A hush falls like frost over the room as a servant quietly guides them to a table near the front, adjacent to where General Vaylor and his officers are already seated.
Thorne clears his throat, waiting for attention to return to him. When it does, he smiles, steady and composed. “We are deeply honored tonight by a visit from General Kamenov,” he says smoothly. “Of course, it is no surprise that he should find his way here, as we’ve had the privilege of hosting his son, Gavrail, at Whittaker this past year.”
Whispers rise like phantoms around the room. A beat, then polite applause as eyes flick to the two striking men sitting beside each other.
“This evening is meant to honor our fourth-year students—the most accomplished class we’ve seen in decades. Their discipline, their skill, and their perseverance are a beacon of what lies ahead. The future is in good hands.”
Louder applause now, from students and parents alike.
His gaze sweeps the room—then lands on Noa, pride softening the sharp lines of his expression. “And in a fortuitous turn of events,” Thorne continues, “I am pleased to announce that one of our most exceptional students—top-ranking across all categories—Officer Noa Gallegher has officially been recruited by General Vaylor to join his elite Echo Squad immediately following graduation.”
A rush of applause breaks like a wave. Cheers. Foot stomps. Finn and Ryan’s “Oorah!” louder than the rest. But underneath it all, my blood goes strangely still. Because suddenly his future belongs to everyone in this room—and no longer just to us.
Noa grins. I look up at him in surprise as he leans in and squeezes my hand.
“It just happened. I didn’t get the chance to tell you yet.”
Well, that makestwothings we now need to talk about.
* **
The dinner is spectacular—honey-dippedburrata on crostinis, lobster bisque served in demitasse cups, iced platters of oysters arranged in elegant spirals. A salad so delicate it looks like edible art. Then the entrées—black cod decadently marinated, buttered crab legs cracked open with silver picks, filet mignon drizzled in black truffle demi-glace. Every plate is a masterpiece, every bite divine.
We eat. We drink. Toast after toast is raised in Noa’s honor—his courage, his brilliance, his future. Laughter rings like music, pride gleaming in his parents’ eyes, and even Noa looks lighter, brighter, caught in the warmth of a room built to celebrate him.
And all I can do is smile through the tightening in my chest. I feel like a shadow at the edge of the light, clapping for a joy that I can’t fully hold. Because beneath the champagne sparkle and silver applause, I know the truth no one is saying—he’s leaving. We only have a month left, maybe two, and I’m not ready to let him go.
* * *
Once dinner ends,the officers and families begin to mingle near tall side tables, the soft strains of the string quartet weaving through the room like silk.
Noa and his parents are quickly swept into a steady tide of guests—officers, officials, Whittaker professors—each offering congratulations and praise, each speaking of his future like it’s already written in the stars.
I’m stepping back from the crowd, the room blurring at the edges, when a throat clears quietly behind me.
I turn. And my breath catches.
Gavrail is there, like a storm caught mid-breath. Not standing so much as claiming the space—black dress uniformcarved to him, silver trim catching candlelight like a blade being drawn. Everything about him is restraint. Control so tight it feels almost violent.
His ash-brown hair is immaculately disheveled. A shadow of dark stubble frames the sharp line of his jaw. Every detail of him feels intentional—cut from shadow and steel, a body sculpted for war or worship, or both in equal measure.
But his eyes—his eyes are the tell.
They roam over me, possessive in a way I don’t have words for. He looks at me like I’m something he wasn’t expecting to see and hasn’t yet figured out how to look away from.
It’s the look that catches me off guard.
“Celeste,” he says, voice low. He closes the distance with measured steps, each one deliberate, as if he’s walking into enemy territory and daring anyone to object. He stops close enough that my magick stirs unbidden, responding to the shadows at my feet.
His gaze drops—slowly—to my hand.
To my ring.
A muscle feathers in his cheek.
He reaches for me, taking my hand with infuriating courtesy. A bow that reads like obedience—until he lifts my fingers to his mouth and presses a kiss to my knuckles.
His thumb slides over the ring—his ring—firm, unhurried. For a heartbeat, I swear it hums under his touch, faint and alive, like it recognizes him.
