Chapter 24
Not all duels begin with power drawn. Some begin with a nod—and end before a hand is ever raised.
—The Art of Elemental Dueling: Principles of Discipline and Dominance
When we reach the quad, firepits flicker softly, each one ringed with smooth white stones that catch the firelight and glow faintly, a welcome warmth contrasting the frost that lingers in the air.
Overhead, strings of fairy lights crisscross the night sky, casting a golden shimmer across the gathering.
In the heart of the space, long tables are draped in crisp white linens and stretched beneath the lights, gold metal chairs neatly arranged on either side.
Fire magick further traps the warmth in a dome of heat.
A line of guests—students, professors, and visitors alike—are already gathered at the buffet near the back. The air is thick with the mouthwatering scent of roasted potatoes and herb-crusted tenderloin—garlic, rosemary, and the tang of red wine thread through the space.
We find seats near the center table just as Headmaster Thorne spots Noa and asks to borrow him for introductions to visiting dignitaries and high-ranking Service officers.
Noa leans down, brushing a kiss to my cheek. “I’ll be right back,” he whispers. His hand brushes my back, stretching out until the last second before he pulls away. Like he can’t stand not to be touching me.
Finn settles beside me just as Rozsen saunters over. “Alright, fire sprite,” he says, palm out, eyes narrowed.
Rozsen drops his keycard into his hand. Then his pen. Then his watch.
“Sooner or later, those sticky fingers of yours are going to get you in trouble,” Finn says in mock reprimand, though the admiration in his voice is impossible to miss.
“You’d have to catch me first.” She raises one eyebrow at the utter absurdity of that thought.
He only laughs, and soon they’re bickering over pumpkin and buttered rolls, tallying her thefts like gamblers arguing debts. Finn swears he’s up to three swipes now, but Rozsen insists he’s exaggerating.
Their voices fade into the clatter of goblets and the scrape of cutlery.
Not hungry, I slip away to an empty firepit in the far corner, needing a moment to breathe, to process the weight of everything from today.
Across the quad, I catch Rozsen’s gaze snagging on me, then flicking past my shoulder as if looking for someone.
I know she’s waiting to grill me about Gavrail. The scene at the Caldera wasn’t exactly private.
I twirl my ring, watching as the firelight dances off the precious stone. Something swirls inside, and for a heartbeat, I get the strangest feeling that something’s been caught and held there. The ring feels oddly warm against my skin, even though the night air is cool.
“It suits you,” a voice says from behind me.
I freeze as Gavrail steps beside me, clearing his throat.
He looks sharp in his uniform—charcoal fabric perfectly tailored, silver commendations gleaming on his lapel.
Severe and striking. Everything about him is precise.
Deadly. And beautiful. The scent of smoke and leather, threaded with dark amber, curls around me like a dare.
His face still holds that controlled, expressionless mask from the arena. Everywhere except his eyes. “I owe you an apology,” he says quickly, voice low, even. But there is tension there—tightly leashed, barely hidden.
I look at him, searching his face as if I can peel away every secret he’s holding.
“I wasn’t expecting to see you,” he continues. “Not at Whittaker. And definitely not in the fighting arena.” There’s an edge to it, almost like a quiet accusation. Surprise sharpened into judgment. I nearly laugh. “The point is… I acted badly. And I’m sorry.”
I nod, half turning away—then stop. Fuck it.
“I thought you were dead,” I say coldly. “Or kidnapped. Or stranded in the Russian wilderness with no way to contact anyone.” My words come out sharp, spiked with venom to hide the broken pieces he left behind those many years ago.
His expression doesn’t change, but I see the slight flinch that crosses his face.
Good.
“Because that’s the only explanation I could live with for why you never wrote. For why you just disappeared.”
He opens his mouth, hesitates, then straightens. “I have no excuses. You trusted me, and I broke that trust.” His voice softens just slightly. “There’s more to it. A lot I want to explain, Cel. A lot you deserve to hear. We’re both here now. And I want to make it right… if you’ll let me.”
For a moment, he’s just him. Not the mask, not the statue. I close my hand into a fist at my side, stopping myself from reaching for him, no matter how much some part of me wants to slide back into the gravity of what we once were to each other.
