“Hey, Prim?

  We are all farsighted, aren't we?

  We give importance to things far from us, while neglecting what is close…

  only to understand their value when they slip out of reach again.”

  My eyes linger on the mirror before me, fixed on my own face… and yet reaching past it, trying to think, to understand how I ended up here.”

  Is Til… interested in me?

  Now?

  The question echoes, unhelpful and persistent. His actions from yesterday surface unbidden—how gentle he was, how attentive. He even had a slice of cake so I wouldn’t feel awkward indulging alone.

  I gasp as the air is knocked clean out of my lungs.

  “Just a little tighter, miss,” the seamstress says, giving the corset another firm tug.

  “Sorry—just… not used to these,” I reply apologetically.

  She finishes fastening the straps behind me. I breathe slowly, adjusting to the constriction. Only then do I really look at my reflection.

  And, just for a moment, I let myself feel excited.

  “I’ve never worn anything like this before,” I admit aloud, allowing myself a small, cheeky spin to watch the skirt respond.

  A long purplish-crimson skirt flares and drapes across the floor in generous folds, paired with a black corset that slims my frame and a low, open-necked top in matching crimson, its loose sleeves flowing beautifully. I’m… kind of in love with it.

  I awkwardly adjust the corset, glancing down—acutely aware of how much it emphasizes my chest. Embarrassing, but…

  I grin at my reflection anyway.

  “My, aren’t you ready to break some hearts,” Cinna says as she approaches, that wicked little snicker curling her lips.

  And yet—she’s adorable. Not in her usual way. Tonight she looks refined. Her silky black hair spills over bare shoulders, ribbons absent, a pristine white corset paired with a flowing purple skirt. She looks… mature.

  “I’d pinch both your cheeks if you didn’t look so pretty, Cinna,” I reply, tiredness softening my tone. It’s genuine.

  She takes both my hands, excitement bubbling over, and soon we’re swaying playfully side to side, grinning like fools.

  “Didn’t know you were that eager,” Saria mutters as she wanders over, arms folded. “It’s just a fucking ball. Bloody nobles do this instead of doing anything useful for the people they’re meant to be responsible for.”

  And—gods—she looks good.

  Nothing like the boyish figure I first met. Her hair’s grown into a sharp bob that veils one eye, a black flowing top paired with a brown corset and skirt. If I saw her like this at the ball, I’d never guess she worked beside me.

  “You look great, Saria,” I say, offering an apologetic smile. “But no matter how hard you try, I don’t think you’ll be separating Veil and the Captain.”

  Cinna shoots her a pointed look.

  “Eh? I mean—yeah. I know that.” Saria scoffs, quick, a little too quick. “That’s not the point. It’s just… easier.” She shrugs. “No one bothers me if they think I’m already taken. And messing with him’s a bonus.”

  “You don’t have anyone you’d want to invite?” I ask carefully. “I mean… it is a traditionalist ball.”

  “What? No.” She answers too fast, then waves it off. “I don’t do that whole… thing. All the staring, expectations, people deciding what you’re meant to be to them.” She leans closer to Cinna, lowering her voice just enough. “This way, I get left alone. And if it pisses a few people off? Even better.”

  Something clicks behind Cinna’s eyes, her expression softening—not pity, just understanding. But instead of letting it sit, she straightens, chin lifting.

  “Just you try it,” Cinna huffs theatrically. “Veil will never, ever have eyes for you.”

  Saria cackles, sharp and unbothered. “Please. That’s the plan.”

  “My, my, my… ladies.” Signora glides toward us with a theatrical bow.

  Cinna and I curtsy automatically. Saria scoffs.

  Signora and the three men behind her are dressed in matching styles—richly embroidered doublets, fitted sleeves with ruffled cuffs, polished shoes. Hers is blue. The others match their partners: white and purple for Ulric, black and brown for Veil, and—

  I inhale sharply, almost choking on the breath. Damn corset.

  Til’s gaze is fixed on me, his smile warm and openly pleased. His purplish-crimson doublet and black trousers mirror my colors so precisely that there’s no pretending I’m not his date.

