Chapter 3
Kaia
The interview lights still burn behind my eyes when Devin finally lets me step off the little media platform in the arena’s press corridor.
“Perfect,” he says, like I’ve just landed a plane, not answered the same questions I’ve been prepped for.
How does it feel to be back?
Are you excited for Harbor Lights?
Any surprises for the fans tonight?
Kaia, what do you love most about your hometown?
Hometown.
The word had sat in my mouth like a shard of glass.
I smiled anyway. I softened my voice the way I’ve trained myself to. I said the right things: surreal, grateful, honored, can’t wait to share this moment with everyone.
I stayed on script. Mina had given me a thumbs up from behind the producers.
Now, Devin’s hand hovers at the small of my back, guiding me as if the cameras might catch me getting lost in a hallway. He wears his sleek suit and his polished Eon pin and his smile that never quite reaches his eyes. He looks like someone who’s been raised by PR.
What’s his title again?
Oh, yeah. Talent relations.
Blaire intercepts us the second we clear the media area.
She doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t need to. She just appears in front of Devin like a door clicking shut.
“Soundcheck,” Blaire says, headset tucked around her neck. “Now. No more interviews.”
Devin’s smile tightens. “We have one more local spot—”
“No,” Blaire says pleasantly. “I need the whole lineup. Including Kaia.”
The phrasing shouldn’t make my chest tighten, but it does. Blaire doesn’t draw lines like that often, and when she does, it means she’s annoyed enough to let it bleed through her professionalism, and protective enough to claim us anyway.
Devin blinks once.
Behind her, Jules lifts her phone like she’s filming a nature documentary. “Observe,” she whispers to Mina. “The wild Blaire protecting her pack.”
Mina smothers a laugh into her sleeve.
Remy doesn’t bother hiding her amusement. She leans against the wall with her arms folded, looking like she’d pay money to watch Devin get told no for sport.
Devin’s gaze flicks over the three of them, then back to Blaire, recalibrating. “Fine,” he says. “Soundcheck. But the Council will want another confirmation of the plan after rehearsal.”
“They can have it,” Blaire replies. “After the girls have had water and fifteen minutes without someone shoving a mic in their faces. Vocal cords aren’t a renewable resource.”
Devin backs off with the smooth grace of someone who hates losing but prefers to lose quietly. He turns on his heel and disappears down the corridor.
Blaire watches him go, then exhales through her nose.
“Okay,” Jules says brightly. “Now that the corporate serpent is gone—”
“Don’t start,” Blaire warns, but her mouth twitches.
Jules puts a hand over her heart. “I respect serpents.”
Remy rolls her eyes.
Mina slips her fingers into mine for half a second as we start walking. A grounding touch—quick and secret—like she’s sensed my pulse spiking during the interview and decided to anchor me before I float away.
I squeeze back once, grateful.
Then I let go, because I don’t get to cling to softness when there’s work to do.
***
The stage looks different in the afternoon.
This morning, it had felt like a mouth—empty, waiting, too quiet.
Now it’s alive with crew. Work lights blaze hot and white. Screens cycle through visuals. Technicians move like ants along the catwalks. The air smells like warmed metal and faint incense from the Council’s wardwork, layered over the ever-present coffee.
The festival-style set dressing has gone up even more since the morning: lantern frames hang above the stage like a cage of glowing ribs, unlit for now.
A lighthouse silhouette is built into the main screen design, and the floor is painted with pale spiraling lines that look decorative if you don’t know how to see spells hiding in aesthetics.
I know.
I see the seams.
“Alright,” I say as we step onto the stage. “Mics in-ears. One clean run of the first three songs. No full output.”
Jules groans theatrically. “Kaia, I’m going to start charging you for emotional damage.”
“You’ll survive,” Remy says.
Mina tilts her head, listening to the room. “The wards are louder today.”
“Council reinforced them after your report,” Blaire calls from the wings.
Mina’s shoulders lift a fraction, then drop. “Oh. Okay.”
I force myself not to look up toward the rafters.
I’ve done it three times already since breakfast.
I’ve seen nothing every time.
Which doesn’t help.
Remy glances at me—just a flash of attention. She’s been watching me more than usual since we got into town. Not like Jules, who watches because she wants to poke. Not like Mina, who watches because she cares.
Remy watches like she’s waiting for me to crack and will have to do damage control.
Remy’s responsible like that.
I give her my calm face. My leader face.
“Positions,” I say. “Let’s work.”
We take our places.
The earset mics come alive with soft pops and hums as the packs power on. The stage monitors feed back our breaths. The arena beyond is still empty, but the space holds sound differently now, like it’s practicing being full.
