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My gaze is drawn upward by a prickling sensation across my skin—like fingers of ice trailing down my spine.

A tall figure stands in the shadows of the upper balcony, watching the proceedings below with cold disdain. He’s draped in darkness despite the ambient light, his presence causing the air around him to visibly distort with cold. Shadows follow his movements wrong, reaching toward me. Something in my chest pulls back toward them.

Faculty glance up, some visibly tensing, others deliberately looking away.

“Ah, our resident prince has decided to grace us with his observation,” Viel murmurs, his usually theatrical voice dropping to something more cautious but tinged with spiritual knowing. “Interesting. The universe rarely arranges such coincidences without purpose.”

“Prince?” I echo, unable to tear my gaze away from the shadowed figure.

For a moment, his eyes meet mine across the distance—ice blue, cold as winter midnight, yet somehow burning with an intensity that steals my breath. The contact lasts only a heartbeat, but in that moment, my veins flood with contradictory sensations—ice and fire, danger and recognition.

“Kieran Nightshade. Unseelie Court. Son of King Moros,” Viel explains, watching my reaction with sudden keen interest. “I’d advise caution there, Professor Morgan. The prince’s interest is rarely...benevolent. Though the cosmic forces seem to have other plans.”

“Why would he be interested in me at all?” I ask, forcing my tone to remain casual.

Viel’s smile turns knowing, almost predatory, his eyes bright with mystical insight. “Now that is an interesting question, isn’t it? Perhaps he senses what the rest of us merely suspect—that your spiritual signature sings in frequencies most unusual for a mortal.”

Before I can question what that cryptic statement means, a bell tolls throughout the hall—a sound that reverberates not just through my ears but through my entire body, rattling my bones from within. The faculty immediately begin moving toward a set of massive doors at the far end of the hall.

“Ah! Perfect timing. The welcoming ceremony summons,” Viel announces, his theatrical manner returning instantly. “Dotry to keep up, Professor Morgan. The Great Hall has relocated those who dawdle—and the universe abhors tardiness.”

He rushes toward the double doors, and I follow in his wake.

The Great Hall staggers my senses the moment I enter. I stop short, just beyond the doors. Veil long gone.

Crystal chandeliers hang suspended without chains, rotating in opposite directions. The ceiling opens directly to night sky despite us being nowhere near the top floor. Torches ignite as we pass, flames shifting through impossible colors.

Three thrones dominate the far end—crystal refracting rainbows, obsidian swallowing light, and living wood with branches that sway to unfelt breezes.

The assembled faculty parts before us, some literally floating inches above the marble floor. I take my position on the platform beside other newcomers, hyper-aware of a presence watching from the shadows to my left.

My skin prickles where his gaze touches, like ice trailing down my spine. I don’t look directly—tactical error to reveal awareness—but catch a tall figure leaning against a column. His observation presses like atmospheric pressure against my skin. Yet beneath the danger signals, something else responds. Recognition.

A presence materializes beside me—warm, solid, and unexpectedly grounding. I turn to find a man watching me with interest, his amber eyes containing flecks of gold that move independently.

“First Academy dinner?” he asks, his voice carrying the subtle lilt of an accent I can’t place but that settles into my ear like music half-remembered from childhood. “I’m Finnian Willowheart.”

Relief floods through me at finding someone almost normal. Almost—those golden flecks in his eyes move independently.

He’s tall, wearing neutral cream colors that complement his golden skin. Dark hair waves to his shoulders and a trimmed barely-there beard hides what I’m sure are dimples. Lips curve in a too-even smile that somehow remains breathtaking. He’s taller than my five-seven by at least a few inches.

He looks like a Hollywood hero who actually possesses book smarts.

“That obvious?” I manage, trying to look unfazed as floating candelabra and goblets that fill themselves appear on the tables before us.

“You have that particular wide-eyed look.” His smile reaches his eyes, crinkling the corners in a way that suggests genuine amusement rather than mockery. “One part wonder, two parts tactical assessment, with just a dash of existential crisis.”

“Accurate diagnosis.”

“Academic hazard.” His eyes sparkle with warmth. “Sit with me? I promise to explain anything that defies immediate classification.”

I nod, following his lead and taking a seat while ensuring I can keep an eye on all the exits.

The long table before us appears to be made of living crystal, surfaces refracting light in patterns that shift with our movements. Water in my goblet shifts through temperatures—pine-scented cold, honey-warm, then effervescent with tiny constellations identical to my childhood bedroom ceiling.

I set the goblet down with shaking fingers.

“University fare,” Finnian murmurs, leaning closer than strictly necessary. The subtle scent of old books and something herbal clings to him. I find myself leaning imperceptibly toward him. “I recommend the silver-leafed bread—relatively stable and compatible with human digestion.”