Chapter Eighteen
The days that followed blurred together in a haze of preparation and intensity.
Training sessions stretched longer, pushing past the usual boundaries as instructors drilled expedition protocols with grim efficiency.
The news from Kareth’s Edge had changed everything, what was once theoretical preparation became urgent reality.
Students practiced emergency beacon procedures, reviewed corrupted beast identification charts until they could recite them in their sleep, and ran endless combat scenarios in the training yards.
Cassara threw herself into mastering Spireglass with single-minded focus.
The weapon was unlike anything she’d trained with before, longer reach than a sword, more versatile than a staff, requiring perfect balance and timing to wield effectively.
In the early hours before breakfast, she could be found in the practice yards, working through forms until sweat dripped from her brow and her muscles screamed in protest.
The glaive responded to her moods in ways that both thrilled and unsettled her.
During moments of frustration, when a sequence wouldn’t flow correctly, the mirrored blade would grow heavier, more resistant.
But when she found her rhythm, when anger or determination surged through her, Spireglass sang, light as air, cutting through practice dummies like they were made of mist rather than reinforced leather.
“You’re fighting it,” Instructor Nareen observed on the third day, watching her struggle through a defensive rotation. “Stop trying to control the weapon. Let it be part of the movement.”
Easier said than done. But gradually, she began to understand. Spireglass wasn’t meant to be dominated, it was meant to be partnered with, a dance between wielder and blade that required trust rather than force.
By the fourth day, something clicked. As she moved through a complex sequence—thrust, pivot, sweeping arc, reverse grip—the weapon flowed with her like liquid silver. For a brief, perfect moment, she felt what it might be like to fight with a bonded beast, that seamless unity of purpose and power.
The moment shattered when she noticed Auren watching from the doorway.
Their eyes met across the training yard, and she felt that familiar heat rise in her chest, part attraction, equal parts frustration. He nodded once then turned and walked away.
The message passed through the first-year dormitories like wildfire, whispered from room to room with the kind of excited secrecy that only unsanctioned activities could inspire.
Tonight. The ruins. Midnight after the banquet. Fourth-year tradition.
Cassara found the note slipped under her door when she returned from training, written in an unfamiliar hand on expensive parchment that suggested one of the legacy students had connections among the upper years.
She looked up to find Liri practically vibrating with excitement, clutching a similar note.
"Are we going? Tell me we’re going," Liri whispered. "I mean, if we get caught…"
"We won't get caught," Talia said quietly from her bed, not looking up from the book she was reading. "The instructors know about the tradition. They just pretend they don't."
Cassara raised an eyebrow. "How do you know that?"
"I asked around," Talia replied simply.
They had one more day until the expedition. The formal banquet was in a few hours—academy tradition before every Wildes departure.
Common sense said they needed to rest, to make sure they were in top form when they descended to the ground. Staring down at the note in her hands, Cassara couldn’t help but wonder if maybe one night of forgetting wasn't mere indulgence—it was armor.
"Wait," Liri said, panic creeping into her voice as she stared at her open trunk. "What am I supposed to wear? I only brought one nice dress but it's so... plain. It’s not meant for something formal—"
"Breathe," Evie said, already moving to her own trunk. "I have options. We'll figure it out."
Cassara left them to their own devices and crossed to her trunk. She lifted the upper panel, revealing the second layer beneath the standard-issue gear. Gowns in dusky jewel tones lay folded in precise rows, silk and satin catching the light like spilled moonlight.
She chose a deep garnet gown, sleeveless, open-backed, with a high neckline that dipped slightly at the collarbone. It hugged her waist, held in place by laces, then flared in layers to the knee. The fabric shimmered faintly with arcane threadwork, catching light with every movement.
It was perfect for the formal banquet, and for slipping into the ruins after midnight.
"Cass," Evie breathed, pausing mid-search through her own gowns. "You're going to kill someone tonight."
Liri nearly dropped the dress she was holding. "That's... that's illegal. That's war crime level. That's—"
"Tailored," Cassara said simply, turning back to the mirror.
She unpinned her braid, shaking her hair free until it fell in soft chestnut waves down her back.