  “Looks like every princess has found her slipper,” Signora says, pleased. “And don’t worry—those are included.” A wink. “Be grateful they’re rentals. That dress alone would eat up all your closet space.”

  “You look… wow,” Til says as he approaches.

  I glance away, heat creeping into my cheeks.

  “Thanks,” I manage. “And you look like you actually know what you’re doing in a social setting for once.” I force a casual tone. “But… you look really good. Great, even.”

  “Not used to this,” he admits, adjusting his doublet. I catch the runic embroidery—of course. “Didn’t expect fittings the day before the ball.”

  “Consider yourself lucky,” I say. “You get half the day to yourself. I’ll be here from dawn getting my hair done, makeup, manicure…” I pause. “Actually… that doesn’t sound so bad. Especially since I’m not paying.” I scoff. “Just means you’ll pick me up tomorrow evening.”

  “I could come earlier,” he offers sheepishly. “I picked up a few books. Thought I’d get back into my research.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  My eyes widen.

  “You should! I mean—yes, you should. Not the sitting-here part, but the research. You know I loved your last thesis. I still want to visit your hometown, see those ruins you wrote about.”

  “I will,” he says calmly. “I’ll be here.”

  My cheeks warm again.

  “I should… take this off,” I say quickly, gesturing toward the dressing room. “Get it ready for tomorrow. We checked, it fits—job done.”

  I scuttle away, acutely aware of his gaze lingering.

  Only to stop short.

  “…How do I take this thing off?” I mutter, then sheepishly step back out to ask one of the seamstresses for help.

  The walk back is livelier than I expected. Ulric seems to be in a rare good mood, improved further by seeing Veil dressed like that. He leads the group alongside Signora, while just behind them Veil and Cinna walk hand in hand.

  Toward the back… Saria takes one side of me.

  On the other—

  Til.

  He’s close — close enough that his arm brushes mine now and then as the crowd presses in, him subtly shifting to keep me out of the worst of it. Each time it happens, I pretend very hard to notice literally anything else.

  “Hey… Saria?” I start, grasping for a distraction. “We never really talked. How long have you been with the Valiants? It feels like you’re the most experienced one here.”

  Her eyebrows lift in surprise. Her sharp bob has been clipped back, keeping it out of her face.

  “What—eight years now?” she says. “Lucius pulled me out of some real bad shit. Would’ve wrecked my life otherwise.” A shrug. “So yeah. Long as he needs me, I’m here.”

  She pauses, then continues more quietly.

  “First captain too. Back when it was just me, Leonie… and a few others.” Her voice drops. “…Zeno. Eleni.”

  “…Shield Squad,” I murmur.

  “Yeah.” She scoffs softly. “Company grew. Lucius started recruiting. Zeno figured he could lead—and he bloody well could.” A beat. “Once we split into two squads, we moved into that damn tower. That lumbering oaf got hired not long after.” She jerks her chin toward Ulric.

  I hum, thoughtful.

  “So you and Leonie… how long have you known each other?” I ask, tilting my head.

  She squints, considering.

  “Since we were five? Six? Eight?” Another shrug. “Life was shit. We stuck together. Made it suck less.” Then she turns a sharp look on me. “And no, we’re not fucking. And I’ve got no interest in fucking you either.”

  I let out an awkward chuckle.

  “I didn’t— I didn’t mean that,” I say quickly. “Just… sounds nice. Knowing someone that long.”

  “Yeah?” She jerks her chin toward Til. “What about you and that bloke? You sounded like you’ve known him a while. Or did you mean knowing someone you aren’t fucking for that long?”

  The words tumble out of her like they’re nothing.

  “I’m—” I start, then stall, instantly regretting this entire conversation.

  I glance up.

  Til’s cheeks are pink.

  Of course he heard everything.

  …I want to crawl into a hole and disappear.

  Saria, meanwhile, seems perfectly content to let the conversation die, attention already drifting back to the passing crowds. Signora is too busy chatting with Ulric to have noticed anything, which is a small mercy.

  Before long we’re back at the tower, relief washing over me all at once.

