Chapter 15 Kaia
Kaia
The festival grounds look innocent in daylight.
That’s the trick.
In the afternoon sun, Harbor Lights is just a half-built maze of booths and lantern frames and string lights waiting to be plugged in. Workers move like ants, hauling crates, taping down cords, arguing about where the “authentic” clam chowder stand should go. Kids weave between metal barricades.
They don’t see the ward lines.
They don’t see the speaker towers wrapped in containment sigils like a second skin. They don’t see the light rigs etched with runes that make the air feel slightly tighter, slightly safer.
Blaire’s rule for today is simple: training only when the grounds are “empty.”
Thanks to Eon, a large part of the pier is “temporarily closed for safety upgrades,” which means we get the actual Harbor Lights stage to ourselves—cordoned off, fenced in, and guarded by polite Council personnel holding clipboards like shields.
Two hours between vendor setup and the first rehearsal sound checks.
“Construction zone” signs go up. Civilians get redirected with smiles that don’t quite reach anyone’s eyes.
Jules swings her arms as we cross the cleared boards. “Nothing says small-town charm like barricades and a Council-sponsored vibe kill.”
I don’t answer.
Blaire’s voice crackles in our in-ears. “You have ninety minutes.”
Jules groans. “Blaire, why do you hate art?”
Blaire doesn’t dignify that with an answer.
I step to center stage and look out over the empty rows of folding chairs waiting to become an ocean of people tomorrow.
The air here is different than the arena.
Looser.
More exposed.
More… hungry.
“Focus,” I murmur.
My voice shifts automatically into the cadence that makes the team align. I hate that it comes so easily, but I love that it works.
Jules salutes. “Yes, Captain.”
Remy rolls her shoulders. “Formation?”
“Warmup first,” I say.
Jules makes a face. “Ugh.”
Mina smiles faintly and starts stretching anyway.
Remy’s gaze flicks over the stage perimeter where Eon’s new lattice warding has been integrated into the rigging. The ward lines shimmer faintly in the corner of my vision.
She murmurs, “Brand consistency,” with so much contempt it could be a weapon.
I pretend I didn’t hear.
We move through a basic sequence first—footwork, breath, timing. If someone were watching from far away, it would look like choreography practice: a girl group hitting clean counts under lantern frames, the kind of behind-the-scenes clip fans would eat alive.
We keep it that way on purpose. Demons aren’t the only things that watch.
By the time sweat starts to gather at the back of my neck, the sun has shifted lower. The string lights overhead flicker on as the Eon sound crews test circuits.
“Okay,” I say. “Draw on my count.”
Jules’ grin goes sharp. “Finally.”
Remy’s gaze narrows, calm and ready. Mina inhales slowly like she’s centering herself.
“One,” I say.
We step together.
“Two.”
Hands rise together.
“Three.”
The swords appear.
To human eyes, it would be a flourish. A prop trick. A dance move that catches light just right.
To us, it’s resonance snapping into shape.
Aurora forms in my grip, blade gleaming pale-gold and prismatic at the edge.
Jules’ Voltstep flashes into existence, twin short blades sparking with kinetic energy, brighter as she bounces lightly on the balls of her feet.
Remy’s Inkthorn appears like a thought made solid, black blade etched with script, leaving faint glowing runes in the air when she shifts her wrist.
Mina’s Heartglass blooms into being, translucent and prismatic, its reflective surface catching the lantern light and splitting it into fragments.
We hold for one beat—swords up, bodies aligned—then move.
“Sequence A,” I call.
Jules darts first, Voltstep buzzing with potential. She spins, blades carving arcs that look like dance lines.
Remy glides through the center, Inkthorn leaving rune trails that hang in the air for half a second before fading, spellwork written in motion.
Mina anchors the back line, Heartglass angled in a way that would look like a dancer’s pose, but to my eyes it’s a mirror turned toward the unseen, ready to reveal anything hiding behind glamour.
I step forward and let my voice hum, low and controlled, not lyrics, not performance, just a resonance note that feeds into Aurora. The blade answers with a soft flare, sound-shock contained tight to the warded perimeter.
“Clean,” Remy murmurs.
“Pretty,” Jules says, because she can’t help herself.
“Again,” I order.
We repeat.
And repeat.
Sweat. Breath. The soft hum of ward lines. Lantern light that feels like an omen.
We practice the fight the way we always do: like it’s choreography, like our bodies are instruments, like every slash is a beat and every parry is a harmony.
It has to look flawless. Tomorrow, the crowd will be ten feet away, screaming, crying, and humming along without knowing they’re feeding a monster.
We have to be perfect.
Perfection is what keeps civilians alive.
Perfection is what will keep Evie alive.
But the thought lands wrong in my chest. Fragile. Like the second I let myself want her safety too much, the dark under this town turns its head and notices.
After the sequence, Jules flops onto the stage floor dramatically, Voltstep dismissed in a glittering snap. “I’m dying.”
