Our eyes lock, just as they did that night at the bonfire, when firelight painted his face in gold and shadow, him up there and me in the crowd. Back then, we didn’t know what we were stepping into—what we’d become to each other. I smile at him, even though tears are blurring everything now.
After the rest of the graduates are called on stage, Barrows returns to the podium, eyes gleaming. “Go forward,” he says, his voice carrying, steady and strong, “not without fear—but with it. Fear means you are awake. Fear means you are paying attention. That you understand the weight of what you wield.”
He closes the scroll in his hand and looks up at the crowd, voice brightening to the expected ceremonial tone.
“Congratulations, graduates. May you all follow the righteous path of balance, and may the world hereby tremble at your feet.”
The quad erupts in cheers and laughter. Caps and robes and blasts of magick are flung into the air. Hug after hug ripples through the crowd like aftershocks. The quad is no longer solemn—now it’s alive, ringing with the joy of freedom, and the ache of change.
* * *
GAVRAIL
Gideon Barrows approaches like he knows how to move through predators—unexpectedly quiet, unhurried, footsteps lost beneath the old oaks of the quad. Graduation is unraveling into noise and celebratory chaos: laughter, shouted names, diplomas clutched as proof of survival.
I stay at the edge where the crowd can’t trap me. My gaze drifts—involuntarily, inevitably—toward Celeste, who is talking softly with a few friends. She stands near the dais with her squad, head tipped back as she laughs. The sound hits me, sharp as glass piercing under ribs. Like my body doesn’t know what to do with joy that isn’t paid for in blood.
“Gavrail. A moment?” Barrows’s voice is low. Measured.
I turn toward him, wary. Respectful enough to keep my face blank. “Sir.”
“You’ve done remarkable things here this year,” he says, eyes steady. “Not just with your power—but with your restraint. Your sense of honor. Of purpose.”
Praise. A lure, dressed as recognition.
I don’t answer. I let silence do what it’s always done for me—make people fill it with what they want.
Barrows follows my line of sight anyway, as if he can’t helphimself. As if she is a gravitational force and we’re all just pretending otherwise.
“I’ll be honest,” he continues. “The transition ahead will be difficult. This school—this legacy—is at a crossroads.” His gaze returns to mine. “I was hoping you might consider returning. Joining us as a fourth-year. With my support.” He pauses, watching for the crack. “You’d help shape what this school becomes. And I’d make sure you have the freedom to grow. Not just follow orders.”
Freedom. Another word people offer when they want ownership with better optics.
Something in me shifts anyway—raw and unwanted. Because the only freedom I’ve ever cared about has a name.
My eyes cut back to Celeste. She’s framed by the late light, hair catching fire at the edges, expression soft. For a second, the urge to go to her is so violent it feels like hunger.
Barrows’s voice drops, almost gentle. “Just… consider it an open invitation,” he says, pausing, and then—“I always find that the choices that challenge us the most often bring the deepest purpose.” He looks out over the quad again, gaze catching on Celeste—then back to me, like a man setting a hook. “And the ones who matter most… the ones who change everything… they’re always worth waiting for. Don’t you think?”
His hand taps my shoulder once, before he walks away.
I don’t move. Not at first.
I just watch Celeste as she turns, swallowed by bodies and sunlight and noise. My fingers twitch once—an old reflex, like shadows answering a call.
Then I curl them into a fist and force myself to stay where I am.
Because wanting her has always been the most dangerous thing about me.
* **
NOA
Students spill from the quad in every direction—some wiping tears from their eyes, others laughing freely, a few still tossing flickers of magick into the air as they celebrate.
I’ve only just extricated myself from my mother’s hugs and tears. My sister is practically bouncing with contained energy, while my father—solemn and sturdy—offers a few quiet words about what to expect at the Iron Wing training grounds. There’s a shine in his eyes when he looks at my new uniform.
Just beyond the edge of the crowd, I slip away, needing a moment to breathe. Needing Celeste, who said she’d meet me back at the Steps.
