Jade
I stop dead in the doorway of the dining hall, nearly causing a pile-up as Evie, Felix, and Lauren collide into my back.
Seven fiery spheres are hovering through the space, drifting between the chandeliers and the high vaulted ceilings. They pulse with a soft golden light, spinning like planets on invisible axes, like eyes made of flame.
That’s not creepy at all. Nope. Totally normal Saturday breakfast vibes.
Evie’s amber eyes track their movements with analytical intensity. “The distribution pattern suggests they’re designed for maximum coverage.”
“Recording orbs.”
Nina Aldridge appears beside us, her dark hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail that probably took her thirty seconds but manages to be perfect.
Felix pushes his glasses up his nose. “Recording orbs?” he echoes. “Like... magical surveillance?”
“Exactly like magical surveillance. There’s only one person whose signature those could be—Councilwoman Helen Finchman. She specializes in history preservation and documentation.”
Her gaze shifts to the head table at the front of the hall.
Then, her body goes rigid.
“Oh, shit.”
The curse sounds wrong coming from Nina, who usually speaks like she’s drafting a formal letter.
I follow her gaze to where the faculty sits in their usual spots. Constance is in the center, Kieran’s examining his blade, Professor Rousseau is studying her nails, and Delia’s watching the orbs as if they’re animals she wants to adopt.
Beside them, there are three people I don’t recognize.
The woman has a sleek black bob, and she’s watching us file in with warm brown eyes and a small, reassuring smile.
One of the men is older—tall and military-straight, with black hair cut short.
His face is weathered, carved with deep laugh lines that don’t move.
He’s writing in a leather journal without looking up.
The third’s young enough that he must be a recent graduate, with pale blue eyes and dark, tousled hair shot through with a few strands of silver. He sits perfectly still while the chaos of breakfast swirls around him, his eyes tracking everyone who enters.
“Nina?” Evie touches her arm gently. “What’s wrong?”
“The man on the right.” Nina’s hands clench as she looks at the older man. “That’s my Uncle Michael.”
“I’m guessing that’s a bad thing?” I ask.
“Yes.” Nina tears her gaze away from the head table.
“He’s been estranged from the family since before I was born.
The only reason I know what he looks like is because he shows up once a year to ‘check on the family’ for Council business.
’” She makes air quotes around the words, her tone bitter.
“He stands in our foyer for exactly fifteen minutes, asks my mother a list of questions, and leaves without saying goodbye.”
Okay, so... family drama. Fun.
“And now, he’s here,” Evie says slowly. “At the academy, right after Oliver and Professor Thaddeus disappeared.”
Her face is carefully neutral, but there’s tension in her shoulders, and she’s worrying on her lower lip.
Oliver.
The guilt slams through me so hard that static crackles between my fingers. I curl them into fists before anyone notices, pressing my nails into my palms until the sparks die.
“Come on.” I grab Evie’s elbow, steering us to the first-year table. “Let’s sit down before the orbs decide we’re suspicious.”
We make our way through the hall, and I try not to notice how the orbs track our movement. The first-year table is half full already, clusters of people pouring coffee and speaking in hushed voices.
Felix and Evie slide into their usual spots next to each other.
I’m about to take my seat across from Evie when Nina sits down next to me, in Lauren’s usual spot.
I blink at her. “Um… did you get lost?”
Nina turns to Lauren, who’s staring at her like she’s gone mental. “Trade you?” she asks, as casual as anything.
Lauren’s eyes go wide. Because Nina’s been sitting in the middle of the table for the past two months, firmly established in the “acceptable but not elite” territory. Trading to sit with us in what Felix has lovingly dubbed “Social Siberia” is certainly… a choice.
Then Lauren’s face splits into a grin. “Oh my gods, yes. I’ve been dying to sit next to Elizabeth. She’s been telling me about this drama with Garrett and…” She trails off without sharing that second name, gathering her plate and vibrating with excitement. “Thanks, Nina!”
Just like that, Lauren’s gone, sliding into Nina’s vacated spot like she’s won the lottery.
I stare at Nina. “Did you just exile yourself to the loser end of the table?”
“I prefer to think of it as strategic repositioning.” Nina sits down with precise movements. “The middle is boring. All anyone talks about is who’s hooking up with who and whether Alessandra’s new highlights are too brassy.”
“They are way too brassy,” Felix chimes in.
Nina catalogues that comment with a slow blink, then turns her sharp dark eyes to me. “You all are the only other first-years who care about excelling in this school. I’d rather sit with people who care than people who are worried about hair highlights and gossip.”
“Then welcome to social Siberia.” Sam grins and raises his glass of orange juice. “Population: us. Benefits include: no one eavesdrops on your conversations because no one cares what we’re saying.”
