“This is a joke,” I said.
Not a question.
A statement.
Because it had to be.
Somewhere, faintly, I thought I heard someone chuckle—but when I glanced around, no one was close enough for it to make sense.
I turned back to him.
“No joke, Miss Cordoza,” he said. “I expect your submission by the Equinox.”
Then he was gone.
Just like that.
Leaving me standing there with a piece of parchment that felt heavier than my failed exam.
I read it again.
Carefully.
Every word.
Because I had a tendency to miss things.
To assume.
To fill in blanks that weren’t actually there.
And that had gotten me into trouble more than once.
A love quest.
I stared at the words.
Unblinking.
Uncomprehending.
A course in Astronomy—one I had taken because I genuinely loved the stars, even if I couldn’t interpret them the way others could—and this was my only path to passing?
The task?
Chart a course to your true love.
Using celestial alignment.
Magical resonance.
Occultation tracking.
I let out a slow breath.
“Of course,” I murmured.
Because why wouldn’t this be the solution?
