Chapter 29
TWENTY-NINE
LINDSAY
The next morning, the Great Hall feels wrong the moment I step inside.
Students pack every bench, shoulder-to-shoulder, voices low and frantic. The air hums with magic—unsettled, jittery, like everyone’s magic is spiking at once. Even the chandeliers hanging high above us flicker uneasily, throwing long shadows across the tables.
Nolan sticks close beside me, brushing against me every time someone jostles too near. Raiden stands on my other side, posture rigid, jaw tight. He’s in full guardian mode—eyes scanning and assessing every person in the area.
Tamsin plops down on the bench across from us, elbows braced on the table like she’s settling in to watch a drama unfold.
“Well,” she mutters, popping a grape into her mouth, “this is either going to be extremely informative or extremely traumatizing. I give it… ninety seconds before someone cries.”
No one knows why Headmaster Veyne called an emergency assembly at dawn.
But everyone feels it. Something’s wrong.
Tamsin nudges me with her foot under the table. “Don’t worry. If things go bad, I’ll scream loudly enough to distract everyone while you three escape.”
“Escape?” I blink at her. “That…isn’t comforting.”
“Wasn’t meant to be,” she says cheerfully. “It’s called realism, sweetheart, and you’ve been the center of the drama lately.”
The double doors slam shut behind the last of the stragglers. A hush rolls through the room as Headmaster Veyne steps onto the raised platform at the front.
A girl, slightly older looking than me, follows to his left, a long braid hanging down her back and black, sleek horns curling up from her hairline. Her wings are folded behind her. She’s beautiful, honestly, even with the serious expression on her face that matches the headmaster’s.
And Kael…Kael is standing just to his right. I knew he worked for the headmaster every once in a while. Is this why I haven’t seen him since yesterday? I mean, sure, he said he’d be back, but it’s Kael we’re talking about here, he is the epitome of cryptic and distant.
His expression is carved from stone, unreadable, shadows clinging to him as though they know a secret the rest of us don’t. His gaze flickers to me for the briefest moment—a flash of concern, relief, and something else I can’t read.
Then he looks away, jaw tight.
Headmaster Veyne clears his throat.
“Students,” he says, voice resonant and steady. “I regret that this morning brings grave news.”
My stomach drops.
Around us, whispers ripple. Nolan’s hand finds mine under the table. Raiden leans forward, pupils narrowing.
“Three students are currently unaccounted for,” Headmaster Veyne continues. “Their dorms were searched. Their belongings remain. They have not attended classes, and they have not left campus.”
A cold ache slides down my spine.
“They’ve been missing for two days,” he says. “We believe the disappearances are linked.”
Linked.
Linked to what? The ripple we felt yesterday? The fractures? The Veil and me?
My throat tightens.
“The academy’s protocols from previous decades are being reinstated,” Headmaster Veyne announces.
“Effective immediately, no student will walk alone after dusk near the wards. Night Rounds will resume. Professors and advanced-level students will patrol the perimeter with designated pairs until we can hold the Solstice Ritual.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “What’s that?” I whisper.
Nolan leans closer, pitching his voice low.
“They’re a last resort to strengthen the Veil.
They haven’t been needed in a very long time.
They’re old, powerful, and usually harmless—unless the Veil is unstable.
” His throat works as he swallows. “Then they become a necessity to keep creatures from slipping through weak spots.”
I swallow hard.
Tamsin, sitting on my other side with the expression of someone watching a soap opera implode, sighs loudly enough for at least three students to turn and look.
“Oh good,” she mutters. “Nothing says ‘fun school year’ like a mandatory ritual that historically only happens when things are about to go catastrophically wrong.”
Raiden shoots her a look. Nolan winces.
Tamsin shrugs. “What? I’m half-fae. My people invented ominous tradition. I’m allowed to complain.”
“And finally,” Headmaster Veyne says, gaze moving deliberately from student to student, “certain individuals will be assigned to specialized patrols based on magical aptitude and previous experience handling Veil disturbances.”
My stomach twists.
I know before he even says my name.
“Lindsay Blake, Nolan Porter, and Raiden Tsukino,” he says, tone gentler than before. “Report to my office following dismissal.”
“Stars…” Tamsin whispers.
Every head in the hall seems to snap toward us at once.
Raiden’s hand clamps on my thigh under the table. Nolan’s grip on my fingers tightens until I’m pretty sure he’s trying to merge our hands.
Kael doesn’t look at me. But I feel him standing next to the headmaster. A silent warning not to overreact to the summons.
Around us, students begin arguing—about safety, corridors, curfews, missing friends. The noise swells until it’s a physical pressure behind my eyes.
Then the hall doors fly open.
A gust of wind sweeps through, whipping hair and scattering parchment across the floor. Light spills in behind a tall figure standing in the doorway, framed like he stepped off a movie poster meant to ruin someone’s GPA.
Silver hair. Actual silver. Not dyed. It’s too natural and luminous, catching on every flicker of light to be fake.
Eyes the deep, electric blue of the Veil when it cracks with magic—that intense, unsettling color I’ve only ever seen during a fracture.
And a smirk. The kind that knows the effect it has.
The kind that should probably be illegal on school grounds.
He radiates power the same way Kael controls shadows.
The stranger strolls in like the room belongs to him—and like he expects everyone inside it to agree that it does.
“Well,” he drawls, voice smooth and warm like honey poured over trouble, “looks like I arrived just in time.”
Several students gasp. Someone in the front row drops their quill. Another whispers, “Oh wow—” a little too loudly.
