Rozsen’s eyes light with mischief. “That’ll be him.”
Elliot sweeps past us and cracks the door open just enough to peek. “No kidnapping without a signed form.”
Noa’s voice comes through the narrow gap, warm with amusement. “I’ll risk it.”
Elliot opens the door wider as she grins. And Noa steps inside.
For half a second, my brain blanks. Not because I haven’t seen him in uniform—of course I have—but because this isn’t the daily version of it. This is the formal cut, crisp and sharp, dark fabric fitted to his shoulders like it’s been tailored with intent. His fire insignia and rank patches gleam cleanly against the sleeve. His hair is combed just enough to look effortless, and the turquoise of his eyes lights bright against the dark.
He stops mid-step. Just… stops.
All the easy swagger drains out of him like someone pulled the plug. His throat works as his jaw tightens.
For a rare, perfect moment, Noa Gallegher looks like he forgot how to breathe.
“Hi,” I manage, because my mouth has forgotten everything else.
His eyes drop—slowly—to the velvet ribbons at my arms, to the gold blossoms stitched down the bodice, to the way the skirt pools around my feet like something alive. Then they lift again, focusing on my face with a heat that makes my skin prickle.
“Celeste,” he says, and my name sounds different in his mouth tonight. Lower. Rougher. Like he’s tasting it.
He crosses the room in three strides, and I watch Amelia and Rozsen immediately turn into statues of exaggerated innocence.
Noa stops in front of me, close enough that I can feel the warmth of him before he even touches me. “You look…” He blinks, as if searching for a word to explain whatever it is he’s feeling.
“Like I’m about to drown under a wave of Service etiquette?” I offer.
A laugh breaks out of him—short, real—then his gaze sharpens again. His fingers brush my upper arm, feather-light, where the velvet ribbon is tied. His touch lingers just long enough to feel like a claim.
“No,” he murmurs. “You look… beautiful.” A beat. “Youarebeautiful.”
Something warm blooms behind my ribs.
Elliot makes a choked noise. “Alright,” she announces, clapping once. “We’ve done our civic duty. You two can have your fairytale night. But if you ruin her lipstick…” She narrows her eyes as she taps Noa smartly in the chest with her finger. “I will hunt you down and hurt you.”
I laugh, but Noa’s gaze dips briefly to my mouth—like thethought crosses his mind, like he can picture it, vividly—and something dark and hungry flashes there before he reins it in.
“No promises,” he whispers before holding out his arm to me. “Ready, Miss Farris?”
I hook my arm through his, letting myself feel the heat and steadiness of him.
“Ready, Mr. Gallegher.”
* * *
The dinner is heldin the ballroom of the Ivy House—a place I’ve never set foot in until tonight.
Marble floors veined with gold gleam beneath the soft glow of crystal chandeliers. Tall, stately pillars guide us toward a vast room with ceilings that soar, three times taller than they are wide. Banquet tables are arranged with military precision, leaving an open space in front for dancing, and a raised platform to the left cradles the podium. Next to that, tucked beneath a gilded arch, a string quartet sits poised, their black attire sharp against the pale marble floors. Servants in immaculate white jackets line the walls, silver trays in hand, poised to begin service as we take our seats.
Headmaster Thorne steps up to the podium, ready to deliver one of his signature speeches, but before he can speak, the ballroom doors open with a slow and deliberate creak.
Six Krovya soldiers stand in formation beneath the arch, Gavrail and several Vikhrostrum students behind them, all dressed in their ceremonial uniforms—stately, polished, severe. But it is the man beside Gavrail who turns the air electric.
General Neron Kamenov.
Gavrail’s father.
My spine straightens of its own accord. And suddenly I’m twelve years old again. Nervous and terrified to be caughtdripping wet in his living room after Gavrail saved me from the lake.