She left it loose. Untamed. Hers. She lined her eyes with a practiced hand, added a touch of shimmer to her cheekbones, and fastened a set of black gem cuffs around her wrists—tokens that looked far more like heirloom blades than jewelry.
"You've worn that before," Talia observed quietly. "That gown. It’s important to you."
Cassara's reflection stilled for a beat. Then she nodded. "It belonged to my mother, it was the last dress she wore before she died."
"Here," Evie said, breaking the silence. She pulled out a midnight blue gown and held it up to Liri. "Try this one. It'll look beautiful on you."
Turning from the mirror, she moved to Liri's side, helping pin her unruly hair back with steady hands. She added a streak of metallic liner just above her lashes, soft enough to feel magical, strong enough to feel brave.
Across the room, Sonia fastened the clasp on her own dress—elegant, understated silver that caught the light without demanding it. She met Cassara's eyes in the mirror. "I'll sit through the speeches and formality. But sneaking off to the ruins afterward? You lot are on your own for that part."
Cassara shrugged. “It’s not like anyone will notice.”
Talia finally set her book aside and rose. Cassara watched her, curious to see what sort of attire the girl from the Outer Isles would have brought. Talia produced a dress of deep forest green, simple but striking against her umber skin.
Turning, Cassara glanced at her own reflection one last time.
For the first time in weeks, she didn't feel like a soldier.
Just Cassara Allencourt, heir to a legacy of light and fire, and tonight, walking into ceremony and midnight like she belonged to both.
The Grand Hall had been transformed.
Mage-lights floated in clusters overhead, casting warm golden light across long tables draped in deep blue cloth embroidered with silver thread. Candles flickered in crystal holders, their flames steady despite the gentle current of air from the high arched windows.
First-years filed in through the main doors, their voices hushed despite the grandeur. Cassara entered with Liri and Evie, aware of the way heads turned, the way conversations paused just long enough to notice who wore what, who stood with whom.
She didn't let it touch her.
The upper years were already seated at tables near the back, their relaxed postures a stark contrast to the nervous energy radiating from the first-years.
Instructors lined the dais at the front of the hall, standing behind a raised table set with fine china and silver goblets.
Cassara's gaze swept across them—Nareen, stern and watchful; Thorne, arms crossed; Roderick, expression unreadable.
And Auren.
He stood near the end, hands clasped behind his back, his dark instructor's uniform immaculate. His eyes found hers for the briefest moment, then moved away as if she were just another student in the crowd.
"This is incredible," Liri whispered, eyes wide as she took in the decorations, the sheer scale of the event.
"It's tradition," Evie said, though her voice carried a note of awe too. "My sister told me about it. They do this every year before the Wildes expedition."
Cassara's attention shifted as more students entered, the hall filling with the low hum of conversation and the rustle of formal attire.
She caught sight of Gideon near one of the side tables, the dark gray of his formalwear a stark contrast to the colorful gowns and ornate coats around him.
He was listening to Oliver—no doubt prattling on about glyph patterns or crystal resonance—when his gaze shifted and stopped on her.
His expression changed from abject boredom to… surprise?
She told herself she'd imagined it.
Turning back to Liri and Evie, she let herself be pulled into their conversation about table assignments and whether the food would actually be good.
"Allencourt."
The voice came from directly behind her. She turned to find Gideon standing closer than she'd expected, hands sliding into his pockets, his posture casual but his eyes sharp.
"Delvanir," she said evenly.
His gaze flicked down, then back up, so quick she almost missed it. "You clean up well."
The words were simple. Matter-of-fact. But the way he said them—like he hadn't meant to, like they'd slipped out before he could stop them—made her pulse kick up.
"Thanks," she said, keeping her tone light. "You too."
Before either of them could speak again, Verena appeared at Gideon's side, her gown a shimmering gold that hugged every curve. She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes.
"Cassara," she said, her voice smooth. "I almost didn't recognize you without all the mud and bruises."
"I could say the same, but I think you wear yours on the inside,” Cassara said, keeping her expression neutral.
Verena's smile tightened. "Charming. I suppose desperation looks different on everyone."