Chapter 26 Lindsay
TWENTY-SIX
LINDSAY
“I have nothing to wear,” I grumble as we walk across the courtyard, boots crunching over scattered autumn leaves.
Tamsin snorts. “You say that like it’s a surprise.”
“I’m serious,” I huff. “Everything I own is either a school uniform or something I could get tackled in. I can’t show up to a magical Revel looking like I just rolled out of sparring class.”
“You usually do roll out of sparring class lately.”
I elbow her lightly. “Helpful.”
She grins but then slows her steps, nudging me with her shoulder. “Relax. The Harvest Moon Revel isn’t about fashion. It’s about chaos. Snacks. Maybe a little blood magic if someone spikes the cider again.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“Good. Keeps you aware.”
“What are you wearing?”
She shrugs. “I have a dress that is sort of the color of your hair,” she says looking at my messy blue bun.
We round the corner toward our dorm, the towering stone structure catching the fading light like something out of a gothic fairytale. The stairs and hallway don’t seem so long now. But the moment we step inside our dorm, I freeze.
There’s a box on my bed.
Not one of mine. Not something dropped off by the school. No label or note on the outside. Just a sleek, obsidian-black rectangle, too elegant to be casual, too intentional to be harmless.
Tamsin makes a low, curious sound beside me. “Okaaay... that’s not ominous at all.”
I don’t answer. I cross the room, heart beating faster than it should, and lift the lid.
Inside, nestled in dark tissue paper that shimmers like oil under light, is a dress.
Not just any dress.
Black as spilled ink. It glints when I shift the paper, catching the purple of the glowing runes carved into the waistline.
The bodice is sculpted and high-necked, made of something that looks like leather but moves like shadow, with delicate slashes along the shoulders where the fabric opens into thin straps.
The center cinches tight, perfectly shaped to hug every inch of skin it touches.
But it’s the skirt that steals the breath from my lungs.
It flares out in layers—gossamer-thin and edged in deep violet, so sheer it hints at everything without giving it all away. The front is daring, split to reveal long legs and the soft shimmer of magic woven into the hem.
And over the shoulders...spider-silk. No, not silk. Something like it. Translucent strands twist and wind up toward the throat in a web-like design that somehow manages to look both regal and wicked.
Tamsin lets out a slow breath. “That’s definitely not from the student shop.”
No. It’s not. It’s beautiful and very possibly cursed.
I run my fingers along the edge of the fabric. It speaks to me. Not audibly—but under my skin. Someone made this dress with me in mind.
Tamsin glances sideways at me. “Well? Are you going to try it on or stand there like it might bite?”
“It might bite,” I mutter.
“Exactly. Which is why you’re definitely wearing it.”
I don’t argue. Because deep down, I know she’s right. This dress was made for a version of me I’m just starting to become. And whoever sent it...they knew.
They knew I’d say yes.
Tamsin doesn’t stop me when I lift the dress from the box.
She just watches in silence as I carry it toward the back corner of the shared dorm, past mismatched beds and secondhand shelves, into the changing alcove sectioned off with old curtain rods and half-stuck privacy spells.
The light’s dull here.
But the cracked mirror above the rust-stained sink just outside the area will be enough once I’m changed.
I slip out of my training clothes and pull the dress over my head.
It fits like it was made for me.
The bodice clings, the leather-like fabric flexing around my ribs, chest, and hips like a second skin.
It’s structured but fluid, shaped to me in a way that makes breathing feel like a performance.
The high neck fastens with a quiet click at the base of my throat, and as I shift, the straps shift too—barely-there cuts along the shoulders revealing flashes of skin like a dare.
The gossamer layers of the skirt float with my movement, whispering against my thighs.
And the spider-silk detail climbs over my collarbone, delicate and terrifyingly elegant.
I stare at my reflection.
The girl in the mirror looks like me, but different at the same time. Shadow-wrapped. Dangerous.
“Damn,” someone mutters behind me.
I startle. Turn.
