât look good.
Not good for you, anyway.
âI must apologize,â he said, stepping toward you and placing a hand over his chest. âIt seems I have committed an unforgivable lapse in courtesyâ
The student bowed in a formal, precise, respectful greeting.
âI have spoken with these distinguished guests,â he continued, voice calm and controlled, âand yet I have neglected to acknowledge the presence of a lady among us. Such negligence falls below the standards of Noble Bell College⌠and my own.â
He straightened with the same refinement with which he had bowed and extended his hand toward you. In your stunned state, you noticed Grim become so perfectly still he could have won a gargoyle contest.
âI am Rollo Flamme,â he said. Now you could finally put a name to the face. âPresident of the Student Council and host of tonightâs ceremonyâ
Of all the people you could have drawn attention from at this event, it had to be the highest authority in the entire academy. The host himself. The worst possible person.
âAnd regardless of the anonymity permitted at this celebration,â Rollo continued, âit remains my responsibility to ensure that every guest within our city is treated with dignity and appropriate protectionâ
With his palm still extended, he took your hand and bowed again slightly, pressing a kiss against your gloved knuckles. His eyes remained locked onto yours, sharp, observant enough to make you swallow hard.
âWelcome to the festivalâ
Rollo straightened again and folded his hands in front of him.
âYou have indicated that you do not wish to delay these gentlemen,â he continued solemnly. âA considerate sentimentâ
There was a pauseâand it felt heavy, considering this man still hadnât taken his eyes off you. If you ran now he would notice. Obviously he would notice your nerves and terrible manners, and youâd look incredibly suspicious.
âBut allowing a lady to wander the festival without escort amid such a crowd would be an equivalent lapse in decorumâ
Vil offered him an approving smile, and judging by the look Leona was giving the blond from behind, your escape plan was now miles away from happening.
âYouâve got to be kidding,â Leona muttered.
Rollo turned halfway toward the dorm leaders and Crowley. âI trust one of you would be willing to provide a brief escort to guarantee her safe passage before rejoining us at the academyâ
Kalim, being the sweet, trusting, hyper-energetic Kalim, immediately raised his hand.
âOh! I canââ
âAbsolutely not,â whispered Idia in a panic. âYouâll get lost in these weird streets and probably end up buying the entire festivalâ
Kalim pouted but didnât argue.
Azul stepped forward, trying to appear smooth but looking a little too eager to close this contract. âAs it happens, Iâm already somewhat familiar with the young ladyââ
Vil moved at the same time and cut him off. âAnd I, naturally, would never allow someone dressed so exquisitely to be abandoned to the chaos of the central plazaâ
Why do I always have to deal with the chaos? Why?
The plan had been simple: jump through the mirror without the academic staff noticing, lose yourself in the cobblestone streets, avoid eight walking disasters of charisma and complications, eat festival food, take a couple of pictures with Grim, and go home.
The universe really hates me
Crowley, watching the scene half-delighted and half-offended that he wasnât the center of attention, fanned himself dramatically. âAh, such gallantry among my students! How my heart swells! You seven are the pride of Night Raven College!â
Rollo folded his hands behind his back, perfectly composed.
âThere you have it,â he said calmly. âA simple solutionâ
And with that, Crowley and Rollo continued on their way toward who knows whereâleaving you with seven distinguished students and one problematic cat who was internally seconds away from exploding or fainting.
The procession moved forward...there really was no other word for it.
The dorm leaders walked in immaculate formation along the lantern-lit avenues, and in the middle of that flock you were trying with all your strength not to implode from stress. Grim shifted into both your arms, leaning against you; it was safer that way in case he wanted to whisper something instead of accidentally yelling something incriminating. Now he sat like a very tense, very judgmental decorative accessory beneath his velvet hood.
Kalim bounced closer first. âSo! Youâre from another school?â he asked cheerfully.
Alright. Time for liesâand the greatest skill for stealth missions: improvising without hesitation.
âIâm not part of the official exchange,â you said calmly, which was technically true. âI came with my familyâ
Which wasnât entirely true⌠though if you counted Grim and the seven people around you who apparently didnât know the definition of personal space, then maybe it was a⌠creative reinterpretation.
Azul also approached, much closer than necessary. âI see. Attending an event of this scale independently suggests either excellent connections⌠or excellent planningâ
Vil added lightly, adjusting his sleeve where a button had come undone. The small imperfection clearly offended him. âOr excellent tasteâ
The button snapped back into place and his gaze returned forward, specifically toward you. âNo one assembles such an outfit without understanding the magnitude of the eveningâ
You turned slightly and offered a half-smile. âI had help.â
Extremely true. Sam deserved several medals, and probably hazard pay.
Grim shifted in your arms, trying to lean closer to whisper something, but halfway through his cloak snagged on your sleeve and you had to adjust him quickly before the hood slipped and exposed him.
Of course Azul noticed the movement beneath the cloak. âAnd that little companion?â
Dangerous question.
âThis?â you tightened your grip slightly. âHeâs my brotherâs familiar. Iâm taking care of him while heâs away at Night Raven Collegeâ
Malleus finally joined the conversation. One step brought him only inches behind you. âA creature temporarily bound under your supervisionâ
His voice was so deep you almost felt it rather than heard it. A chill ran down your spine. âThat explains such an elaborate cloak. A responsible choice on your part. You understand how to present the creature with the dignity it deservesâ
Grim puffed up slightly beneath the fabric.
âHe appears loyal,â Malleus added, his voice calm and serene now, still close, but with the strange sense of omniscience that came from his towering height.
At the comment, Grim let out a small emotional squeak and fought very hard not to respond. You rested a hand over his back through the hood. âHe is,â you nodded.
Also extremely true⌠sometimes⌠when it suited him⌠especially when food was involved.
âWhat kind of creature is the familiar?â Kalim asked, leaning closer again, dangerously close to stepping on your skirt.
You grabbed the fabric with one hand while adjusting Grim onto your shoulder. âHeâs a cat. A bit grumpy, especially in the mornings.â
No lie there. Grim tried to object, maybe by digging his claws slightly into your shoulder, but before he could you bounced him upward a little. He made a tiny complaint and stayed still.
âSo cute!â Kalim said excitedly. âHey! Does he need something to eat?â
âNo! No!â you answered quickly. âHeâs fine, he already ate a lot a few minutes ago.â
The last thing you needed was for this ray of sunshine to feed him the way he had with cookies back in Scarabia.
âYour familiar eats human food?â Riddle asked, clearly puzzled.
ââŚsometimesâ
You wobbled slightly as if thinking, though really you were scrambling for the right words to fix the mistake youâd just made. âNot muchâmostly fish. But there was a familiar food stall a few blocks from the central plaza, so I bought him a little treatâ
You patted him gently to demonstrate how well-behaved he was.
âAww, what a shame,â Kalim deflated. âI wouldâve liked to feed the little guyâ
The little guy shifted slightly, probably remembering the same thing: the time Kalim had stuffed him with endless cookies. Grim shrank into your shoulder and whispered barely audibly.
âPrefect⌠when weâre done, I want another snackâ
That sounded so Grim you had to pinch him to keep the humiliation of staying quiet from going to his head.
âDonât be discouraged,â Azul said, stepping beside Kalim. âWe were allowed to enjoy the festival, so we may indulge a little in the culinary arts of this cityâ
âYouâre right!â Kalim brightened instantly. âWe can try the ĂŠclairs! Or croissants! Baguettes! The honey buns from that stall behind us!â
What a combination of flour and carbohydrates. But it sounded so good...and sooo necessary.
All day Grim hadnât let you eat in peace except for breakfast, the little gremlin had devoured snack after snack. You, on the other handâŚyou were actually starving.
Maybe the discomfort showed on your face, or maybe your stomach growled beneath all those layers of fabric. Either way, Vil noticed.
âPerhaps we could offer our escorted young lady something sweet?â His hands folded behind his back as he leaned slightly toward you.
âThat seems appropriate, althoughâŚâ Riddle added thoughtfully, âyoung lady, would you actually like us to treat you to something?â
In theory, yes. In practice⌠was it sensible to let them buy you something? You really did want to eat, and you hadnât brought much money. Well...Grim had already spent more than half of it on everything heâd devoured, plus a small trinket he bought from a craft stall.
âI wouldnât want to trouble you with such a triviality,â you began calmly. âIt would be imprudentââ
âNonsense!â Kalim cut you off. âWe can buy you anything you want!â
Before you could even think of a counterargument, he had already rushed to a nearby stall and paid for five different types of sweets. The others stopped to wait for him, and you took the moment to adjust your skirt and Grim on your shoulder. Standing still, Grim quietly stretched himself across both shoulders like a scarf and settled there, balanced enough for when you started walking again.
âCan I eat some of what he brings?â he whispered.
âNo,â you whispered back, barely moving your lips.
When Kalim returned, he carried two paper bags in both hands.
In one bag he had bought eight different flavors of macaronsâsome common ones like chocolate, strawberry, and vanilla. Others were bizarre flavor combinations you would have preferred to donate to the ghosts of Ramshackle.
In the other bag were two chocolate ĂŠclairs, two pains au chocolat, two crescent pastries with a bright glaze, and two honey-cinnamon puff pastries.
A direct trip to diabetes.
The bag with the assorted sweets he handed to Riddle with such enthusiasm that the redhead actually leaned back a little from the force. Riddle blinked once, twice, then opened the bag and tilted his head to inspect the contents. He passed an ĂŠclair to Idia, who took it with a trembling hand and immediately retreated to eat it where no one could see him.
With the other bag still in hand, Kalim offered you a strawberry macaron. âHere! Take it! My treat!â he said with the brightest, warmest smile you had ever seen at NRC.
