Chapter 43
A lover’s gaze or a general’s command can often move the same pieces across the board.
—A History of Elemental Conflict: The Magickal Wars and Rebellions of the Last Millennium
Ididn’t bring anything formal enough for the dinner to Whittaker, but Amelia insists I borrow a gown of hers. Apparently, earth-wielders host a few formal gatherings throughout the year that warrant more than just jeans and a cute top.
I’m stunned when she hands me a gown of deep green silk—the kind of green that feels both lush and dangerous, like it was pulled straight from the heart of a forest. Delicate embroidery climbs the sheer fabric: leaves and pale-gold blossoms that shimmer as they spill down the gathered bodice and skirt like sunlight through a canopy.
Two velvet ribbons are tied into bows around my upper arms, leaving my shoulders bare. The bodice is snug and regal, cut daringly low in the back—an invitation of skin—before giving way to a shimmering skirt that moves like windswept petals.
Rozsen does my hair in soft waves that fall down my back, pinning one side back with a gold barrette shaped like a crescent leaf. Elliot takes over my makeup: ruby lips and a dusting of bronze and gold shimmer across my eyelids, subtle but striking. It’s a full squad effort.
When I finally look in the mirror, I don’t recognize myself.
I look… transformed. Like something ancient. Magick-born. Like someone who can command storms or calm oceans with a glance.
And for a moment, I let myself believe it.
That maybe—just for tonight—I can be all of it. Without fear. Without hiding.
Someone worthy of the name Thalrien.
A knock sounds at our suite door.
Rozsen’s eyes light with mischief. “That’ll be him.”
Elliot sweeps past us and cracks the door open just enough to peek. “No kidnapping without a signed form.”
Noa’s voice comes through the narrow gap, warm with amusement. “I’ll risk it.”
Elliot opens the door wider as she grins. And Noa steps inside.
For half a second, my brain blanks. Not because I haven’t seen him in uniform—of course I have—but because this isn’t the daily version of it.
This is the formal cut, crisp and sharp, dark fabric fitted to his shoulders like it’s been tailored with intent.
His fire insignia and rank patches gleam cleanly against the sleeve.
His hair is combed just enough to look effortless, and the turquoise of his eyes lights bright against the dark.
He stops mid-step. Just… stops.
All the easy swagger drains out of him like someone pulled the plug. His throat works as his jaw tightens.
For a rare, perfect moment, Noa Gallegher looks like he forgot how to breathe.
“Hi,” I manage, because my mouth has forgotten everything else.
His eyes drop—slowly—to the velvet ribbons at my arms, to the gold blossoms stitched down the bodice, to the way the skirt pools around my feet like something alive. Then they lift again, focusing on my face with a heat that makes my skin prickle.
“Celeste,” he says, and my name sounds different in his mouth tonight. Lower. Rougher. Like he’s tasting it.
He crosses the room in three strides, and I watch Amelia and Rozsen immediately turn into statues of exaggerated innocence.
Noa stops in front of me, close enough that I can feel the warmth of him before he even touches me. “You look…” He blinks, as if searching for a word to explain whatever it is he’s feeling.
“Like I’m about to drown under a wave of Service etiquette?” I offer.
A laugh breaks out of him—short, real—then his gaze sharpens again. His fingers brush my upper arm, feather-light, where the velvet ribbon is tied. His touch lingers just long enough to feel like a claim.
“No,” he murmurs. “You look… beautiful.” A beat. “You are beautiful.”
Something warm blooms behind my ribs.
Elliot makes a choked noise. “Alright,” she announces, clapping once. “We’ve done our civic duty. You two can have your fairytale night. But if you ruin her lipstick…” She narrows her eyes as she taps Noa smartly in the chest with her finger. “I will hunt you down and hurt you.”
I laugh, but Noa’s gaze dips briefly to my mouth—like the thought crosses his mind, like he can picture it, vividly—and something dark and hungry flashes there before he reins it in.
“No promises,” he whispers before holding out his arm to me. “Ready, Miss Farris?”
I hook my arm through his, letting myself feel the heat and steadiness of him.
“Ready, Mr. Gallegher.”
* * *
The dinner is held in the ballroom of the Ivy House—a place I’ve never set foot in until tonight.
Marble floors veined with gold gleam beneath the soft glow of crystal chandeliers.
Tall, stately pillars guide us toward a vast room with ceilings that soar, three times taller than they are wide.