  “See you later!” I blurt, hurrying ahead and taking the stairs two at a time.

  I unlock my door and—

  Empty.

  Of course it is. Why would she be here?

  I let myself collapse onto the bed, face-first, muffling a tired groan.

  Cat has her own room. My bed’s small. Her couch is… uncomfortable.

  …Still. Maybe I should visit her room. That’d be okay, right?

  A sharp knock snaps me out of it.

  I spin, half-hoping—

  Lucius stands in the doorway, his gaze careful not to linger as I scramble upright.

  “Imone,” he says flatly. “Please report to command.”

  He turns and leaves without waiting.

  Am I… in trouble?

  The thought forms as I push myself to my feet, crossing to the mirror to make sure I didn’t smudge my makeup during that graceless faceplant.

  The walk down to command is slow, my thoughts spiraling. I run through every possible reason he might have called me in. There are far too many. Maybe it’s all of them at once. He wouldn’t fire me over this… right? No one was hurt. We handled everything.

  I mutter under my breath, eyes fixed on the floor.

  When I look up, I meet his gaze—calm, assessing.

  I approach the table and stop in front of him.

  “Imone… reporting, uh—sir.” I hesitate. Formality has never felt right with him, and he’s never struck me as someone who cares for it.

  “Sit. Talk,” he says. “You may start.”

  He gestures to a chair nearby.

  I sit, suddenly aware of how small I feel in it.

  “I apologize for allowing my research to interfere with operations, sir,” I say quickly. “I should have been more mindful. I won’t let it happen again—anything related to my research will stay on my own time.”

  The words sting as they leave my mouth, but they feel… necessary.

  “I am promoting you,” he says plainly.

  I look up, eyes wide, searching his face for any hint of a joke.

  There isn’t one.

  “Sir—may I ask why?” I manage.

  “Your attitude. Accountability.” His gaze drifts briefly aside. “Every individual at that table spoke in your favor. Captain Tilemachos and Captain Ulric both heavily endorsed your judgment and leadership potential.”

  He waves a hand, dismissing the formality of it.

  “I expect to hear more about your… peculiarities,” he continues. “They will be an asset against our foe. The Valiants will now officially endorse your research, with the expectation that any material you uncover is shared directly with us.”

  My chest feels tight. Full. The same elation I felt when the Lyceum accepted me as a fellow.

  “You will actively seek to understand this new enemy,” he goes on. “Determine how they think. What they can do. And whether they can be aligned with our goals—by persuasion or by force.”

  His voice doesn’t waver.

  “I expect a detailed report outlining what an individual who shares your peculiarities may be capable of,” he adds. “Within the day. We will be prepared before the ball.”

  I nod mutely, cheeks warm, jaw slack.

  “Lieutenant Imone,” he says sharply.

  “L—yes, Commander?” I straighten instantly, the title snapping me fully back into myself.

  “Your answer.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.” He rises, already preparing to leave. “I expect the report before dinner.”

  “Sir—if I may?” The words come out quieter than I intend.

  “Yes?” He glances back.

  “You’re aware of what I am,” I say carefully. “And even knowing that, you’re promoting me?”

  “Have I ever given you the impression that I value anything above results and the safety of those under my command?” he asks.

  “No, sir.”

  “I do not assume what I do not understand to be a threat,” he says as he walks away. “I would rather understand it—and shape it into a weapon.”

  He doesn’t slow. He doesn’t invite further questions.

  “…Thank you, sir,” I whisper.

  So much.

  I don’t give the tears time to fall. I bolt up the stairs, straight back to my room.

  The book Signora gave me rests atop my desk. My blood hums with energy—I feel like I could translate it cover to cover in one sitting.

  Later.

  First, the facts.

  Then my hand closes around the fountain pen Cattleya gave me, and my chest tightens painfully.

  I force myself to breathe.

  I was accepted. Fully. As I am.

  Without thinking too hard about it, I press a kiss to the pen, lips lingering against the cool metal.

  Maybe it’s an apology.

  …Or maybe it’s something else.

  Either way, I sit down and get to work.

  Tomorrow, we face our foe at the ball.