You hesitated for a second, but the sweet was so perfectly made, round and glossy, that refusing it would have felt like a crime. You took it delicately with your fingers and gave it a small bite instead of shoving the whole thing into your mouth out of habit. You might have been hungry, but manners and appearances mattered right now.
âHow is it? Is it good?â Kalim was already handing out the other macarons to the rest, even to Leona, who took one between two fingers and inspected it with mild disinterest.
âItâs delicious. Thank you for such a generous gestureâ You took another bite and the macaron was gone. You brushed your hands together and were about to wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, but stopped yourself, licking your lip to catch any crumbs.
Riddle pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and offered it to you. âHereâ
You took it with slight embarrassment and wiped the corners of your mouth. When you tried to return it, he shook his head. âDonât worry. You can keep itâ
You looked down at the handkerchief, delicate, red with black embroidered details. His initial stitched neatly in one corner. It had the look of something personal, perhaps a gift from his mother or something he had commissioned himself.
âAre you sure?â you asked, uneasy about keeping something so personal.
âIâm sure. Itâs a handkerchief, it doesnât carry emotional weightâ He accepted the bag of sweets back from Kalim as the other boy handed him a macaron.
You looked at the handkerchief again and folded it neatly in four. The only problem now was where to put it. A mischievous idea crossed your mind for less than a second: tuck it between your breasts the way people used to do to tease admirers.
But no. You absolutely could not do that...though it would have been hilarious.
Instead, you slipped it into the folds of your skirt, improvising a small pocket. After adjusting the dress and crinoline again, you waited for the group to resume walking. The sun was beginning to dip, the first orange rays of evening spreading across the sky.
This time Leona resumed walking beside you.
His stride was heavy, hands in his pockets, his expression carrying such profound boredom it could qualify as an art form. You had no idea what he had done with the macaron; whether he ate it or casually discarded it somewhere with stealth so refined that no one noticed.
All the while he had been watching you fuss with your skirt, holding it with one hand so it wouldnât tangle around your feet.
Then, with the faintest sigh, as if remembering he shouldnât be too obvious about observing others, he stepped a little closer.
âWatch your step,â he murmured low enough that only you could hear. âThese streets are unevenâ
It sounded suspiciously like Azulâs earlier warning, but filtered through Leonaâs flavor of bluntness.
Before you could answer or adjust your pace properly, he extended his arm, wiith no ceremony, as if it meant absolutely nothing to him.
But the gesture itself was pure etiquette.
âIf you trip again,â he added in a flat tone without even looking at you, âthat birdâs going to make us repeat this whole escort nonsense. Iâm not dealing with that againâ
In simple terms: take Leonaâs arm so this ends faster.
Your eyes drifted to his face, half-hidden behind a mask, his hair tied in a simple ponytail. His lazy aura was still there, but layered beneath it.
Even if he showed little interest in events like this, the fact that he was wearing a mask at all was already significant. To youâthe mysterious, nameless young ladyâhe was simply another stranger. You had no reason to recognize the second prince of Sunset Savanna.
And that gave him the advantage. If he wanted to act with the princely manners he had unfortunately been taught, he would use them, especially if it earned him a few points in front of the others. If everyone else was interacting with you, he wasnât about to sit out.
To the passing crowd, it simply looked like a stranger offering steady support to a young woman in a crowded foreign city whose shoes were poorly suited for cobblestones.
You gently hooked your hand around his arm. âThank youâ
Leona said nothing, just clicked his tongue and gave the faintest nod.
The streets narrowed as you moved toward the academy district. The lanternlight softened. The crowd thinned just enough that conversation no longer sounded like shouting over the festival and began to feel⌠almost private.
Which unfortunately meant questions; Polite ones, curious ones, persistent ones.
Kalim, as usual, took it upon himself to begin. âSo how did you arrange this visit?â he asked. âYou said you didnât come with the official delegationsâ
âThatâs right,â you repliedâtruthfully. âMy family organized the trip. Iâm mostly⌠exploring while they attend to their obligations.â
Which, technically, was also true.
Azul slipped smoothly into the conversation. âExploring an unfamiliar city suggests remarkable confidence,â he said, adjusting his glasses and smiling the way he did just before landing a new client. âOr considerable experienceâ
âA bit of bothâ
âHave you attended events of this scale before?â Riddle asked next, his tone measured but curious rather than strict. âThe protocol at gatherings like this can be⌠overwhelmingâ
âNot exactly like this,â you admitted. âBut Iâve dealt with large gatherings. And⌠unpredictable situationsâ
Behind everyone, you heard Idia mutter quietly: ââŚthat sounds like nightmare difficulty in social interactionsâŚâ
Frankly, the poor guy already looked like he was about to log out of the event if they didnât reach their destination soon.
âYet you donât seem intimidated,â Malleus said, speaking over Idiaâs murmuring.
âI learned that most disasters start the same way,â you replied, pausing to choose your words carefully. âIf nothing is exploding yet and no one is screaming⌠things are usually going wellâ
That comment earned you seven pairs of eyes.
Because what you had just said perfectly summarized life at a certain academy where mornings often began with students yelling, magic spiraling out of control despite professors supposedly teaching discipline, and overblots happening far too often.
Leona glanced sideways at you and huffed thoughtfully. Azul simply folded his arms and seemed to consider your answer.
âAn interesting philosophy,â he said, tapping his fingers against his arm. âQuite pragmatic⌠and resilientâ
Grim shifted slightly on your shoulders, practically vibrating with the effort not to shout HNYA, weâve fought literal overblots every month, you have no idea!
You scratched his head lightly over the hood as a warning, and the trembling stopped. Riddle stepped forward slightly and inclined his head toward the gesture, curiosity flickering in his eyes.
âYour brother must trust you greatly if he left his familiar with youâ
âHe does,â you nodded.
Riddle responded with a thoughtful hum. âResponsibility reflects well on both of youâ
You glanced at him from the corner of your eye and smiled.
If he knew how responsible you really wereâsneaking into a festival and academic event without authorization, in a country far from the island, in a world you barely understoodâwell⌠that comment would collapse like a badly built card tower.
But as you watched him, you also noticed something else.
The way Riddle politely guided passersby out of your path. Azul adjusting his pace so you wouldnât have to walk faster. Vil subtly steering the group away from the rougher patches of cobblestone without saying a word. Even Idia hovered closer than usual, like some socially terrified wizard who had nonetheless decided he was the partyâs defensive mage in a DnD campaign.
Leona kept his stride steady beside you, perfectly matching your pace. And Malleus remained watchful, hands ready to guide a passerby aside or catch you if you stumbled.
The shift was obvious, they werenât escorting a random girl anymore...They were engaging with her.
âItâs unusual to meet someone at this sort of event who speaks as directly as you do,â Azul said, almost as if the conversation he wanted was simply⌠a conversation.
Vil nodded from the front of the group. âMost attendees here are desperately trying to impress,â he said, turning his head toward you. âWhereas you, my lady, manage to impress simply by walkingâ
âAnd youâre easy to talk to too! Itâs really nice!â Kalim added brightly.
From behind you, Idia muttered: ââŚlow-pressure NPC with unexpectedly high dialogue qualityâŚâ
Oh. My. Sevens.
Theyâre flirting.
They are actually flirting.
And they have absolutely no idea that the person theyâre flirting with is youâthe extremely human, magicless prefect who attracts catastrophic overblot-level disasters like seasonal colds. All you needed was a mask, an expensive dress, and no identity.
Suddenly the seven of them were treating you like royalty.
Your cheeks flushed faintly pink. Part of you wonderedâjust for a secondâif you could take advantage of this a little longer. It wasnât every day these well-trained disasters behaved like gentlemen.
Another part of you was on the verge of imploding because the same seven who usually competed in ego wars (Kalim excluded) now seemed oddly invested in your company.
Please do not let this night end with all seven of them having a crush on me.
You would never survive looking them in the eye tomorrow. One or two you could handle.
Seven? That would end in a battlefield.
Ahead of you, the academy gates came into view. Tall. Ornate. Illuminated by elegant lanterns while guests streamed inside.
The perfect place for this illusion to end, before their gazes got any more intense. Your steps slowed slightly, and the others adjusted automatically.
Beyond the gates, upper balconies glowed with light and stained-glass windows scattered multicolored shards across the courtyard.
Vil glanced toward them. âA beautiful aesthetic, exactly what one would expect from the student council president,â he commented, violet eyes bright with approval. âFleur City always delivers the finest spectaclesâ
Leona exhaled softly beside you. âTch. If this thing runs longer than it should, Iâm leavingâ
Your lips curled faintly upward. That was such a Leona comment.
And then Idia, apparently unusually chatty tonight, talked loud enough for everyone to hear. ââŚpretty sure this ends with a final boss spawning in the middle of the hall at biblical difficultyâŚâ
You couldnât stop the laugh.
You tried to make it sound like a small huffâbut the laugh slipped out naturally. Bright, familiar, too familiar.
The sound hung in the air like a memory someone had just pulled out of a locked drawer. Leonaâs arm stiffened under your hand; Azulâs eyes sharpened; Vil tilted his head; Kalim blinked; Riddle froze; Idia looked like someone who had just connected two impossible dots; And Malleusâs gaze deepened.
Your pulse skyrocketed, you closed your eyes for half a second and pressed your lips together.
Idiot.
You cleared your throat quickly and stepped back. âI'm sorry,â you said lightly, smoothing your tone. âJust⌠the momentâ
You released Leonaâs arm. Another step back gave them space as the academy gates loomed only a short distance away.