Banquet tables are arranged with military precision, leaving an open space in front for dancing, and a raised platform to the left cradles the podium.
Next to that, tucked beneath a gilded arch, a string quartet sits poised, their black attire sharp against the pale marble floors.
Servants in immaculate white jackets line the walls, silver trays in hand, poised to begin service as we take our seats.
Headmaster Thorne steps up to the podium, ready to deliver one of his signature speeches, but before he can speak, the ballroom doors open with a slow and deliberate creak.
Six Krovya soldiers stand in formation beneath the arch, Gavrail and several Vikhrostrum students behind them, all dressed in their ceremonial uniforms—stately, polished, severe. But it is the man beside Gavrail who turns the air electric.
General Neron Kamenov.
Gavrail’s father.
My spine straightens of its own accord. And suddenly I’m twelve years old again. Nervous and terrified to be caught dripping wet in his living room after Gavrail saved me from the lake.
A hush falls like frost over the room as a servant quietly guides them to a table near the front, adjacent to where General Vaylor and his officers are already seated.
Thorne clears his throat, waiting for attention to return to him.
When it does, he smiles, steady and composed.
“We are deeply honored tonight by a visit from General Kamenov,” he says smoothly.
“Of course, it is no surprise that he should find his way here, as we’ve had the privilege of hosting his son, Gavrail, at Whittaker this past year. ”
Whispers rise like phantoms around the room. A beat, then polite applause as eyes flick to the two striking men sitting beside each other.
“This evening is meant to honor our fourth-year students—the most accomplished class we’ve seen in decades. Their discipline, their skill, and their perseverance are a beacon of what lies ahead. The future is in good hands.”
Louder applause now, from students and parents alike.
His gaze sweeps the room—then lands on Noa, pride softening the sharp lines of his expression.
“And in a fortuitous turn of events,” Thorne continues, “I am pleased to announce that one of our most exceptional students—top-ranking across all categories—Officer Noa Gallegher has officially been recruited by General Vaylor to join his elite Echo Squad immediately following graduation.”
A rush of applause breaks like a wave. Cheers. Foot stomps. Finn and Ryan’s “Oorah!” louder than the rest. But underneath it all, my blood goes strangely still. Because suddenly his future belongs to everyone in this room—and no longer just to us.
Noa grins. I look up at him in surprise as he leans in and squeezes my hand.
“It just happened. I didn’t get the chance to tell you yet.”
Well, that makes two things we now need to talk about.
* * *
The dinner is spectacular—honey-dipped burrata on crostinis, lobster bisque served in demitasse cups, iced platters of oysters arranged in elegant spirals.
A salad so delicate it looks like edible art.
Then the entrées—black cod decadently marinated, buttered crab legs cracked open with silver picks, filet mignon drizzled in black truffle demi-glace.
Every plate is a masterpiece, every bite divine.
We eat. We drink. Toast after toast is raised in Noa’s honor—his courage, his brilliance, his future. Laughter rings like music, pride gleaming in his parents’ eyes, and even Noa looks lighter, brighter, caught in the warmth of a room built to celebrate him.
And all I can do is smile through the tightening in my chest. I feel like a shadow at the edge of the light, clapping for a joy that I can’t fully hold.
Because beneath the champagne sparkle and silver applause, I know the truth no one is saying—he’s leaving.
We only have a month left, maybe two, and I’m not ready to let him go.
* * *
Once dinner ends, the officers and families begin to mingle near tall side tables, the soft strains of the string quartet weaving through the room like silk.
Noa and his parents are quickly swept into a steady tide of guests—officers, officials, Whittaker professors—each offering congratulations and praise, each speaking of his future like it’s already written in the stars.
I’m stepping back from the crowd, the room blurring at the edges, when a throat clears quietly behind me.
I turn. And my breath catches.
Gavrail is there, like a storm caught mid-breath. Not standing so much as claiming the space—black dress uniform carved to him, silver trim catching candlelight like a blade being drawn. Everything about him is restraint. Control so tight it feels almost violent.
His ash-brown hair is immaculately disheveled. A shadow of dark stubble frames the sharp line of his jaw. Every detail of him feels intentional—cut from shadow and steel, a body sculpted for war or worship, or both in equal measure.
But his eyes—his eyes are the tell.
They roam over me, possessive in a way I don’t have words for. He looks at me like I’m something he wasn’t expecting to see and hasn’t yet figured out how to look away from.
It’s the look that catches me off guard.