We find seats near the center table just as Headmaster Thorne spots Noa and asks to borrow him for introductions to visiting dignitaries and high-ranking Service officers.
Noa leans down, brushing a kiss to my cheek. “I’ll be right back,” he whispers. His hand brushes my back, stretching out until the last second before he pulls away. Like he can’t stand not to be touching me.
Finn settles beside me just as Rozsen saunters over. “Alright, fire sprite,” he says, palm out, eyes narrowed.
Rozsen drops his keycard into his hand. Then his pen. Then his watch.
“Sooner or later, those sticky fingers of yours are going to get you in trouble,” Finn says in mock reprimand, though the admiration in his voice is impossible to miss.
“You’d have to catch me first.” She raises one eyebrow at the utter absurdity of that thought.
He only laughs, and soon they’re bickering over pumpkin and buttered rolls, tallying her thefts like gamblers arguing debts. Finn swears he’s up to three swipes now, but Rozsen insists he’s exaggerating.
Their voices fade into the clatter of goblets and the scrape of cutlery. Not hungry, I slip away to an empty firepit in the far corner, needing a moment to breathe, to process the weight of everything from today. Across the quad, I catch Rozsen’s gaze snagging on me, then flicking past my shoulder as if looking for someone.
I know she’s waiting to grill me about Gavrail. The scene at the Caldera wasn’t exactly private.
I twirl my ring, watching as the firelight dances off the precious stone. Something swirls inside, and for a heartbeat, I get the strangest feeling that something’s been caught and heldthere. The ring feels oddly warm against my skin, even though the night air is cool.
“It suits you,” a voice says from behind me.
I freeze as Gavrail steps beside me, clearing his throat. He looks sharp in his uniform—charcoal fabric perfectly tailored, silver commendations gleaming on his lapel. Severe and striking. Everything about him is precise. Deadly. And beautiful. The scent of smoke and leather, threaded with dark amber, curls around me like a dare.
His face still holds that controlled, expressionless mask from the arena. Everywhere except his eyes. “I owe you an apology,” he says quickly, voice low, even. But there is tension there—tightly leashed, barely hidden.
I look at him, searching his face as if I can peel away every secret he’s holding.
“I wasn’t expecting to see you,” he continues. “Not at Whittaker. And definitely not in the fighting arena.” There’s an edge to it, almost like a quiet accusation. Surprise sharpened into judgment. I nearly laugh. “The point is… I acted badly. And I’m sorry.”
I nod, half turning away—then stop.Fuck it.
“I thought you were dead,” I say coldly. “Or kidnapped. Or stranded in the Russian wilderness with no way to contact anyone.” My words come out sharp, spiked with venom to hide the broken pieces he left behind those many years ago.
His expression doesn’t change, but I see the slight flinch that crosses his face.
Good.
“Because that’s the only explanation I could live with for why you never wrote. For why you just disappeared.”
He opens his mouth, hesitates, then straightens. “I have no excuses. You trusted me, and I broke that trust.” His voice softens just slightly. “There’s more to it. A lot I want to explain,Cel. A lot you deserve to hear. We’re both here now. And I want to make it right… if you’ll let me.”
For a moment, he’s justhim. Not the mask, not the statue. I close my hand into a fist at my side, stopping myself from reaching for him, no matter how much some part of me wants to slide back into the gravity of what we once were to each other.
Maybe it was just a crush to him—schoolgirl affection, fleeting and innocent. But thinking that makes my heart ache.
“I heard about your father,” he says. “I’m sorry, Celeste. He was a good man. All he ever wanted was to keep you safe.” His tone is gentle, the words falling over me like a shadow on a sunburn. Too soft over something still raw.
He looks like he’s about to say more when Rozsen walks up with two glasses of wine, saving me from myself. Her timing is too precise to be chance—as if she felt the static in the air and came to ground it. I’m grateful for the interruption and use it to try to piece my emotions back together.
“Quite the impressive display today,” she says, handing me a glass before turning her attention to Gavrail. “I’ve never met a shadow-wielder before.” Her gaze lingers—open, assessing.
“Gavrail,” he says in introduction, dipping his head just slightly.
Her eyes flick to me, sharp and quick, then back to him. She smiles at him like she’s harmless. “So… how exactly do you and Celeste know each other?”
My hand tightens on the glass as I fight the urge to glare at her. Instead, I just bite the inside of my cheek.
Gavrail’s eyes meet mine for a heartbeat before he answers. “Childhood friends,” he says, and there’s the faintest hint of a smirk—like he knows exactly how thin that answer is.