âI believe this is where our paths separate,â you said with an elegant bow. âYou have fulfilled your duty admirablyâ
Azul recovered first. âWell,â he said, though his eyes were still attentive, âthis has been⌠unexpectedly pleasant.â
Kalim waved energetically. âI hope you enjoy the rest of the festival!â
Leona looked at your hand, then folded his arms again. âWatch where you step.â
Malleus returned your bow with one hand over his chest. âIf fate allows it, I would welcome another conversation.â
You straightened. âThen perhaps fate will be kind.â
You picked Grim up in both arms, because you needed something to do with your hands, and turned toward the academy entrance.
One step...then another. Trying to look composed, just another guest entering the celebration.
Internally? You were about three seconds away from completely losing your nerve.
The moment the academy doors swallowed you, you didnât stop, nor you didnât slow down; in fact, you sped up.
You didnât admire the architecture, the vaulted stone corridors, the candlelit banners, the elegant streams of guests drifting toward the grand hall.
You took a side corridor, then another, then passed through an open arch into a quieter cloister, with tall windows and ivy climbing the walls. Only when the distant noise of the courtyard softened into a manageable murmur did you finally exhale.
ââŚOkay,â Grim whispered from your arms. ââŚweâre still alive.â
âBarely.â Your lips tightened, the pressure in your chest still fighting to break free.
âThat laugh almost killed us.â
âI know, Grim.â You leaned against the cold stone column and adjusted his hood so you could see his face.
ââŚthose idiots seemed to like you, huh?â His eyes bulged slightly, and judging by his posture he was as close to a stress-induced meltdown as you were.
You shut your eyes at the memory. âDonât remind me⌠thatâs a problemâ
âIâm glad to see my earlier concern wasnât unfoundedâ
The lantern light flickered softly across the cloister floor. Somewhere deeper inside the academy, the music began again, more structured now, more ceremonial.
Why? Why canât I have one moment of peace?
Your spine stiffened instantly, you turned.
At the entrance of the cloister stood Rollo with a posture so perfect it could belong to a movie villain. Hands clasped behind his back, expression calm and attentive. The lanternlight traced a warm outline around him⌠almost like flames.
âI trust the escort provided by Night Raven College proved sufficient,â he said calmly. Grim froze again like a gargoyleâafter ducking his head and burrowing into your chest.
You inclined your head politely. âMore than sufficient, President Flamme. Your hospitality is⌠thoroughâ
âIt is my responsibility,â he replied. âA host must ensure that no guest experiences discomfort within our cityâ
He stepped closer, not intruding, simply shortening the conversational distance with careful etiquette. âI must admit,â he continued, thoughtful rather than stern, âit is rare to encounter attendees whose affiliation is not immediately apparentâ
Another step forward. You stayed exactly where you were, clutching Grim like a plush toy.
âMay I askâŚâ he said, choosing his words carefully, as if trying to avoid creating a scene, âwhether you come from another academy?â
You didnât allow yourself to hesitate. âMy family travels frequently. I accompany them this seasonâ The answer came out quickly, too quickly to sound completely natural.
Which, technically⌠wasnât entirely false.
If one ignored the circumstances of that accompaniment.
âAnd do you personally practice magic?â
A simple question. Simpleâand judging by the atmosphere this man radiated, a dangerous one. You didnât know why, but the way Rollo always remained composed and asked such direct questions made something in your instincts prickle.
Your gaze dropped briefly to Grim as you scratched his head, forcing a small smile like you were remembering a relative who didnât actually exist.
âMy brother is the gifted one in the familyâ You looked back at him. âHeâs the one formally enrolled at Night Raven Collegeâ
Rolloâs eyes sharpened slightly. âI seeâ His gaze lowered toward Grimâs hood. âAnd that bundle is a familiar, I assume?â
âCorrect,â you replied, adjusting Grim again; your arms were starting to ache. The cat was definitely getting fat. âHe belongs to my brother, I care for him while heâs occupied.â
His eyes studied you for a moment, like someone inspecting the symmetry of a cathedral window. If he was looking for something suspicious, he didnât say it aloud.
But he made you sweat. A cold drop slid down your spine, you were getting tired of this much stress.
âHow fortunate,â he said at last, allowing you to breathe again. âTo have family capable of assuming such responsibilityâ
He and Riddle would probably get along, you thought. Both had that particular pride in responsibility and decorum. Which made it odd that Rollo wasnât currently with the NRC delegation discussing formalities with Riddle.
Why wasnât he there with them?
âIn my experience,â Rollo continued quietly, walking past you to look toward the garden beyond the cloister, âthose born without magic often develop⌠a clearer perspective on consequencesâ
You frowned slightly, unsure where that comment was going. âPerhaps,â you replied neutrally.
His gaze returned to you. Now he stood directly in front of you, but his posture wasnât interrogative, although something about the moment felt like the beginning of a tense conversation.
Great. Add another person to the list of people you had to be careful speaking around. As if dealing with every student at NRC wasnât already exhausting enough.
âAt Noble Bell, we place great value on the upbringing of our guests,â he said. His voice remained firm and formal. âOften, that reveals more than titles or affiliationsâ
A polite way of saying tell me about your background.
And what a background that was.
âWhat does your family do, if I may ask?â
Your eyes widened slightly. You remembered questions like this from your own world...a little classist, a little creepy, if you were being honest.
Your mind started spinning. Whatever you said now would have consequencesâand could unravel your lie instantly.
Rich merchants? Too easy to verify.
Minor nobility? Far too risky.
Foreign lineage? Absolutely not.
You needed something visible, difficult to check, socially plausible⌠and open to interpretation.
ââŚperformance,â you said finally, tilting your head with a small smile.
Rollo narrowed his eyes slightly, mirroring the tilt of your head. âPerformanceâ
âMy family works within musical circles.â You stepped toward the cloister columns, letting your eyes drift toward the small garden to buy yourself a breath of space from his scrutiny. âCeremonial events, private patronage, festivals like this⌠occasionally.â
TechnicallyâŚnot entirely false.
If one counted the endless chaos-filled performances NRC dragged you into cleaning up afterward.
âAnd you?â he asked, moving to stand beside you.
âMe⌠what?â You had been staring at a flower you thought was an orange lily-of-the-valley and hadnât processed the question. Your body turned slightly toward him, hip angled casually.
âWhat do you practice?â
âAhâŚâ Your expression faltered for half a second in embarrassment. You hadnât prepared that answer.
âVocal training.â Your eyes returned to the garden. âBeginnerâ
If yelling at Grim every morning so he wouldnât make you late for class counted as vocal training. Or shouting at Ace and Deuce when their clown-level stupidity dragged you into disasters. Enough practice to develop excellent lungs.
âSinging,â you finished.
For one terrible second you thought you had overplayed it. But Rollo didnât react, he simply nodded.
âA disciplined art,â he said. His brows lifted slightly, careful not to appear judgmental. âMusic, when practiced with devotion, reflects order.â
He extended his hands in front of him, left hand outward. âStructureâ Right hand outward. âHarmonyâ His palms opened, fingers long and precise. âThe sacred ceremonies of this city rely greatly on vocal precision.â His head turned toward the distant sound of a choir rising from the main hall. âA poorly trained chorus can ruin an entire liturgical sequenceâ
You followed his gaze toward the archway leading to the side corridor and listened to the choir for a few seconds. âI prefer small audiences.â
âA wise preference,â Rollo nodded, exhaling softly in time with the rising harmony of the chorus. âTrue refinement rarely requires spectacleâ
You leaned slightly to study his faceâpure curiosity. His expression softened for a moment under the layered voices of the choir, as if the music were something sacred to him.
The moment lasted only a few seconds. Then he composed himself again, hands folded neatly before him, his attention returning to you. You straightened as well.
âYou speak with unusual composure for someone outside the academic delegations,â he said, stepping closer. âMost visitors tonight are eager to attract attentionâ
You pressed your lips together in a small thoughtful pout, tilting your head toward the music as if weighing the idea. Thinking, and thinking.
âItâs easier to listen firstâŚâ You gave him a crooked smile. âAttention can be exhausting sometimesâ
Rollo exhaled againâsubtle, but visible. âYesâŚâ His eyes lingered on yours. ââŚit certainly can beâ
Then, like a dramatic punctuation mark in a poorly timed story, a massive bell rang out. The sound cracked through the academy like thunder; deep, heavy and close. The vibration rolled through the stone around you.
âIt seems the ceremony is about to begin.â
You turned toward the corridor as the footsteps of guests echoed more strongly through the halls, a tide moving toward the grand hall.
Rollo adjusted his attire, the robe, even the large hat, then extended his hand to you exactly as he had earlier in the plaza, the other hand behind his back.
âIt would be improper to allow a guest unfamiliar with the academy to navigate the inner corridors alone during a formal assemblyâ
Ah⌠damn
âI will escort you personally.â There was no room for debate. Decision made. End of discussion.
Refusing now would be far more suspicious than accepting.
âYou are very thorough, President Flamme,â you said with a bow that nearly reached the floor, holding Grim with one arm and your hat with the other so it wouldnât slip.
âThoroughness prevents disorder,â he replied calmly.
He waited patiently for your hand. When you placed it in his, his fingers closed gently around yours. The cold edge of his ring brushed your skin even through the glove. âThis wayâ
The academy corridors unfolded ahead of you. Candles lined the walls in strict rows, the stained glass windows were fading under the last rays of sunset. Immaculate white columns framed the space while the ceremonial atmosphere gathered like a curtain before a stage performance.
âFor someone outside the formal delegations,â Rollo commented as you approached the reading hall entrance, âyou carry yourself with remarkable composureâ
âIâve learned to adapt quickly,â you said, tilting your head slightly. That, at least, was the most honest thing you had said all day.
