The next daybrings the campus tour, where our parents are invited into our classrooms, given the rare chance to witness the inner workings of Whittaker—and, by extension, our lives.
My mother is immediately taken with Professor Barrows.She hangs on his every word, her curiosity lighting up as he speaks about the interplay of ley lines and mineral resonance. I realize then—somewhat sheepishly—that I’ve never actually asked what type of elemental he is. I know he wields, of course, but haven’t thought to find out which element.
Earth, it turns out. And suddenly, everything about him makes sense. He has the patience of stone worn smooth by time, his presence grounding and solid as the earth beneath his feet. Like mulch pressed into a garden bed, he is cultivating, nurturing, and known for helping things grow.
“Actually, Celeste here is one of my prized students,” I hear him say, and my heart flutters with a kind of startled pride. “She’s been working on a fascinating extra credit project about elemental fusion. I’m eager to see how it turns out.”
My mother beams at me, clearly impressed, as he leads her through the classroom with gentle authority, gesturing toward charts and diagrams. I stand just behind them, a strange warmth blooming in my chest.
* * *
The following evening,a formal dinner is planned in honor of officers and their families—a high-society affair, from what I’ve heard. Only the top-tier students are invited, along with handpicked guests.
I’m still brushing off the lingering bits of powdered root and dried petals clinging to my pants from the day’s Botany lesson when Noa comes bursting into the Blue Dahlia common room, still in his gym clothes. His cheeks are flushed from the run and something brighter, light catching the fine sheen of sweat along his collarbone. His gray shirt clings to him, pulled tight over his chest and shoulders, every line of muscle defined beneath the fabric. There’s a lazy heat in his gaze, a post-run glow thatmakes him look both wrecked and alive, like the world hasn’t quite caught up to his pulse yet.
Gods, how does he look this good after a run?I’d probably look like a drowned rat.
“Guess what,” he says, holding up a thick ivory invitation like a golden ticket. “You’re going.”
“I’m what?”
He grins. “To the dinner. You, me. Black tie, fancy food, full parade of fire and formality.”
I raise a brow, still skeptical. “And I’m invited because…?”
He steps closer, the invitation now dangling between two fingers as if he’s offering me a secret. “Because Headmaster Thorne said I could bring a guest,” he says, then—smirking—“and General Vaylor told me to bring mystunningly beautifulgirlfriend.” The look he gives me is all fire and trouble.
The headmaster’s name snags in my chest. I haven’t told Noa yet about my father and Thorne’s friendship—or the role Thorne played in getting me here.
Noa’s arm hooks my waist and he dips me low. “Guess we better find you something to wear to the ball, Cinderella.” His breath skims my lips. “But first…” His voice drops, rough velvet. “You’re going to take me upstairs and into your shower so I can make sure to get youthoroughlydirty before we both get clean.”
The hunger in his eyes ignites something low in me—and if swooning were a reasonable option, I’d have done it on principle alone.
CHAPTER 43
A lover’s gaze or a general’s command can often move the same pieces across the board.
—A History of Elemental Conflict: The Magickal Wars and Rebellions of the Last Millennium
Ididn’t bring anything formal enough for the dinner to Whittaker, but Amelia insists I borrow a gown of hers. Apparently, earth-wielders host a few formal gatherings throughout the year that warrant more than just jeans and a cute top.
I’m stunned when she hands me a gown of deep green silk—the kind of green that feels both lush and dangerous, like it was pulled straight from the heart of a forest. Delicate embroidery climbs the sheer fabric: leaves and pale-gold blossoms that shimmer as they spill down the gathered bodice and skirt like sunlight through a canopy.
Two velvet ribbons are tied into bows around my upperarms, leaving my shoulders bare. The bodice is snug and regal, cut daringly low in the back—an invitation of skin—before giving way to a shimmering skirt that moves like windswept petals.
Rozsen does my hair in soft waves that fall down my back, pinning one side back with a gold barrette shaped like a crescent leaf. Elliot takes over my makeup: ruby lips and a dusting of bronze and gold shimmer across my eyelids, subtle but striking. It’s a full squad effort.
When I finally look in the mirror, I don’t recognize myself.
I look… transformed. Like something ancient. Magick-born. Like someone who can command storms or calm oceans with a glance.
And for a moment, I let myself believe it.
That maybe—just for tonight—I can be all of it. Without fear. Without hiding.
Someone worthy of the name Thalrien.
A knock sounds at our suite door.
