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5:00 PM - Welcome Ceremony (Auditorium)

*Note: All Heirs required to participate in the ceremonial procession. Traditional robes mandatory.

Ceremonial procession.

In front of people.

And were the ceremonial robes those musty green things hanging in the closet? They’d need cleaning, but first I needed food before my stomach started digesting itself.

I groaned and flopped back onto the cloud-soft bed, which didn’t help my motivation to move. More time with my fellow heirs. Just what I needed.

The clock on the wall read 8:15 AM, and my power surged with anxiety. A skeletal mouse scratched at the orientation papers with tiny bone-claws while another joined it, both watching with empty sockets as I fought to keep more dead things from manifesting.

“Just one at a time, okay?” I muttered, touching my silver ring. At least they didn’t care if I was a half-breed.

Grateful I’d showered last night after cleaning, I forced myself out of bed. The travel-size toiletries I’d stuffed in my bag were pathetically inadequate for that gorgeous bathroom, but at least I had them. Note to self: find a store, if magical universities even had those.

I pulled on my nicest jeans and a blue sweater that only had one small hole in the sleeve. The mirror above the marble vanity was too elegant to show me mercy—I looked exactly like what I was, a poor girl playing dress-up in a palace. I yanked my hair into a ponytail and tried not to think about how I’d look next to the other heirs in their designer clothes.

Then I crept out and down the stairs until I heard voices. Only these voices—including Elio’s musical tones—made me pause outside.

“Everything’s arranged for tonight. When she walks up those steps…” Elio said.

I crept closer to the vent, barely breathing. A female voice joined his, followed by soft laughter.

“…complete humiliation…” More laughter. “…never recover…”

The dead things stirred at my anger, but I pushed them back.

Of course the heirs had something planned. They wouldn’t just leave me be.

A flicker of movement caught my eye—one of Keane’s portals materializing. A note floated through, landing at my feet:Watch the third step at the ceremony. They’ve spelled it to collapse.

The portal vanished before I could process its warning. My skeletal mouse investigated where it had been, chittering uneasily.

I stalled as long as I could, but hunger finally drove me into the common room. A massive breakfast spread covered the table—pastries piled on silver trays, fruit arranged like jewels, steaming coffee making my mouth water.

Elio lounged on a velvet sofa, a delicate china cup balanced in one hand like he was born to wield porcelain. My body tensed before my brain caught up—memory flashing hot and sharp from yesterday’s illusions.

It wasn’t fair. No one that cruel should look like that—like an airbrushed fantasy in human form.

A blonde girl perched on the arm of his couch in perfectly rumpled designer wear—probably worth more than everything I owned. And at his knee, a dark-haired guy leaned lazily against him like some spoiled lapdog. Elio absently stroked a hand through his hair, fingers threading with casual familiarity.

It wasn’t performative. It was just Elio. Beautiful, terrifying, and completely at ease in his power—no matter who was watching.

They looked like a Renaissance painting of decadent royalty, the kind rich people hang in their foyers to remind you they’ve been wealthy since before your ancestors had shoes.

Keane sat half-hidden in an alcove, a book open on his lap. He’d helped me yesterday. Warned me just now. Could’ve been kindness. Could’ve been strategy.

He was quieter than the others, sharper too—and just as ruinously gorgeous. Dark hair falling into his eyes. That cut-glass jaw.

I hated the way my chest clenched just looking at them. All of them. Like I was on the outside of some cruel fairy tale, where the princes were monsters and the castle was a trap.

“Oh look, darlings,” Elio drawled, eyes gleaming. “Our little half-breed has emerged. Looking for scraps?”

Heat crawled up my neck as Cyrus shifted by the fire. The temperature in the room rose with him—no flames, not yet, but I felt them in my memory. Still, I couldn’t stop my eyes from catching on the way the firelight glinted off the copper strands in his hair.

He wore a dark Henley, sleeves shoved to his elbows, the soft fabric clinging just enough to his arms and chest to be annoying. Like the shirt had been designed specifically to test my resolve.