“You’re sweaty,” Mina corrects.
Jules points at me. “Captain Kaia is in a mood.”
“I’m focused,” I say automatically. “You should be too.”
Remy sits cross-legged with eerie grace, Inkthorn gone, hands resting on her knees like she’s meditating. “She’s been in a mood since the diner.”
Mina’s cheeks pink slightly. “Since… Evie.”
My stomach tightens.
Jules pops up on her elbows, eyes gleaming. “Evie,” she sings softly, like she’s tasting the name.
“Can we stop making everything about Evie?” I ask. “It’s childish.”
She grins. “Text her, coward.”
“I am not texting her,” I snap, sharper than I mean to.
The words ring under the lantern frames.
Mina blinks. Remy’s gaze flicks up. Jules’ grin fades into something more serious.
I exhale slowly. “Sorry.”
Jules sits up fully now, expression unreadable for once. “Okay. So it’s like that.”
“It’s not—” I start.
Remy cuts in, calm as a blade. “It is.”
I clench my jaw. “We have a schedule. We have a plan. We cannot afford distractions. We've been over this already.”
Jules points at me as if she’s calling me on stage. “You're part of a company that schedules your entire life. And if you want anything with her, you can’t keep letting them decide when you breathe.”
The words hit too close to the truth, because they’ve already decided the surprise set time. They’ve decided where we stand. They’ve decided what we say. They’ve decided what we feel is useful. And somewhere inside that machine is Evie—collateral I keep pretending I can protect.
“I don’t want anything with Evie,” I say immediately, too fast, like speed makes it believable. “Who said I did?”
One of the lantern bulbs overhead buzzes and spits a brief flare of light. My pulse jumps. It feels absurdly, horribly like being caught in a lie.
Jules just smiles wider, like she loves watching me lie. “Sure, Captain.”
Mina makes a small, pained sound. Remy’s expression doesn’t change, which is worse.
Jules adds, “Remy. You’re the ‘tell Kaia she’s being an idiot’ person now.”
Remy’s mouth twitches. “I’ve been doing that.”
“Fair,” Jules says.
My throat tightens. I stare down at the stage floor, at the faint chalk marks we’ve used to map movement.
“I can’t,” I say quietly. “I can’t—just—show up and act like nothing happened.”
Mina’s voice is gentle. “It doesn’t need to be like nothing happened.”
I swallow.
Remy’s gaze is steady. “It would be honest.”
Jules leans forward. “When we were trainees, you told us stories about her like she was… home.”
Mina nods quickly, eyes bright. “You did. You talked about her like she was… a lighthouse.”
I flinch at the word.
Lighthouse.
Of course.
Jules’ voice is softer now, no teasing. “So how does she seem to you now?”
My chest tightens. I try to make my voice casual. “You met her. You tell me.”
Mina thinks for a beat, then says with blunt sweetness, “Like someone who still looks at you like you hung the moon…”
Jules snorts. “Aw.”
“…and wants to throw it at your head,” Mina finishes.
Jules laughs. Remy’s mouth twitches.
I swallow hard, because it’s too accurate, and it makes me ache in a way I don’t have time for.
“She hates me,” I say.
Mina shakes her head slightly. “She’s… hurt.”
Remy adds, quiet, “Those are different.”
Jules points at me. “And you did mess it up.”
I flinch.
Jules doesn’t let me escape. “Like. Completely.”
“I know,” I say, voice rough.
The three of them go still.
It’s the first time I’ve said it like that. No minimization. No it’s fine. No pretending I’m over it.
Just the truth.
“I messed it up,” I repeat, because if I don’t keep saying it, my shame will turn it into something else—self-pity, anger, denial. “I said cruel things. I left. I didn’t explain. I didn’t… come back.”
Mina’s eyes soften. Jules looks oddly pleased. Not happy, but relieved. Remy inclines her head once, like she’s acknowledging the truth as a tactical asset.
“Okay,” Jules says quietly. “Good. Because step one is admitting you were an idiot.”
I glare weakly. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she says sweetly.
Mina hesitates, then says softly, “You can still… make it right. Maybe not all the way. But… some.”
Remy’s gaze shifts toward the festival map taped to a nearby rigging tower “Eon’s meeting at the diner later,” she says, voice neutral. “Talk to her then.”
My stomach tightens.
Right. Tonight.
The Council want to do their little “check.” Their readings. Their anchor assessments. Their polite invasion of Evie’s space. And the Harbor Lights committee wants to make sure everything is in place for the festival tomorrow.
Jules watches my face. “You can’t keep pretending it’s fine,” she says, softer.
I nod once, throat tight.
Blaire’s voice crackles in our in-ear headsets. “Time’s up. Pack it in.”
Jules groans. “Nooo. We were having character development.”
“Do it on your own time,” Blaire says.
We stand. Lantern light flickers overhead like a warning.
Tonight, Eon goes to the diner again.
Evie will be there.
And for the first time since I came home, I can stop pretending that means nothing.