âA valuable skill.â
Grimâs small claws pressed into your sleeve, his silent signal that things were going very wrong.
Ahead, the corridor opened. Golden light from enormous chandeliers flooded the hall, marble floors gleamed beneath towering stained-glass pillars, the ceremonial music swelled as hundreds of voices gathered at the center.
Rollo slowed his pace as you approached and gently guided you closer so the entire hall opened before your view.
âThe seating is organized by delegation,â he explained, gesturing upward with his free hand. âHowever, independent guests may observe from the upper galleriesâ
Translation: He was personally installing you in the best observation point in the building.
Most likely surrounded by staff, highly visible, no escape routes.
Wonderful.
He pointed toward a marble staircase rising along the hall wall. âFrom there you will have a perfect viewâ
You lifted your gaze toward the upper gallery, marble and stone just as ornate as the rest of the hall, and quite spacious.
âIf you require anything, attendants will be nearbyâ Then he released your hand.
Standing straight as a ceremonial statue, he bowed once moreâlegs aligned perfectly like a prince finishing a formal greeting. âI trust the presentation will justify your attendanceâ
And with that, he left.
Once again, you were alone with Grim.
ââŚhey⌠henchmanâŚâ a small whisper came from inside the cloak.
ââŚyeah?â You still hadnât taken your eyes off Rolloâs retreating figure down the corridor.
âWe have VIP seatsâ
ââŚyeahâ
Grim sighed. You felt his tail go limp across your shoulder. ââŚthis night is going spectacularlyâ
One moment the reading hall was perfectly synchronized with the ceremony, waiting for the famous magical bell artifact to sound⌠and the next moment fire.
Not the warm glow of decorative candles lining the hall. Not a ceremonial brazier. Not a controlled magical flame meant to add theatrical flair.
These were real flames, hungry ones, full of magicâand disturbingly selective.
They burst upward along the cathedral columns in violent ribbons of orange while the massive bell roared like a living thing. Heat tore through the hall, guests screamed, the polished order of the ceremony collapsed instantly into panic.
âMy magicâ!â
âItâs not activating!â
âWhatâs happening?!â
The sound spread in waves, confusion becoming fear, fear becoming absolute chaos.
From the upper gallery, smoke already curling over the carved railing, you clutched Grim tightly to your chest.
âThis has officially turned into a disaster!â you inhaled as deeply as you could, staring down at the inferno rising below.
âHNYA!! FOO! FOO!â Grim tried blowing at the approaching flames. âPREFECT, THE FIREâS GETTING CLOSER!â
âI CAN SEE THAT!â
Guests surged toward exits in disorganized waves, assistants shouted directions nobody followed, sparks rained down as part of the decorative canopy collapsed in a burst of embers.
You backed against the stone wall, keeping distance from the fire. The flames were climbing quickly now, you could feel them licking the hem of your skirt. You yanked the fabric away and moved sideways along the wall toward the corridor exit.
âIf this dress burns,â you said with deadly seriousness, even as the smoke made your breathing ragged, âI swear by the Seven, Grim, I will make you work overtime to pay off our debt to Samâ
âTHATâS YOUR PRIORITY RIGHT NOW!?â
âDO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MUCH THIS FABRIC COSTS?!â
A small explosion cracked beside you and you hurried your steps. You pulled off your hat and held it over your nose, shielding both you and Grim from the smoke.
The bell thundered again. But now it wasnât announcing a ceremony, or the hour, or the arrival of magic into a new era.
It was weaponized.
ââŚOkay,â you muttered, forcing yourself to stay calm and conserving oxygen as best you could. Your eyes scanned the gallery exits, fallen chandeliers, and the storm of wildflower petals drifting through the hall. âTime to save their asses⌠again.â
The bell roared, the metallic blast split the air so violently the stained-glass windows trembled, and with that resonance, more petals erupted into the burning air.
At first it looked almost beautiful, orange petals floating down toward the flames, dozens, then hundreds. A storm of glowing flowers falling from the bell tower like drifting embers.
One brushed the sleeve of a fleeing mage, the flower ignited bright red on contact, its petals burned from within. Smoke rose as the studentâs spell collapsed instantly, magic ripped out of the air like someone unplugging reality itself.
âMy magicâ! Itâs gone!â
Another flower fell, another flare, another failed spell. Understanding spread faster than the fire.
âTheyâre draining itâ!â
âDonât let them touch you!â
More petals rained down, brushing cloaks, masks, bare hands, triggering bursts of flame wherever they landed, leaving scorched fabric and a dead silence where magic should have answered.
The grand hallâseconds ago filled with the most skilled magical students from several academiesâwas now packed with people who couldnât conjure a single spark.
Grim twisted in your arms. âPREFECT THIS IS BADâREALLY BADââ
You saw one flower drifting toward you and flattened yourself against the wall. The corridor behind you was already engulfed in flames, the staircase was starting to burn. You couldnât stop the petal gliding over the gallery railing straight toward your sleeve.
It touched the fabricâŚNothing happened. No flame, no burn, no magic drain. Because there was nothing to drain, the petal simply slid off your sleeve and landed harmlessly on the floor.
You lifted your arm, no damage. You squeezed Grim tighter against your chest and turned toward the stairs.
âIt only drains magic!â you shouted over the roar of the fire.
âThat meansââ
âThat means,â you snapped, voice sharp with the absolutely terrible decision you were about to make, âwhile everyone else is getting drainedââ
You took the stairs two at a time, dodging small flames licking across the marble. ââsomeone without magic is the most useful person in the entire building!â
Grimâs eyes went wide, he realized it instantly. The only one who could move freely through this chaosâŚwas you.
Without thinking twice you leapt the final stretch of stairs, landing inelegantly on the main floor. Before the flames could reach the hem of your dress you yanked the fabric aside and bolted across the hall.
âHot! Hot! Hot!â Yes, talking while running through a smoke-filled hall was stupid, but it was the only way to vent the stress as you sprinted through the wide arches.
And at the center of the inferno...the seven dorm leaders stood in formation, imposing order on chaos the only way they knew how; loudly, stubbornly.
âClear evacuation routes!â shouted Riddle. âWe need civilians outânow!â
Idia was shouting too, panic turning his brain into a rapid-fire analysis machine. âThe flowers are linked to the bell! Itâs a distributed power source!â
Kalim and Azul were already dousing nearby flames with water magic. Even Malleus, with his power weakened, had air swirling around him like a contained cyclone, deflecting falling petals.
All seven were staring upward toward the tower. Where the bell still rang, where more flowers kept falling, and where one man stood watching the chaos below with chilling superiority.
Rollo.
âThis world has suffered too long under the rule of magic!â he shouted, completely unhinged. His staff swung wildly, sending waves of burning flowers across the hall. âPower brings only arrogance! Destruction! Chaos!â
Another bell strike, more petals, the last scraps of magic began to fail.
âI will end this suffering!â His voice cracked into something almost like a sob. âEven if the flames must purify this city!â
Grim buried his face deeper in the cloak against your shoulder. ââŚyeah okay⌠heâs lost itâ
The leaders moved before you could blink. All seven redirected the remaining magic they could muster, pushing the falling flowers away in bursts of windâthough the currents also fed the fire.
âWatch the flames!â shouted Vil, already extinguishing a decorative banner that had caught fire.
Leona had launched himself toward a pillar, dodging both the flames and the falling flowers with the kind of speed he only used during Magift. With Kingâs Roar, he turned every piece of furniture already on fire into sand.
Tiny grains scattered through the air as more flowers fell from the bell tower, only to dissolve the moment they touched the drifting sand.
âNO!â shouted Rollo, staggering slightly. âMagic must disappear! Even if I must burn this city to its foundation, I will finish what I started!â
The flames burst upward again, bathing the entire reading hall in violent orange and red light, smoke was already swallowing the last breathable air.
You ducked as a piece of the structure collapsed, crushing a bench beneath it, splinters of wood scattered everywhere.
âHenchman!â Grim coughed. âThis is the part where the villain stops being organized and becomes erratically dangerous!â
ââŚgood call, Grim.â He was right. After dealing with multiple overblots, both of you knew the pattern by heart.
And if there was something else youâd learned after months inside a school full of wildly irresponsible magic users, and a few outright fanatics, it was this: You donât argue with them.
Especially not a fanatic whoâs currently burning down a city.
You placed Grim beneath the archway entrance of the hall, hiding him from the flames under a stretch of marble structure, the doors were already open where civilians had escaped.
Then you ran straight toward the fire, toward the seven idiots fighting inside it. Or maybe you were the idiot for charging into an inferno wearing a highly flammable dress with zero magic.
But heyâadrenaline does wonderful things to a personâs judgment.
âWAITâ!â you heard Grim squeak over the crackling fire.
You didnât look back, your eyes were locked on the chaos ahead. You didnât think rationally eitherâbecause sometimes the optimal solutionâŚis interrupting a villainâs speech with physical violence.
You ran, and ran and ran. You rushed past Riddle, who only caught a glimpse of a swirl of black and red fabric from the corner of his eye, unable to see clearly through the heat distortions.
But when you planted your foot, twisted your body, and raised your armâevery dorm leader became very aware of your presence in the flames.
Crack.
Your fist slammed directly into Rolloâs face. A solid human punch, powered by frustration and adrenaline. His head snapped sideways, the speech he was about to shout died halfway up his throat.
He staggered back a step, hand flying to his cheek, his eyes went wide, pure disbelief flooding his expression. No one in his perfectly ordered life had ever punched him.
The fire flickered, then slowly began to die down. The hall inhaled again, tThe room seemed to exhale with it.
You lowered your hand slowly, breathing hard, then bent forward as the pain finally hit your knuckles.