Across the hall, a fae student scrambles off their bench, dropping to their knees with their head bowed. And they’re not the only one. It’s like a ripple moves through the room—every fae in the hall shifting, turning, bowing in perfect sync.
Next to me, Tamsin stiffens.
“Oh stars, that’s—” she breathes, voice barely audible—and then she drops off the bench onto her knees so fast I yelp.
“Tamsin?!” I hiss.
Her head bows automatically, hands pressed flat to the floor, her magic flickering like it’s trying to curl in on itself.
“I—” she mutters through clenched teeth, “—hate that my body just does this. But that’s Dorian Holt, Crown Prince of the Fae.”
Nolan blinks at her. Raiden’s eyes widen a fraction. Kael doesn’t move, but the shadows around him do. I stare between all three of them and then back at the newcomer approaching the front of the room.
Tamsin’s voice trembles slightly as she adds, “Fae royalty tends to have… effects.”
I just blink. Because one thing is immediately, painfully clear: This guy is going to be a problem.
Dorian reaches the front of the room—and with a lazy flick of his fingers, the pressure in the air dissolves. It feels like someone snaps an invisible thread.
The fae students all gasp at once, straightening with shaky breaths and wide eyes as they find their seats. Tamsin sucks in air like she’s been underwater.
“Oh, thank the void,” she mutters, scrambling back onto the bench. “My knees are not built for royal theatrics.”
Dorian turns just enough to cast her a wicked little smirk as if he heard her. She squeaks and covers her face.
Then another figure steps forward from beside Veyne—the girl I noticed the moment they first stepped onto the dais together.
Ink-dark hair braided neatly down her back. Perfect posture. A quiet, powerful elegance that looks born, not learned. She moves with that same calm grace as she inclines her head.
“Crown prince,” she says softly, bowing with effortless precision. When she looks up, her smile is warm and familiar, like she genuinely knows him. “It is… good to see you again.”
Again?
Dorian’s grin softens, all theatrics falling away as he ascends a single step toward her.
“Lady Nyssa,” he murmurs, voice rich and low. “Still radiant, I see.”
She flushes faintly, but remains composed. “Welcome to Veilborn Academy.”
I blink.
Nolan leans in, whispering, “Nyssa trained with the Silver Court for a year, she is the headmaster’s daughter.”
Raiden mutters, “Of course she did.”
“You sound jealous, fox boy,” Tamsin murmurs, and he scoffs.
Dorian returns smoothly to Headmaster Veyne’s side, clasping his hands behind him like he’s settling onto a throne instead of a school platform.
Headmaster Veyne clears his throat loudly, pulling the room’s attention to the dais. Not that mine ever left it.
“Students,” he says, voice regaining its command. “As some of you may have guessed, we have a distinguished guest joining us for the duration of the crisis.”
Crisis. The word clasps cold fingers around my spine.
Dorian sweeps a graceful bow—dramatic, unnecessary, and obviously done for show.
“Dorian Holt,” Headmaster Veyne continues, “envoy of the Silver Court.”
Envoy. Not visitor. Not exchange student.
Envoy.
Which means this isn’t diplomatic nicety. This is political intervention. A ripple of shocked whispers sweeps through the hall.
Veyne’s expression is grave as he continues to address the hall. “Prince Dorian is here to assist in stabilizing the Veil and investigating the disappearances.”
A ripple of unease sweeps the room.
Dorian’s gaze sweeps over the benches…slow, assessing, and almost predatory in its precision. And then he sees me. His smile shifts—intrigued, focused, and entirely too pleased.
Tamsin kicks me so hard I almost yelp. “Oh stars—Linds, why is he looking at you? Don’t attract royal fae attention. That’s how people end up cursed or courted or both. Neither are good.”
I don’t answer. Not because I don’t want to, but because I’m caught like a deer in headlights by his attention.
A collective tension builds—whispers turning sharp, panic stirring again, everyone bracing for bad news or worse possibilities.
Dorian seems to sense it.
He steps forward with an easy grace, placing himself not beside the headmaster but a little ahead of him, like he’s done this a thousand times before. He raises a hand—palm open, posture relaxed.
The room quiets instantly.
“Students,” he begins, voice smooth and warm, threaded with something that feels like magic. “I know this news is unsettling. Change often is.”
His eyes sweep the room, gentle but unyielding. He really does look like he belongs on a stage.
“You are not in danger,” he continues, tone steady, almost musical. “Not right now. And you are not alone.”
A few students exhale shakily.
Dorian smiles, gentle, reassuring, and practiced. “I’ve been sent because your safety matters to more than just this academy. The Silver Court does not involve itself lightly.” His tone dips, hinting at seriousness beneath the charm. “But we will not abandon you.”
The murmurs soften.
Even Raiden’s posture loosens by a fraction.
Dorian spreads his hands slightly. “The Veil is older than our histories, but it is not fragile. It bends and breathes. It does not break easily. And with the right magic—your magic, your unity—it can be strengthened.”
Students nod, some leaning closer to hear.
Tamsin mutters, “Ugh. He’s good at this. I hate that he’s good at this.”
Dorian’s smile widens—just enough to dazzle, just enough to charm without pushing. “We will stabilize the Veil together. We will find your missing classmates. And we will keep each one of you safe. That is my promise.”
He bows his head slightly, silver hair sliding over his shoulders like moonlight made tangible.
“Do not borrow fear,” he finishes softly. “Borrow hope.”
The room exhales, a long, trembling release. Then his eyes find me again—quick, sharp, and lingering. And that hope transforms instantly into something else. Because Dorian Holt may be here to help. But he’s also dangerous.
And he knows it.