She sighs. “Look, he’s back where he belongs. Among his own.”
I turn fully now, pulse hammering, fire behind my eyes. “And what, exactly, is that supposed to mean?”
Her smile is tight—but not completely unkind. “It means some of us grew up in this world. We understand it. Our families fought, bled, and served together. His father and mine were in the Iron Vanguard together. His mother and mine were in the same class at Whittaker. The Service has always kept its bloodlines close.” She tilts her head, pity heavy in her voice. “Some families just… belong together. And outsiders”—she gestures delicately, as if I’m something fragile—“outsiders are never more than guests at the table.”
The words land hard, sharper for the calmness with which she speaks them. Because to her, it’s the truth. And for a heartbeat, I almost believe her—that I’ll always be standing on the threshold, never inside the circle.
But the water in me surges hot, spilling at the edge of my control. The air shifts. The jars along the wall tremble, glass creaking faintly. A thin stream of liquid seeps from one stopper, sliding down in jagged lines like veins.
Stella’s gaze flicks to it. “Careful, Celeste,” she whispers. “From one water-wielder to another, you better work on that control before your magick tries to control you instead. Water is known to be… temperamental.”
She flicks her wrist, returning the water back to the jar in a single twisting motion before turning without another word,leaving me in the cramped quiet, the jars still trembling, and my own thoughts screaming louder than any words she could have spoken.
* * *
The run-inwith Stella has me replaying her words over and over again in my head. Anger flares whenever I think about it, but it’s a welcome change to the heartbreak and sadness that normally accompanies my days.
It’s pathetic, maybe, but I keep hoping for an accidental meeting. Some excuse just to see him outside of class. Then the faculty announces the fourth-years will be heading to Fort Wyenth for a week to tour the Service’s main training grounds, and my heart sinks.
Sooner or later, we’ll have to face each other. Talk. But it feels like fate keeps finding new ways to wedge even more distance between us.
* * *
In the lastweek of November, the school announces a week of reprieve. Most students use it to visit nearby Elesmere—a quaint New England village with cozy restaurants and charming little shops that draw visitors year-round.
The fourth-years are still gone. Their one-week stay has turned into two.
I try not to think about it. About what they might be doing. About what Noa is doing.
My emotions don’t agree on anything—worry braided with relief, threaded through with a sharp, stupid disappointment that he isn’t here.
My squadmates have been buzzing since the break wasannounced. Rozsen has made a list of every restaurant she wants to try. Elliot has compiled one for the shops. I can get behind that. After months of enduring Whittaker’s constant deluge of gray and black, I need something—anything—to break the monotony.
A few other Blue Dahlia residents make plans to stay with us at the local inn, and we decide to turn it into an adventure.
Maybe that’s what I need. A little freedom. A little air. Something different than the shadows and silence of Whittaker.
Elesmere is a charming town tucked into the rolling hills just beyond Whittaker’s forested boundaries. Cobblestone streets curve between brick-front shops and limewashed cottages, many of them lovingly preserved for generations. The town square boasts a modest clock tower and fountain, and each storefront bears a hand-painted sign that swings gently in the wind. Passersby move beneath them, bundled in scarves and wool coats.
The Village Inn sits at the edge of the main road—known for its eclectic charm and strong cider. The residents of the Blue Dahlia seem to have taken over the reception lobby, lounging on mismatched velvet chairs and striped chaise lounges. The inn’s barkeep is busy with heavy pours and fanciful artisan cocktails. It’s the unofficial hangout for Whittaker students when they venture into town.
It is here one afternoon, sitting at the bar with Amelia, that Ian drops onto the stool beside me, copper-red hair in permanent disarray and a scar through his brow—a mishap from a story he likes to tell too often. Nate follows with a coffee and the expression of a man assigned to supervise a hurricane.
I guess that’s one silver lining—if it can be called that—of Noa’s absence: I’ve gotten to know the guys in my squad and commons more now that his tall, intimidating shadow isn’t always nearby.
Ian came over from England to study at Whittaker. He’s quick to laugh, though quicker still to fight, and has a knack for setting even the air on fire.
Nate moves like the water he commands—graceful, quiet, sometimes moody. He’s tall, with olive skin and light-brown hair. His gray-blue eyes radiate calm… until they don’t. If you get on his bad side, they turn dark gray like a tempest at sea. But where Ian provokes, Nate usually defuses. They’ve been utterly inseparable since orientation.
“We were gonna head to the bookstore later,” Ian says, peering into my glass of orange juice, his hand moving toward it.
I pull it just out of reach. “Get your own.”
“Tsk tsk. Sharing builds trust, Farris,” he grins.
I let him take a sip.
He coughs like he’s been poisoned. “Where is the alcohol? This just tastes like?—?”