ââŚowâ
The pain shot up your arm, you shook your hand violently, hopping slightly on your feet.
âShit,â you muttered, clutching your hand for a moment before shaking it again. âThat hurts...oh hell that hurtsâ
You looked at Rollo, voice rough from the smoke. âCould you maybe not burn down a city over your personal issues for five minutes?!â
You bent forward again. âDamn! Your bones are hard!â
Behind youâ
âSHE JUST DEFEATED THE FINAL BOSS WITH A HOOK PUNCH!â shouted Idia, unable to contain what he had just witnessed.
ââŚokay,â you groaned through clenched teeth. âThat was one of the worst decisions of my lifeâ Under the glove, your knuckles were already swelling.
âDonât moveâ The voice of Vil arrived calm, sharp, perfectly controlled now that the end-of-the-world situation had paused.
He gently took your wrist and carefully removed your glove. The skin around your knuckles was red and throbbing, you could barely move your fingers without a stab of pain running all the way to your shoulder.
âThat impact could have fractured something,â he said, lifting your hand and examining it. He turned it carefully in different directions, moving your fingers slightly, visibly irritated. âHonestly. Barbaric⌠effective, but barbaricâ
Azul stepped beside him, his tone smooth but edged with concern. âAllow us to help. We can perform basic healing spellsâ
Riddle was already clearing space nearby, dragging charred furniture aside. âGive the young lady air!â
Kalim rushed over as well, dodging debris and wilted flowers. âAre you okay? Does it hurt a lot?â he asked, leaning in beside Vil to inspect the damage.
You tried to pull your hand away. âIâm fineââ
Vil didnât allow it, tightening his hold slightly, though not painfully. âDo not argue while you are injuredâ
ââŚokayâ
Azul placed his fingers lightly against your knuckles. A faint spell flickered between them, much weaker than his magic normally shone. A soft blue glow wrapped around your hand, cold, like pressing an ice pack against the injury.
The swelling eased slightly, the pain dulling from a sharp stab to a manageable ache.
âThis is only temporary relief,â Azul said, withdrawing his hand. Vil released your wrist as well. âYou will require proper treatment laterâ
You flexed your fingers carefully, the muscles moved without too much resistance.
ââŚthanksâ You slowly pulled the glove back on. The soft fabric brushed the injury and you winced faintly.
Leona had been watching the entire time with narrowed eyes, arms crossed. âDo you usually run into burning buildings?â
His tone was flat, not mocking, nor scolding, just⌠curious. You tilted your head, thought about it for a moment, then shrugged. âSeemed like the fastest way to stop him.â
âSpeed is not always the most efficient method,â remarked Malleus as he stepped closer, checking if youâd been injured anywhere besides your hand. âDo you require further assistance, miss?â
âIâm fine now, really. Thank youâ Malleus inclined his head and didnât press further.
Instead he stepped back and cast a small spellâsimple for him even in his weakened state, but still effective. The air cleared instantly, smoke and ash were swept away. At last, the reading hall could breathe again, even with the aftermath of the fight still hanging in the air.
Without the smoke, the damage was impossible to ignore. Several pieces of furniture had been reduced to ash, none of the decorative fabrics had escaped the flames, some burned down to their first threads, others halfway through their tapestry. Black scorch marks stained the marble floor, several stained-glass windows were cracked. A few more seconds and the glass would have exploded.
ââŚIâŚâ Behind you, a trembling voice finally broke free from its daze.
Rollo was still standing exactly where the punch had left him, his hand pressed to his cheek, shoulders rising and falling with uneven breaths. His voice was faintâbarely more than a whisper. The fury that had filled it minutes ago had collapsed entirely.
ââŚI only wantedâŚâ His voice cracked. ââŚto stop everything tied to magic⌠to remove the worldâs painâ
His gaze drifted across the ruined hall, the ashes, the chaos his plan had unleashed. âThis⌠isâŚâ
His knee buckled and he nearly collapsed to the floor if you hadnât moved quickly and caught his arm. The others stiffened immediately, stepping forward, ready to protect you from the suddenly fragile fanatic. You raised your hand to stop them.
Then you guided him toward the small central step and let him sit. Silence stretched as you allowed him time to breathe normally again.
On the floor beside you lay a violet handkerchief, scattered with ash. You picked it up, shook off as much dirt as possible, and held it out to him. Rollo stared at your hand, then at your eyes, then at the hand again.
His jaw tightened as he swallowed before finally taking the cloth and pressing it against his cheek, which was already darkening into a bruise.
His shoulders slumped. ââŚI have failed,â he whispered. âMy obsession endangered thousands of citizens⌠and my studentsâ
He took a shaky breath and bowed his head where he sat. ââŚI offer my most sincere apologies.â
The apology wasnât just meant for you, or the seven standing behind you. It was for every guest, for his city, for his school, for the entire world he had nearly burned to the ground.
âThe evening is ruined,â he said before trying to stand, you helped him again, slipping your arm under his. âThe ceremony cannot continue under these conditions.â
He looked genuinely distressed, unable to meet anyoneâs eyes. You kept your grip steady and glanced toward the entrance. Grim was still waiting there, sitting quietlyâbut clearly trying not to vibrate from the tension. The doorway itself was intact, and the area around it too.
Yes, the hall was wreckedâŚbut wasnât magic also meant to help, not just destroy?
Also⌠where the hell was Crowley when someone actually needed him? Of course. Useless bird.
ââŚis it?â you said, breaking the thick tension.
Rollo turned toward you, startled, and you gave him a small, almost amused look and shrugged again.
âThe structure is still standing, fortunatelyâ Your gaze swept the damaged hall. âAnd the guests are safeâ
It seemed Malleus shared your thinking, he stepped forward. âA ceremony is not defined by perfection,â he said, extending his arms slightly toward the hall. âBut by those who gather within it⌠and choose to remainâ
Rollo blinked, slightly disoriented. Malleus stepped closer, now standing in front of both of you.
âIf the host permits,â he continued, his eyes sincere and calm, âNight Raven College would be willing to offer a performance in place of the interrupted programâ
Kalimâs eyes lit up instantly as he joined the circle. âOh! We can do that!â
From further back, Idia fiddled nervously with the sleeves of his very extravagant suit. ââŚare we activating emergency concert modeâŚ?â His face looked like someone ready to teleport back to his room and lock the door for the next week.
Azul removed his hat and tapped it against his leg, knocking loose a few ash particles clinging to its ocean-themed decorations. âA collaborative performance would calm the guests and stabilize the atmosphereâ
Leona let out a loud grunt. âYou guys are annoyingâ
Clearly uncomfortable with the resolution, he turned and walked down the hall, but not toward the exit. Instead he kicked a fairly intact bench and dropped onto it.
ââŚyouâre not going to help, are you?â snapped Vil, arms crossed.
âIâm not singing if thatâs what youâre asking, pretty boyâ Leona leaned back, arms behind his head, eyes closing as if savoring what little peace remained before chaos resumed.
You snorted softly and turned your head away, covering your mouth to hide a smile.
âThis night does not have to end in ashes,â Malleus said again. âNot if you decide otherwise.â
Rollo studied Malleus carefully, perhaps searching for resentment, disgust, or superiority. But Malleus didnât look at people like that; you knew that. But that was something only you understood⌠and something youâd keep very quiet.
No, Rollo found none of those things. He inhaled slowly and closed his eyes.
When he exhaled, his composure had returned. ââŚvery wellâ
He slipped his arm free from yours and stood straight again. âIf your school truly wishes to offer such generosity⌠Noble Bell College will be honored.â
The decision spread through the room like a spark catching dry wood.
Rollo moved toward the doors with renewed purpose, you followed at a slight distance, your good hand lightly touching the knuckles of the injured one through the glove. When you reached the doorway, you crouched and picked Grim up. Rollo was already speaking to the attendants, directing them into motion.
Lanterns were relit, broken furniture beyond repair was carried outside, pieces that could still stand were pushed aside, some attendants used magic to clean the soot-darkened marble. Malleus helped with that as well.
Within minutes the hall had nearly returned to its original state. The musicians who had once prepared the ceremonial music brought out instruments again, students from Noble Bell College hurried to reconstruct something resembling a formalâif now acousticâevening.
Rollo stood at the center of it all, overseeing the work, ensuring nothing was misplaced, watching the Night Raven College delegation help, issuing calm instructions to his students.
His gaze moved across the entire hall, until it returned to you.
âI wish to offer my most sincere apology,â his voice carrying clearly across the room, the bruise on his cheek was now unmistakable. âI failed my guests⌠and those who showed the courage I lacked in that moment.â
His bow was so deep he nearly folded in half. You tightened your grip around Grim against your chest as you watched him straighten again.
âYou intervened when reason could no longer reach me,â he continued. âAnd for that⌠you have my sincere gratitude. And my apologyâ
How many times had people bowed or inclined themselves before you tonight? Five? Six? Who knew.
It certainly wouldnât be the last.
âI placed you in danger inside my own academy.â You held his gaze, but this time you didnât bow. Your neck was already starting to ache from all the earlier ones.
âIâm just glad the city isnât on fire.â
Rollo simply nodded and looked around again. The students of Noble Bell were nearly finished restoring the hall, and the seven dorm leaders had regrouped in their usual cluster of dramatic personalities.
Their attention was now very clearly fixed on you, you could practically feel their eyes drilling into your back. Behind the thin mask you gave yourself a completely deadpan look. They couldn't possibly be more obvious. You huffed quietly and waited while the last details were set in place, a student lit the final candle on a low chandelier.
âEarlier you mentioned that your family works in the field of musical performance,â Rollo said. You turned your head so quickly your neck nearly cracked.
