Gavrail is crossing the quad toward us in his Vikhrostrum uniform—charcoal and silver, crisp lines, the kind of tailoring that makes him look like a weapon. His coat is open despite the bite still in the April air, as if cold is beneath his notice.
He stops a few paces away, posture perfect.
His eyes lock on mine first. Silver-flecked. A storm caged.
Then his gaze moves to my mother.
Something flickers in him. Whatever mask he was wearing shifts. Not gone, exactly. But… softened at the edges.
“Mrs. Farris,” he says, and his voice is gentler than I expect. He inclines his head with formal respect, but there’s something underneath it—something likeaffection.
My mother stares for a beat too long.
Then her face breaks.
“Gavrail,” she says, like she can’t decide whether to laugh or cry. “You arealive.”
His mouth twitches. “Last I checked.”
“Oh, don’t you get clever with me,” she snaps—fond, fierce—and then she’s moving. She releases my hand and strides right up to him like she owns the space between them.
Gavrail’s posture shifts a fraction—braced, ready for impact, unsure what to expect.
She grabs him. Both arms. Full force. A hug that is not polite or careful, but ferocious and maternal and—how dare you disappear from our lives and stand here like you didn’t crush us with the weight of it.
I freeze. Because Gavrail… doesn’t.
He exhales slowly—and his arms come around her without hesitation. One hand spreads across her back, holding her, and for a heartbeat he looks startlingly young, even though he towers over her now.
Then my mother squeezes harder.
“Rosalind—” he starts, voice heavy.
She tightens her grip like she’s trying to compress seven years into one breath. “Do not ‘Rosalind’ me. Do you have any idea what you put Celeste through? Me through?”
Heat flares in my face. “Mom?—”
She lifts one hand without letting go of him, like she’s swatting my protest away. “No. I get to say it. I’ve been saving it.”
Gavrail’s eyes flick to me again—quick, warning, apologetic, and maybe with a tiny thread of shame.
My mother pulls back just enough to look at him. Her hands slide up to his shoulders, gripping the uniform fabric like it’s the only thing keeping him in place.
“You look…” She frowns, eyes scanning his face, the hard edges, the discipline carved into his expression. “You look like your father.”
His jaw tightens. I can see him choosing words the way he chooses strikes.
“I’m sorry,” he says carefully. “It’s inexcusable—the way I disappeared…”
She waves her hand as if chasing away an insect. “It doesn’t matter. You are herenow.” Tears well in the corners of her eyes, threatening to spill any second. And it’s hard to tell who she’s more excited to see—her own daughter or my childhood best friend.
“You’ve grown,” she says, softer now as she looks up at him. “And my goodness, are you handsome. Celeste—isn’t he handsome?”
A corner of his mouth lifts. Just barely. “Oh… Celeste here has a lot of thoughts about me these days, but I’m not sure ‘handsome’ is one of them.”
He’s right, of course.Beautiful. Intimidating. Infuriating.Take your pick.
He smirks as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking, and then there it is—that one dimple. The one that always appeared when he was standing on my front steps back in Bulgaria with mud on his jeans and mischief in his eyes. The one that belongs to summers and secrets.