Maybe it was just a crush to him—schoolgirl affection, fleeting and innocent. But thinking that makes my heart ache.
“I heard about your father,” he says. “I’m sorry, Celeste. He was a good man. All he ever wanted was to keep you safe.” His tone is gentle, the words falling over me like a shadow on a sunburn. Too soft over something still raw.
He looks like he’s about to say more when Rozsen walks up with two glasses of wine, saving me from myself. Her timing is too precise to be chance—as if she felt the static in the air and came to ground it. I’m grateful for the interruption and use it to try to piece my emotions back together.
“Quite the impressive display today,” she says, handing me a glass before turning her attention to Gavrail. “I’ve never met a shadow-wielder before.” Her gaze lingers—open, assessing.
“Gavrail,” he says in introduction, dipping his head just slightly.
Her eyes flick to me, sharp and quick, then back to him. She smiles at him like she’s harmless. “So… how exactly do you and Celeste know each other?”
My hand tightens on the glass as I fight the urge to glare at her. Instead, I just bite the inside of my cheek.
Gavrail’s eyes meet mine for a heartbeat before he answers. “Childhood friends,” he says, and there’s the faintest hint of a smirk—like he knows exactly how thin that answer is.
Rozsen studies us both for a moment too long. “Mm” is all she says. The look she gives me lets me know she’s not buying it for a second. But she lets it rest. For now.
And then she’s off, leaning in with questions—about his school, his shadows, training routines, sleeping quarters—like she’s simply curious, and not building a case to interrogate me with later.
As the attention shifts off me, I finally exhale, letting myself listen and finding his words painting captivating images in my mind of the life he has lived since I last saw him.
He answers each question with clipped elegance, but his voice has weight, like every word is chosen deliberately and with care. Gavrail is formal, attentive, disarmingly polite. It’s both infuriating and intoxicating.
Something in his voice—certainty, memory, truth—has me rooted in place.
They segue into a discussion about international recruitment, and Gavrail’s tone darkens.
“In Europe, they’re always preparing for the next war. Magickteers are weapons—sharpened or discarded. At least… that’s how my father sees them.” He glances at me on the last sentence.
“Your father’s in the military?” Rozsen asks.
I answer before he can. “His father is General Neron Kamenov, the highest-ranking”—and most ruthless—“general in all of Eastern Europe, and head of Krovya.”
They both turn to look at me.
Rozsen’s brows shoot up as she lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Bet he’s a blast at Christmas parties,” she jokes, lightening the mood, and I’m grateful.
I can feel him before I see him—Noa’s presence is warm and unmistakable. I wonder if Gavrail can, too, as his body tenses a second before I feel an arm wrap around my shoulder.
“Sorry I took so long,” Noa murmurs, lips brushing the curve of my ear.
“Looks like you two have been catching up?” His smile is easy, relaxed, but there’s a subtle edge to his words and a threat of violence still lurking beneath the surface.
“I know we met before the duel,” he says to Gavrail, extending a hand, “but I don’t think we were properly introduced.
I’m Noa Gallegher—Cel’s boyfriend.” He emphasizes the last word.
His other arm tightens over me possessively.
“And you must be the ghost from her past.” His grip hardens just slightly, though his tone stays smooth.
“Funny thing about shadows—they only exist when something stronger is casting the light.”
I kick him with the back of my heel. Annoyingly, he doesn’t even flinch.
Gavrail takes his hand, ignoring the jab—but I catch the flicker across his face before that perfect, impassive mask slides back into place.
Unnervingly calm. Tension crackles like a live wire in the air between them.
“Your fire is… impressive,” Gavrail says at last, voice even.
“I’ve never seen anything quite like it. ”
Noa tries to suppress a smirk. “Well, if you hadn’t blacked out the school, you’d know I was just getting started.”
I kick him again—harder. This time, I know he feels it.
Gavrail’s eyes sharpen, gleaming with challenge. “Perhaps we’ll find a better time to finish that conversation.”
The two of them lock eyes, and for a moment, the firepit isn’t the only thing throwing heat.
Gavrail turns to me one last time, something tight in his expression. “Excuse me. I need to find my companions.”
And with that, he’s gone—back into the shadows he commands. And my eyes can’t help but try to track him through the moonless dark.