“Invisibility has its advantages.” Nina politely clinks her glass against his, and the deliberate, unhesitating nature of it tells me this isn’t a temporary arrangement.
Nina Aldridge just joined our friend group.
I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. But it’s quickly forgotten as I let my gaze drift across the hall, searching for the one person who always gets my attention like a moth to a… well, a flame.
Logan sits with the other fourth-years, his eyes fixed on the Council members at the head table.
My skin prickles with that low hum of electricity I always feel when I look at him too long.
I want to catch his gaze. Want reassurance that we didn’t make a catastrophic mistake on the Crown. But he doesn’t look my way, and I force myself to stop staring before someone notices.
My attention shifts to the third-year table instead.
Avery sits between Callie and Alessandra, her juice untouched, her eyes unfocused.
When Oliver died, the emberlink bond broke. She has to know he’s gone. Although from the empty look in her eyes, I can’t tell if she’s told anyone, or if she’s holding onto hope that Constance is telling the truth that Oliver’s missing.
Sourness swirls in my stomach, and I glance at the doors, praying the staff comes through soon to serve us our food. Nothing fancy—not like first-years get anything fancy anyway—but bread will do, even if it looks like it’s seconds away from growing mold spores.
Next to Avery, Alessandra tosses her hair over one shoulder, and okay, Felix wasn’t wrong. Her highlights are aggressively brassy. But that’s what happens when you’re stuck using box dye on a volcanic island with no salons.
Not that I feel bad for her. She tried to kill me in the Drowned Tower during the first Forge Party.
Focus. Council members. Floating fire eyeballs. Double homicide coverup. Illegal magic. Not the time to critique someone’s hair choices.
The tension in the hall grows as more people trickle in.
Weekend breakfasts are usually relaxed—no announcements or formalities.
There’s just food, gossip, and the occasional hungover student regretting their life choices.
But today, everyone’s speaking in whispers and shooting nervous glances at the head table like they expect the Council members to start flinging fireballs at any moment.
Which, honestly? Not outside the realm of possibility.
Once the last stragglers have taken their seats, Headmistress Constance rises.
The hall goes silent. The floating orbs pulse brighter, as if they’re paying attention, too.
“Good morning,” Constance says, her voice carrying easily through the hall. Her hair is pulled back in its usual severe style, and her expression gives away nothing. “I trust you’ve all noticed our guests.”
Hard to miss the floating fire surveillance system, but sure.
“As explained yesterday, recent events have necessitated a formal investigation.” Her gaze sweeps the room, and I swear it lingers on our table for a fraction of a second too long.
“The death of Miles Devereaux and the disappearances of Oliver Thorne and Professor Thaddeus Morgrave require answers. The Council has sent three of their most capable investigators to ensure we find them.”
She gestures to the woman with the black bob first.
“Councilwoman Helen Finchman specializes in history preservation and documentation. Her recording orbs will ensure no detail is overlooked. Every conversation, every movement, and every magical signature within their range will be catalogued for review.”
Helen gives us a small, sympathetic smile—the kind a concerned aunt might offer at a family gathering. Her fingers brush the string of pearls at her throat.
“Councilman Michael Aldridge.” Constance nods at the older man, and Nina stiffens beside me. “His expertise lies in temporal recreation. He can recreate the last twenty-four hours of magical activity in any location.”
Michael doesn’t look up from his journal. His pen just keeps moving, steady and precise, as if Constance’s introduction is simply another data point to record.
“And Councilman Tobias Cane.” Constance gestures to the younger man with the pale blue eyes. “A memory specialist of unprecedented skill. He can access, search, and verify memories with remarkable accuracy.”
Translation: He can look inside your head and see what you’re hiding.
“The investigation will begin immediately.” Constance’s eyes land on our table. “First and second years will meet with Councilman Cane in the Observatory for memory verification sessions to establish timelines for Halloween night. Third and fourth years will follow tomorrow.”
Memory. Verification. Sessions.
He’s going to see the Crown, the blood, Logan’s time travel, and Thaddeus plunging his dagger into Oliver’s chest. He’ll see all three times I died. If he lives through our memories with us, that’s an experience I absolutely do not recommend.
Electricity arcs between my index finger and thumb under the table, and I press both hands flat against my thighs and hold them there, breathing through the metallic taste flooding my mouth.
Once my magic is under control, I look at Logan. Really look, not just a stolen glance.
He’s already watching me.
Worry flickers in those storm-gray eyes. But then he nods, barely perceptible, and his composure locks back into place as the kitchen staff emerges to serve breakfast.
The nod is supposed to mean everything will be okay.
But my hands are still pressed flat against my thighs, pinning down sparks that want to fly. Three investigators with impossible powers are sitting at the head table cataloging every nervous glance in this room.
I pick up my fork when the food arrives, eat without tasting anything, and try very, very hard not to look at Logan again.