A girl with magenta streaks in her shaved hair is leaned against one of the bunk posts, chewing on a licorice root stick as if she owns the world. She’s one of the older students—quiet, usually half-vanished behind spell books or charms that buzz faintly from her corner of the dorm.
“You look like you’re about to seduce a god or destroy one,” she says, eyes narrowing appreciatively. “Either way, I approve.”
I blink. “Uh…thanks?”
She nods toward the dress. “Custom weave. That stitching near your hip? That’s Nightfang thread. Costs more than my tuition would if I weren’t here on a scholarship.”
My fingers graze the place she’s talking about, and sure enough, it shimmers subtly—like moonlight caught in ink.
“Did you see who left it?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Box was just there when I got back from Advanced Hexwork. Didn’t see anyone. But judging by the vibes?” Her smile tilts, sharp and amused. “Someone’s either in love with you, terrified of you…or wants something very specific.”
I don’t respond. I’m not sure which answer would be worse.
When she wanders off, I turn back to the mirror. The girl staring back still looks like me—but not like the me from before.
This version has thorns. And a purpose. And maybe a little power humming in her bones.
Tamsin comes over, and her eyes widen as she takes me in.
“Oh, holy shit.”
Yeah. That about covers it.
The courtyard glows under silver moonlight and enchanted lanterns that bob in the air like sleepy fireflies.
Warm light spills from arched windows, the scent of cinnamon-spiced cider and roasting sugar root drifting into the evening.
Somewhere, string music fills the air—too perfect to be played by students.
It feels…suspended, like the world’s holding its breath in anticipation of tonight.
My fingers tremble slightly against the old stone banister as I descend the winding steps into the courtyard, the dress clinging to my every breath. I’ve never worn anything like it. Never been anything like this.
For one moment, I let myself feel it.
The wind tugs at the gossamer skirt, catching the sheer panels and lifting them like smoke. The spider-silk neckline shimmers against my collarbone, and the fitted bodice—tight and shadowed like armor—hugs my waist as if it knows exactly who I am.
I’m not sure if I look more like a fairytale princess or the villain that burns her way into the story halfway through and steals the crown.
Honestly? Either works.
Students gather around the edge of the courtyard in clusters—laughing, whispering, showing off whatever glamour-stitched outfits they’d scraped together or conjured.
But the moment I step down the final stair, the conversations near me pause.
Just a second. Just long enough for the hush to prickle across my skin.
And then—
“Lindsay?”
I turn and find Nolan.
He’s standing by the drink table in what can only be described as scholarly hot.
His usual button-up is layered under a navy vest embroidered with tiny runes that glint every time he shifts, and his sleeves are rolled up just enough to show the lean strength of his arms. His hair is a little mussed, as though he’d tried to smooth it down and gave up halfway. His tie is slightly crooked.
It’s adorable.
But it’s his expression that makes my heart stutter.
He looks like he’s forgotten how to breathe.
“I—uh,” he starts, then clears his throat. “Wow.”
A laugh bubbles in my throat. “Is that your official reaction?”
He steps toward me, slow and reverent, eyes scanning me like he’s trying to memorize every line. “No. My official reaction is that you look like moonlight got jealous and turned into a person just to mess with everyone’s self-esteem.”
Heat blooms in my cheeks. “That’s…actually kind of poetic. Who are you tonight?”
He shrugs, sheepish and proud all at once. “Just a guy who feels very, very lucky to know you.”
I tilt my head. “You didn’t say I looked dangerous.”
“Oh, you do,” he murmurs, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But in the way where I’d still walk into the flames for a chance to dance with you.”
I swallow. Hard. Butterflies flutter in my stomach. I might be falling for him. Not just crushing, but head first into love. Damn.
The music shifts—something low and lilting—and the crowd begins to part for the first dance. But in this moment, it’s just him and me and the silver hush between heartbeats.
“Care to make good on that offer, Porter?” I ask softly, holding out a hand.
He takes it.