âAnd⌠that you yourself train your voice.â
Out of the corner of your eye you saw Kalim elbow Azul so he would stop talking to Idia and pay attention. Vil's eyes sharpened with sudden artistic interest...That was definitely not a good sign.
Rollo clasped his hands together near his chest, almost pleading. âThe choir scheduled for tonight has been⌠interruptedâ
He then extended his hands toward you. âIf the young lady who helped save this ceremony would be willingâeven a brief performanceââ His palms opened upward. ââŚit might help restore calm among our guests.â
You bit the inside of your cheek to stop a tiny panicked squeak.
Kalim suddenly jumped forward, stopping far too close to your face. âThat sounds fantastic!â He grabbed both your hands enthusiastically. You flinched slightly at the stab of pain in your knuckles. âOh! Right, sorry!â
He released the injured one immediately, though his excitement didnât dim in the slightest. âYou can sing? You didnât mention that earlier!â
You tried to respond, anything, but your mouth stayed half-open when Azul stepped closer too, wearing an expression of dangerously genuine curiosity.
âHow convenient,â he said smoothly. âIt seems the young lady possessed hidden talentsâ His sincere smile somehow made you even more nervous.
At lightning speed your eyes scanned the seven dorm leaders and Rollo, completely unable to form a single word. Every possible response in your head was immediately replaced by another, or interrupted by something someone in front of you said.
ââŚthis is either the best narrative resolution ever or the beginning of a catastrophic post-credits scene,â Idia whispered to Riddle, he rolled his eyes and ignored the comment.
âWell thenâŚâ Vil crossed his arms, visibly expectant. âCan you?â
His smile looked like that of a film director who had just discovered his next muse and was about to shoot the best scene of his career.
âHere we go again,â groaned Leona, pinching the bridge of the nose. âStop crowding her againâ Vil gestured for him to be quiet.
You closed your mouth...Opened it again...Closed it again; then slowly inhaled. Honestly⌠it had already been a very long day: You had snuck into an international festival without an official invitation; dodged lethal magic-draining flowers; lied to the host of the entire event and punched him in the face in the middle of a burning hall.
From one of the tall windows of the hall, you had a perfect view of the performance unfolding below.
Malleus stood right at the center of the marble circleâcalm, steady, almost statuesque. When he sang, his voice carried through the entire hall with a strength that everyone could feel. Beside him, Azul and Idia accompanied the song with suspicious precision; you had never seen them rehearse this performance, and you were fairly certain you had never heard this song echoing through the dorm corridors either.
ââŚwow,â Grim whispered from your arms, barely peeking out to watch. âTheyâre actually killing itâ
âYeahâŚâ You leaned forward a little more.
The other dorm leaders stood off to one side of the hall watching the performance unfold, and just as he had promised, Leona had absolutely no intention of participating.
You leaned a little farther when you noticed something odd about Idiaâs performance in front of the guests. ââŚIs Idia using a voice device?â
ââŚthat guy really canât live without technology,â Grim muttered, crossing his arms. His expression flattened when he spotted the small device Idia was clearly using to sing for him.
And even soâŚThe performance was magnificent.
Malleusâs voice sounded so majestic it was both deep and almost angelic, probably one of the many perks of being a high fae and future prince. Idiaâs voiceâunexpectedly delicate despite being technologicalâand Azulâs tone blended perfectly together.
You rested your arms on the stone window frame and closed your eyes, finally allowing yourself to enjoy the evening the way you had originally planned. Grim climbed onto the window ledge beside you, adjusting his mask so he could see better. Both of you swayed gently with the rhythm of the music, and a smile slowly spread across your face.
âTheyâve got this,â you murmured quietly, tapping a finger against your arm in time with the music. âBastards⌠is there anything they canât do well?â
Grim snickered, covering his mouth with his paw to keep the sound down. âTheyâre totally showing off.â
You laughed quietly along with him. When you opened your eyes again, you found Grim staring at you. âYouâre next.â
Your smile, which had started out sarcastic, shifted into something more mischievous.
You looked back down toward the hall. The voices still flowed together in harmony, moving around the marble circle with a grace that Vil was probably mentally approving from somewhere nearby. The second chorus was about to begin.
âWellâŚâ you straightened up, adjusting the fall of your skirt and the lace miraculously still intact over the red brocade. âI suppose itâs time to close the night with a golden finishâ
Grim looked up at you, eyes narrowing skeptically, his little paws stretching toward you to be held again.âYou know how to sing?â
You lifted him and settled him onto your shoulder, both of you looked down toward the stage one last time. Your voice obviously wouldnât sound as perfect as Malleusâs, but at least it would sound human, warm.
Or so you hoped.
You adjusted your mask and stepped toward the staircase, running your hand along the stone edge of the window and grabbing a small black fan.
ââŚWhere did you get that fan?â Grim asked.
You opened it, revealing a simple design of floral embroidery and delicate lace. âIt was on one of the benchesâ
âHng⌠youâre adding more drama.â
Right then, Malleusâs voice surged through the entire hall structure as he reached the final note. The sound vibrated through the room, leaving behind a faint but powerful echo.
You paused mid-step and glanced upward as if your eyes could follow the note sliding through the air, then you gave Grim a playful look. âCome onâ You turned toward the stairs. âWeâve got to compete with our princeâ
The final chord echoed for a few seconds, applause followed, warm and energized, proof that the performance of those three had worked. The night had been saved.
You set Grim down at the top of the stairs, placing him beside a small decorative window at his height so he could watch the next act. When your heel touched the first step, the lighting along the staircase dimmed slightly, casting a softer contrast around your silhouette.
Fan open, one hand resting lightly on the railing, your heart racing a mile a minute. This would either go spectacularly wellâŚ
or become the most embarrassing moment of your life.
You glanced once more at Grim for support, he lifted one paw in a tiny thumbs-up; that was apparently the feline version of encouragement.
And so you began your descent, slow steps, measured, careful. Falling now would be catastrophic. No one wanted to watch the mysterious masked woman who had saved the evening tumble down twenty marble steps.
âMasquerade
Paper faces on parade
Masquerade
Hide your face, so the world will never find youâŚâ
The applause died instantly, your voice wasn't loud nor powerful like Malleusâs, it didnât have Azulâs precision, nor Idiaâs delicate tone...But hopefully it was unmistakably human, and familiar. Almost⌠comforting.
Each step down the marble curved with the melody, the lace of the dress catching the candlelight, the fan tilting slightly, slow movements as if you were stepping into a courtship circle.
Below in the hall, the seven leaders stood still. Malleus, Idia, and Azul had returned to stand with the others and now the entire group once again had their eyes fixed on you.
Both Azul and Riddle tensed in unison, not expecting your voice to emerge so soft. Singing while descending a staircase could be rather complicated if you didnât have proper vocal control; walking while singing alone could already be tiring and might make your voice tremble.
Kalim, who stood on the opposite side of Riddle, grabbed his sleeve and began shaking it, pointing at you as you continued your descent. His mouth hung open, nearly reaching the floor, forming a small wow while you fanned yourself with each descending step.
âMasquerade
Every face a different shade
Masquerade
Look around, thereâs another mask behind youâ
You continued downward, slow but steady, each step landing precisely with the tempo of the lyrics. Now the fan moved a little faster.
Vil followed your figure with every step, every movement of your dress flowing smoothly over the stairs; your posture perfectly straight, your weight settling properly onto each foot as it should, the heels striking neatly in time with the tempo. He watched how you moved the fan, as if it were a supporting actor that required very little to be perfect.
Idia stood behind Vil, slightly hunched with his mask poorly positioned; it looked like he had removed it for a moment after the performance, or rather, like he had deflated after carrying out such an intense social activity in front of so many people. His head barely leaned past Vilâs shoulder as he watched how you didnât need much to sound⌠simple, soothing.
The last curve of the staircase opened beneath your feet. The light framed you warmer there, spilling gold across the newly polished floor. You extended the hand holding the fan slightly to the side as the verse neared its end, and when your foot touched the final stepâŚthe music swelled, the violins accompanying the delicate chimes while a few percussion instruments followed.
âFlash of mauve,
Splash of puce,
Fool and king,
Ghoul and goose,
Green and black,
Queen and priest,
Trace of rouge,
Face of beastâ
You advanced farther into the open hall, guests stepped aside to give you room, as if the song itself were clearing a path for you. The warmth of your voice filled the space the fear had left behind earlier, moving through the hall softer than magic, steadier than the ceremony.
Leona had remained leaning against a pillar, watching without making any visible movement or comment toward the others. His arms rested at his sides, palms against the pillar, his gaze moving up and down your figure as he watched you walk through the crowd. But he wasnât looking at you the way Vil was.
No. He observed you as if trying to solve a puzzle that had been gnawing at him since the afternoon in the plaza. The mysterious masked girl who had stumbled into the group and carried herself with a natural ease almost humiliating for the seven of them clearly had an ace up her sleeve⌠an ace that felt strangely familiar, though he couldnât remember from where.
And MalleusâŚwas doing exactly the same. Watching you; but with a softer gaze, as though he were seeing a nymph within her own spring and he were merely a mortal fortunate enough to stumble upon her, fate too generous to allow him to witness such a spectacle.
ThenâŚmore voices joined, almost by accident. A voice close to you murmured quietly, then a couple near the edge of the circle, just above the violins, then another pair, cautious but slightly more confident.
All of those voices testing whether they were allowed to joinâas though they were forming a chorus to accompany your performance. And you allowed it.
A performance so human was always better when accompanied, wasnât it?
