A chill rolls over me. I push forward, trying to get closer to the arena, weaving between panicked students and professors who whisper nervously as the darkness spreads. When it lifts slightly, I catch a glimpse—Noa back on his feet, a ring of fire blazing around them both. He drags the back of his hand across his mouth—rough and dismissive—and his eyes flick to the blood on his knuckles.
Something hardens in his expression.
That bright smear of red makes something hot and unsteady rise behind my ribs.
A muscle in Noa’s cheek twitches, and he turns and spits onto the ground before turning back to his opponent. In hishand, a sword of pure flame. A sharp inhale escapes me. That is new too.
He lunges, aiming a deadly strike—but the Vikhrostrum delegate sidesteps with eerie grace and simply snaps his fingers.
The darkness explodes.
Not just the arena this time—the entire Caldera falls into absolute black.
Gasps and cries ring out. A few students scream. The crowd shifts in confusion, voices rising in panic. The shadows press around me like a living thing.
And yet, when they brush against my skin, it feels… like a caress. It isn’t fear I feel.It’smemory. Like something I’ve always known—something I can almost speak to, the same way I speak to water. The shadows seem to hesitate, like they know me too.
Suddenly, I’m moving.
I surge forward through the dark, stumbling down steps, weaving past bodies I can’t see, only to collide—hard—into someone. Solid, familiar. My hands splay against their chest.
And it isn’t just someone.
“Gavrail,” I whisper.
Hands close around my wrists instantly—instinctive, firm—but he doesn’t push me away. He doesn’t let go either. For a single breathless moment, neither of us move. His chest rises and falls too fast beneath my palms. Shadow magick clings to my body and the air between us like smoke that doesn’t want to dissipate.
And in that flicker of twilight before the shadows recede, I see it—astonishment, raw and unmasked, written across his face like he’s seeing a ghost.
His mouth opens as if to speak, but voices shout from around us and a cool mask of practiced indifference slams into place. The controlled version of him returns just as the light does. He lets go like my touch burns.
The rest of the shadows fall away, leaving the arena and theCaldera bathed once again in the amber light of the setting sun. The screams die, swallowed by stunned silence.
Standing before me is a man who resembles the boy I once knew. He’s taller now, broader in the shoulders, still with that wild, ash-brown hair, now damp with sweat. His eyes—those impossible eyes—are still the color of a storm about to break, gray edged with silver, glinting like lightning caught in metal. They currently look almost black as they stare at me.
He takes a step back, his face a perfect shield of infuriating, unreadable stillness. But beneath it, a ripple. Something dark. Deep. And utterly dangerous.
My skin prickles in the chilled evening breeze, breath catching like he’s pulled the oxygen from the air—and the space between us with it. He’s looking at me. Only me.
“No,” Gavrail says, harsh, firm. Almost as if to himself. “Celeste.” His voice wraps around my name like a wound reopening. He pauses, the sharp, clipped tone with just a hint of an accent dragging me back to sun-dappled woods, fields of wildflowers, and promises made in the shadows of a cool blue lake.
From the corner of my eye, I see Noa pushing toward us, fury carved into every inch of him. His eyes are ablaze, his jaw clenched tight, every step radiating raw anger. Rushing to protect me or to hurt Gavrail, I’m not sure.
“You can’t be here,” Gavrail says, the words come out low and grinding, like wheels dragging across stone, his eyes locked on mine. There is command in his tone, and something else. Something dark, fraying at the edges.
Noa reaches us, stepping between us like a shield. “What the fuck was that?” he shouts, the accusation edged in fire. “The duel was betweenyou and me—you blacked out the entire school! Are you out of your fucking mind?” His eyes dart back to me, scanning for injury before turning to face me fully. “Celeste, why the hell did you run into the arena?” He stepsback, looking for a mark of any kind on me while glaring at Gavrail over his shoulder.
I’m worried he’s going to set Gavrail on fire on the spot, or worse. I put a hand on his chest, his heartbeat thudding furiously against my palm as I step toward him.
“I’m fine,” I say quickly, keeping my hand there, trying to keep him from erupting. But my voice wavers. “Everyone’s fine… That duel… It was…” I glance at Gavrail. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Gavrail stands perfectly still, but there is nothing passive about him. He watches Noa like he’s calculating every weakness. Every flaw. His eyes flick to where my hand touches Noa and I swear I see him clench his fists tighter, knuckles turning white.
Neither man relaxes. Not even a little.
Behind Gavrail, the rest of the Vikhrostrum students form up, twelve in all, their posture stiff and disciplined. The Whittaker fourth-years instinctively line up behind Noa.
For a breathless moment, it feels like the arena might become a battlefield.