I angle the thin wire closer to the corner of my mouth and let my voice drop into my chest.
“Check,” I say, and the word comes out steady.
The magic in my bones stirs, familiar as a heartbeat.
“Kaia levels are good,” someone calls from the board.
The other girls run through their checks—Jules snapping a quick riff that makes a tech laugh, Mina’s “one-two” coming out softer than usual, Remy’s low hum steady enough to level a room.
Then Blaire’s voice cuts across the stage again, crisp as a cue light. “Alright. Lights and track. Treat it like a show, but keep it at thirty percent. We’re testing timing”
Jules salutes with two fingers. “Copy that.”
We run the first number.
Even restrained, the harmonies fill the empty arena with a pulse that makes my skin hum. Jules’ voice lifts bright and fierce, Mina threads through with that bell-clear tone, Remy anchors with a low line that makes the melody feel inevitable.
My voice holds the center.
It always does.
I let my magic bloom only enough to taste it—heat rising like a sunrise under my ribs, a faint shimmer flickering above the stage before I pull it back in.
Controlled. Professional. Safe.
We stop after the third song.
The silence that follows is thick.
Jules flops onto the floor dramatically. “I’m starving.”
“You are always starving,” Remy says.
“For applause,” Mina offers.
“For violence,” Jules corrects. “It’s different.”
Blaire’s voice comes through my in-ear. “Hydrate. Five minutes.”
Jules rolls onto her back like she’s been slain. “Tell my fans I died doing what I loved.”
Remy steps around her like Jules is a stage hazard. “I’ll tell them you died doing what you were told not to do.”
Mina laughs softly, then glances out into the seats.
Her smile fades.
The motion is subtle enough that no one else would catch it if they aren’t looking.
I’m looking.
“Mina,” I say quietly, stepping closer. “You okay?”
Mina blinks, then forces brightness into her face. “Yeah. Just… vibes.”
Jules sits up, hair falling in her face. “Are we vibing weird again?”
Mina’s mouth twitches. “No.”
Jules squints at her. “That’s the ‘yes’ no.”
“It’s fine,” Mina insists.
Blaire appears at the edge of the stage holding a water bottle like a weapon. “Drink,” she commands, and hands it to Mina first.
Mina takes it with a small, grateful nod.
I drink too, because leadership means modeling behavior even when you want to chew through the walls.
The water tastes like plastic and minerals.
It doesn’t wash the town out of my throat.
***
The private combat rehearsal happens after the crew clears the stage for lighting tests.
Council requires it now—ever since some idiot in a different city tried to fight a manifestation without rehearsing inside the wards and nearly blew a hole through a venue wall. The world pretends it’s a freak pyrotechnic accident. We all know the truth.
Demons love crowds.
Crowds love spectacle.
Eon loves plausible deniability.
So we train. We practice. We keep the violence neat.
Mr. Bane, the Council Handler, meets us onstage. He traces a sigil in the air with two fingers. The wards click into a different configuration.
I feel it in my bones: the net tightening. The air changing. A pressure shift like the room exhales and decides to become a cage.
Jules shivers—then beams, like she’s been handed a gift. “Oh, hell yes. Zip me in. Let’s go.”
“It’s containment,” Mr. Bane says evenly. “If anything manifests, it will be confined to the stage.”
Jules bounces on the balls of her feet, practically vibrating. “Say less.”
Blaire stays offstage with Devin and Director Han.
“Alright,” I say, stepping into the center of the warded circle. “Same plan as always. We run the sim, we identify the hook, we kill it neatly.”
We don’t do this for every little prowler demon or straggler. Most nights, we can feel the shape of a threat from the first wrong note and cut it down on instinct. But when something this much mass? The Council makes us rehearse inside a tightened cage.
I continue, “Then tonight, we’ll perform, let the Chorus surface inside the wards, and destroy it before the crowd disperses.”
Mina adds, “Before the energy spreads.”
“Exactly,” I say.
Jules cracks her neck. “Before the tourists start texting each other ‘I felt something weird at the show lol.’”
Remy’s voice is low. “Before it learns new mouths to sing through.”
A chill crawls up my spine.
I hate the way Remy can make anything sound like prophecy.
“Stay on me,” I say, pushing the unease back into its box. “Jules, you’re flank and bait. Mina, you’re shield and sight. Remy, you’re strike and sever. We keep it in the circle. We don’t let it touch the wings.”
Mina swallows, fingers flexing at her sides. “And you?”
“I anchor, like always,” I say. “And I end it if it gets past you.”
At the edge of the stage, Mr. Bane raises his hand.