âFaces
Take your turn, take a ride
On the merry-go-round
In an inhuman raceâŚâ
A pair of masked dancers stepped onto the open floor, slowly and cautiously at first; no choreography, only instinct, their movements catching the rhythm just as the candlelight caught the stained glass.
More joined. It wasnât a full dance yetâjust a movement here, another there. And gradually, what had begun with only your voice started turning into a complete spectacle.
You moved the fan in flowing motions upward with the rhythm of the lyricsâthe dramatic courtship play Grim had mentioned.
âEye of gold,
Thigh of blue,
True is false,
Who is who?
Curl of lip,
Swirl of gown,
Ace of hearts,
Face of clownâ
The chorus of guests was unmistakable now, harmonizing with yoursânot raising their voices to compete with you, but filling the space so the performance reverberated just as powerfully as Malleusâs voice alone had earlier.
Dozens of voices intertwined softly beneath yours; it was like watching the masquerade itself sing to close the night. Silk skirts began to spin, cloaks gliding across the floor, candlelight casting soft shadows over every figure and across the marble.
âFaces
Drink it in, drink it up
Till youâve drowned in the light, in the sound
But who can name the face?â
You turned your head toward a woman dressed exquisitely, wearing an immaculate violet gown, a mask almost identical to yours covered her eyes, she also carried a fan matching her dress.
With a movement that seemed rehearsed, the two of you raised your fans in front of your faces at the same moment. Everyone nearby who held a fan did exactly the same.
And for the third time that eveningâafter an inconvenient encounter, after an infernal chaosâthe event finally felt like a masquerade again.
Right there, at the center of everything, this time a center you had actually sought, you found yourself surrounded by a ballroom that had willingly become part of your song.
âMasquerade!
Grinning yellows, spinning reds
Masquerade!
Take your fill, let the spectacle astound you!â
The dance burst to life.
No longer were there hesitant couples barely swaying, now they spun with confidence to the sound of the violins, gowns and suits tracing wide arcs across the marble floor. You moved among the turns like a master of ceremonies, your skirtâs movement blending with the others, spinning not to dance but to carry your voice to every corner of the hall.
Kalimâs eyes widened as he watched the sea of fabrics spinning and spinningâit was dizzying just to see so much coordination. âOh! People are really joining in!â
Azul watched keenly. âFascinating⌠sheâs stabilizing the entire roomâ
A few steps away, a Noble Bell student, tall, immaculate, his uniform pristine and untouched by ash, walked directly toward you.
Closer, closer still, until he stood only a single step away, moving in rhythm with the crowd, following your steps before bowing and extending his hand.
A formal invitation, a very legitimate one, the kind of official invitation you had hoped for ever since the festival had been announced. All afternoon you had hesitated about where to walk, hesitated about what to say so you wouldnât be discovered. NowâŚ
you simply wanted to dance, and you accepted the invitation without stopping your singing.
You snapped the fan closed softly against your hip while allowing him to guide you into the swirling mass of couples turning across the floor. Some dancers even lifted their partners into the air, far too bold a movement for you, so you wisely didnât attempt it.
Your dance was coordinated and fairly simple compared to the others, whose steps already carried the etiquette of ballroom tradition, yours remained softer, movements that allowed the dress to breathe and form dark circles trimmed with red, and enough stillness that your voice could continue floating above the chorus.
The student spun you once just as the orchestra swelled, your dress opened in a dark flare that caught the golden light like a glowing ember refusing to fade.
Across the floor, the seven dorm leaders watched as the performance had truly become thatâ a performance.
Dance, music, lead voice, chorus. Had you really not planned this from the start?
Vil murmured more to himself than the others, captivated by the way your dress followed every turn. âControl, breath rhythm, audience integration.â He adjusted both sleeves before adding his final verdict. âShe has stage instinctâ
He walked straight into the crowd and invited the first person he saw waiting near the edge of the dance floor. The others stared in silence for a few seconds before Kalim burst into laughter and strode toward the center as well, inviting a Noble Bell student to dance.
The hall had fully surrendered now, no more uncertain steps or scattered movementsâonly a sea of silk and velvet, feathered hats swaying in the air, lace glimmering beneath the softened lights.
Couples changed hands in coordinated turns, everyone pulsed with the rhythm of the music.
âYou can fool
Any friend who ever knew youâ
The student guiding you spun you once more, then another step, then he released your hand with elegant timing within the flow of the dance, allowing another guest to take it. Then another, and another; You remained on the dance floor as if you had been born to dance until sunrise.
The orchestra never truly stopped after that.
One song melted into the next, the tempo rising and softening in waves while the lantern light grew warmer, as though the night itself had finally remembered what it was meant to be.
And you danced, and danced, and danced. Occasionally glancing upward toward the window where Grim watched from his hiding place, until he grew bored and hurried down the stairs toward a small table where snacks and drinks had been arranged.
And Grim, being Grim, went straight for the snacks. You shook your head, amused, unable to suppress the smile at the irony of it all: Grim worrying only about food, completely forgetting the stealth partâŚwhile you danced with strangers.
At first.
Because in the middle of another turn, Kalim arrived. He practically bounced his way over, bowing with an enthusiastic sincerity that somehow remained perfectly polite.
âMay I?â he asked, already smiling as though the answer could only be yes.
His dancing was open, slightly less precise than the formal protocol demanded, but relaxed enough that the turns felt light and smooth rather than rigid and ceremonial.
If the music hadnât dictated the style, Kalim probably would have dragged you into a dozen far more energetic moves across the entire floor.
âBest night ever,â he laughed softly as you spun together. His laughter was so contagious it made you laugh tooâthough you kept it much more controlled this time.
âIâm really glad you stayedâ He spun you again in a partner exchange.
Next came Riddle. He stepped forward with impeccable posture, offering his hand with textbook ceremonial formality. âI would like to request this dance,â he said, composed, but unmistakably sincere.
His steps were perfect, structured, exactly as ballroom manuals likely instructed for someone leading a partner. Not stiff, simply preciseâas if every movement had been practiced until he could guide another person with absolute confidence.
âYou handle chaos surprisingly well,â he admitted quietly during a turn.
AhâŚif only you knew
Then came Azul. He bowed with a touch of theatrical flair, though still formal, like a merchant about to greet a valuable soul. âIt would be a tragedy not to experience a dance with youâ
He guided you effortlessly, every step deliberate, every movement calculated so that you appeared exquisite, as though you were a rare piece in an impossibly expensive collection. And he remained in the backgroundâŚletting you shine.
Vil arrived afterward as if the night itself had set a timer so he would appear at the exact right moment, balancing the aesthetic of the three who had gone before him.
His hand was firm, confident; the dance elegant without effort, posture impeccable, movement fluidâthe kind of partner who doesnât just dance but shapes the entire image of the ballroom around him.
âYou understand presentation,â he murmured near your ear. âPresence. Thatâs rare to findâ He released your hand for an open step, ending with you spinning on yourself and landing briefly in the blondâs arms before he let you go again.
You were surprised when Idia came next. His expression showed he was fighting every ounce of his anxiety and preparing himself like someone about to face a hidden final boss.
ââŚokay.â He took your hand in his, visibly trembling and a little hesitant. âStatistically speaking Iâm going to regret thisâor dieâif I donât at least try onceâŚâ
His steps were clumsy, but not enough for you to step on his feet, nor for him to step on yours. Idia had more secrets tucked up his sleeves than he liked to show the world.
One step, then another, and then, surprisingly, he became careful, mentally counting the next movements so you could continue looking radiant in your dress. âItâs easy⌠being next to you,â he admitted quietly, placing a hand on your waist. âThat⌠thatâs not common for me.â
Leona came next. He didnât arrive in a spin, handing you off to the next dancer. No; he simply appeared when the music slowed slightly, one brow raised and the corner of his mouth faintly lifted, refusing you the honor of seeing a full smile.
His hand extended with the same casual inevitability he had shown in the plaza. âCome on. You already survived the worst of itâ
His grip was firm, steady, strong enough that dancing with him felt like walking beside someone who had temporarily decided not to bite anyone.
Like with Idia, you were surprised by how careful Leona could be while dancing. Of course, as a prince he had been forced to learn etiquette and ballroom lessons. And now you were witnessing the results of that irritating education.
Very good results, to be honest.
Because when the choreography called for the lead to lift his partner again, Leona didnât hesitate, nor did he give you a warning, he lifted you by the waist. You let out a small yelp before touching the floor again, Leona steadied you against him so you wouldnât stumble during the next steps.
âYou donât show panic,â he said quietly, leaning closer to whisper near your ear. âDidnât expect to find someone like that at an event this pompous.â
And finally...Malleus.
He appeared without hurry, not interrupting the moment you had with Leona until the partners changed naturally. He stepped forward as the music reached the last measures of the slow dance, transitioning toward something deeper and more intimate, an instant carved into midnight itself as the first rhythm came to a close.
âMay I share this dance?â he asked softly, bowing slightly before taking your hand and guiding you through the final movements of that first rhythm with the other dancers.
His hand was warm around yours, his steps slow, deliberate, impossibly gentle for someone so tall and imposing, as if the music being played had been written specifically for the two of you.
âYou brought light back to this hall tonight,â he said quietly so only you could hear him, ignoring everyone else around you. âWhether you intended to or notâ
Laughter floated through the air as the first rhythm of the night ended. Seven dances, with seven boys, all stepping away from you carrying the same strange feeling, that they had just spent time with someone important⌠and somehow familiar.
And you allowed yourself to keep smiling and dancing. For once, you allowed yourself to have the night Crowley had stolen from you.
One dance became two; two became five.
At some point the evening stopped feeling like something you had infiltrated and barely survived, and became something you were simply living. Living far from the cold walls of Ramshackle, far from the magic-soaked stone of NRC.
In the distance, the spell of the moment broke with a bell chime, small and practical. A bell announcing that it was already very late.
Your eyes shot toward the tall clock mounted against the marble wall. ââŚoh no.â
You had approached the snack table, where Grim had apparently devoured everything edible and was now curled up beside it waiting for you.
When he heard you mutter, he lifted his head. âMm?â
âWeâre out of time,â you said, looking at him in horror.
âHMNYA?!â he jumped up.
âIf we donât leave now,â you whispered in his ear, avoiding attracting attention, the earlier squeak had already made several guests glance toward the table, âwe wonât get back to campus before they doâ
You scanned the crowd, searching for an escape route. âAnd if Crowley gets there firstââ
Grim gasped and jumped into your arms. âWeâre deadâ
âExactlyâ
The music swelled again and several people stepped back into the center of the hall for another round, perfect cover. You adjusted Grim in your arms and reopened the fan, hiding him slightly as you began walking quickly.
âOkay, we walk fast,â you said quietly while heading toward the reading hall doors. âNo running. We blend in with the people leaving and slip out before anyone notices.â
You pushed your way step by step through the living sea of masks, guests, and students, gliding between couples mid-turn, passing laughing students.
Every movement controlled to avoid suspicion, but urgent.
You were only a few steps away, close enough to feel the cool night air slipping through the carved gap in the wooden door, close enough that one more step would take you out of the lantern light, the music, the masquerade entirely.
And you pushed the enormous door open, stepping straight into the outer corridor.
âThis was probably the most fun disaster Iâve ever attended.â Kalim had his hands behind his head, still smiling as if the night hadnât stopped being magical.
The dorm leaders had gathered near one of the marble pillars. The music from the hall drifted faintly just a few meters away.
Riddle adjusted his gloves, nodded, and placed his hands behind his back. âThe structural damage was severe, but the response was⌠effective.â
Azul had picked up a glass from the table, apparently unaware that Grim had already raided the food there. He swirled it in his hand, watching the liquid spiral slightly.
âIndeedâ He took a small sip and looked toward the hall doors. âAlthough there is still one clause unresolvedâ
Vil had followed him and taken a glass of wine, sipping occasionally. He hadnât even finished half of it. âThe mysterious ladyâ
Idia nodded, by now he had removed his mask. âMysterious young woman, SSR-tier character who punches the main villain with maxed-out stats.â
Kalim, who had only half been listening, glanced aroundâthe others, the muffled music beyond the door, the outer corridorâhis gaze bounced everywhere for a moment, then he suddenly straightened, exhaling through his nose.
âShe said her brother studies at NRC.â That made the others turn toward him.
Vil lifted the glass to his lips thoughtfully, his eyes sharp though his mind clearly elsewhere. âYes⌠that detail is usefulâ
âThe NRC enrollment is not infinite,â Riddle said with a slight frown. âEstablishing familial connections may take timeâ He sighed. âBut it will not be impossibleâ
Vil set the glass carefully on a stone bench. âA voice like that wonât remain hidden for long.â
âYes,â Malleus added calmly, his eyes drifting toward the hall. âFate rarely introduces someone only onceâ Vil crossed his arms at that remark, giving a small nod before following the direction of Malleusâs gaze.
Leona had remained leaning against the column beside Kalim the entire time, hands in his pockets, head tilted toward the hall doorsâstill listening to the distant music and the crowd dancing, laughing, talking.
âMaybe weâll see her again before the night endsââ Kalim started.
But Leonaâs ears sharpened, his eyes narrowed toward the distance.
ââŚOiâ That was all he said to make the others pay attention.
On the other side of the outer corridor, the great doors of the hall openedâand there you were, moving quickly. The black and crimson dress was unmistakable even under the dim light of the corridor, the small creature tucked in your arms as you hurried toward the outer doors.
That alone was enough for the seven of them to straighten in unison, watching your figure cross the corridor. Kalim pointed at you and barely raised his voice to say, âThere she goes!â
Vil stepped forward immediately, then another step, Azul set his own glass beside Vilâs, adjusted his suit, and followed him. The seven of them began to move closer, like a flock of crows closing in on a small prey, or rather⌠their little dove.
They were close enough to see you, but not close enough for you to notice them. Your figure passed beside a guest whose decorations stuck out everywhere, especially along the sleeves and shoulders.
And then the most clichĂŠ, ridiculous thing that could possibly happen at an event like this happened.
A strand of your hair snagged as you rushed past, and the ribbon of your mask caught on the guestâs decorations.
âAhâsorry!â the guest said, quickly freeing your hair and the ribbon when your head jerked backward. The tug made you drop Grim, and he jumped to the floor.
âItâs nothing,â you replied, continuing forward once your hair came loose. The guest went his way while you headed straight for the outer doors.
The ribbon slipped free, the mask fell one step later. You instinctively turned, bringing a hand to the back of your head, startled as the fabric mask dropped to the ground.
One second, one undeniable second was all it took for your face to be completely revealed under the moonlight. The mystery shattered, and before the seven leaders of NRC, the young lady was revealed:
The Prefect of Ramshackle.
Meanwhile you were far too busy picking up the fallen mask, your heart pounding like you had just run a marathon when the realization hit you all at once.
ââŚoh shitââ You snatched the mask off the floor and bolted toward the door.
âGRIM!â you shouted, your voice now unmistakably clear in the night air and the quiet city. âMOVE OR YOUâRE SLEEPING ON THE FLOOR WITHOUT TUNA FOR A WEEK IF WEâRE LATE!â
The small hooded creature shrieked in terror. âYES, PREFECTâ!â
The two of you ran like a princess racing back to her tower before the spell wore off...except you looked more like two idiots sprinting full speed toward the city lights as if your lives, and possibly your financial privileges, depended on it. Within seconds the darkness swallowed you both, disappearing down the outer corridor toward the main gates.
Silence followed, and the ones who had been pursuing you with steady steps⌠were left stunned by the revelation.
Kalimâs jaw dropped, not caring how dramatic or over-the-top he looked; Riddleâs eyes widened and a faint blush colored his cheeks; Azul removed his glasses to clean them with trembling hands, an entirely pointless gesture, as he pinched the bridge of his nose; Idia made a strangled sound, like his system had just crashed into a blue screen he couldnât reboot; Leona and Vil blinked at the same time, shooting each other a sidelong glance; Malleus simply watched as the final piece of the puzzle clicked neatly into place, confirming that lingering sense of familiarity.
A pause followed...A long pause, far too long.
Vil didnât know what to do with his hands, or with his entire existence. He pressed his lips into a thin line, moved his hands aimlessly for a moment, and was just about to turn away in frustration. ââŚoh for fuckâs sake.â The fact that he had sworn meant you had played your move perfectly.
Idia crouched down and buried his face in his hands. âI want to dieâ
Azul, still pinching the bridge of his nose, let out a long breath. âWe should have knownâ
And honestly, yes.
They had been idiots not to realize; inside their minds the gears finally started turning: The voice, her composure in danger, that laugh, the ridiculous courage, the familiar, the way she handled chaos without magic.
Leona dragged a hand down his face and let out a deep, irritated growl. âShe masked her scent so we wouldnât noticeâ
Kalim, whose mouth had still been hanging open, suddenly burst into a small laugh as he looked toward where you had disappeared. âOh! That makes so much sense!â He laughed freely.
âNo wonder we could flirt with her so naturallyâ
âFLIRT?!â
âNOBODY HERE FLIRTED WITH ANYONE!â
âMY CHARISMA STAT IS NOT THAT HIGH!â
Several voices erupted at once, some embarrassed, some shy, some in complete denial. Malleus, still perfectly composed in the middle of the chaos, simply closed his eyes and allowed his companions to argue, offering the night a small smile.
Leona didnât even stay to watch the end of the debate over who had flirted more. He simply closed his eyes, shoved his hands into his pockets, and walked back toward the hall, he shouting was already giving him a headache.
Context: Being a decent person is quite a rare thing in NRC and many of the students there wanted to have some time with you, but your inner circle of friends won't let that slide at all. Here are some of their reaction to someone bothering their time with you.
Other dorms: Heartslabyul, Savanaclaw, Octavinelle, Scarabia, Pomefiore, Ignihyde, Diasomnia
Ace âĽď¸
Deuce â ď¸
CaterâŚď¸
Trey âŁď¸
Riddleđš
I'll be back with posting the next part later next week! Hope you like this new series I've made! :3
You are doing the slightest thing that suggests cuteness in front of him. Looking at him with those widened eyes and a soft smile on your face. Just absolutely glowing for no reason, or maybe that's just how he sees you through rose-colored glasses 24/7.
Idia, on the other hand, was unfazed. "What an idiotâŚ" he scoffed, turning his head away to hide his growing blush and wobbling smile.
Meanwhile, a little sneak peek through his mind: AHFBHDABFDHAG?? WHY ARE THEY DOING THAT EXPRESSION?? SO FUCKING CUTE, LET ME KISS THEM. I WANNA NOM THEM, SQUISH THEM- PLEASE LET ME SQUISH THOSE CHEEKS; I NEEDED IT SO BADLY AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAâ
"Now, can you leave me alone?" He turned back to you, his expression returning to its usual aloofness. "Unlike you, I have other things to do thanâŚ" He takes one look at your face, immediately regrets it, then internally sighs in defeat.
Please, someone, help him before he can reach your face, play with it like Play-Doh, and coo sweet nothings. SOMEONE HELPâ
stars that shine as bright as your eyes @mesmeraizen - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
snowghoul
ellievsbear
pixelskylines
theartofmadeline
blakekathryn
origamiaround
