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T he sound came screeching in the night. The iron groaned, shuddering as though unwilling, bending like something alive. It was hesitating, like it knew. Something that was never meant to enter this world had arrived.

I stumbled out of the medical suite. The music from the ballroom had halted, not in a gradual fade or with an elegant close but in a single jarring and discordant screech.

The air shifted and something unseen, something felt more than heard, rippled through the stone beneath my feet.

I didn’t stop moving. I couldn’t. I rounded the final corner, the ballroom doors looming ahead, thrown wide.

It was pandemonium. Silks and jewels blurred as students rushed the exits, gowns snagging on marble, chairs overturned. A goblet shattered near my feet, golden wine and burning ether mingling sickeningly in the air.

For a heartbeat, I didn’t understand what was happening. Then, I saw the doors leading out to the courtyard were wide open, the dark night bleeding in. The gates . They were opening.

A quick tug yanked me back. Ruby. I took her wide pale gaze as it dragged over me, my ripped dress and my blood-streaked arms.

“Arabella,” she whispered. Her throat bobbed, her expression caught somewhere between horror and resignation.

Her eyes tracked the blood on my arms, the torn hem of my gown, the sheen of panic that probably glossed my eyes.

For a moment, I saw myself reflected in her frantic expression. “Why are you covered in blood again ?”

I didn’t have an answer. So instead, I grabbed her hand, and ran. Students were everywhere. Some clung to each other, their whispers frantic. Some stood rigid, frozen, staring at the towering gates as they groaned open.

The air felt thinner. The wind howled through the courtyard, snuffing out the torchlight. The mist pooled unnaturally thick at our feet, curling over the stone. I felt the weight of the other students’ fear, the thick, choking silence as we waited, the collective breath held.

Then they came.

Seven figures, each cloaked in red so dark it swallowed the light and edged with golden embroidery so intricate it seemed to shift with every breath of wind. Their hoods were raised, obscuring their faces, but it didn’t matter how they looked. The Archdaemons presence was palpable.

The first of them stepped forward. Taller than any human should be, his frame was elongated and unnatural beneath his robes. The air around him wavered, like heat rising from scorched earth, distorting his presence.

A low, keening noise shuddered through the courtyard, barely audible, but there was a sound just beyond human hearing, just enough to chill my bones. Beside me, someone gasped, and another muttered a quick prayer.

Hopeless.

The second figure emerged. Her robe did not touch the ground but hovered just above it, her feet obscured by endless folds of crimson fabric. Her head tilted ever so slightly, and I felt my stomach twist in that fraction of movement.

Her face was a mask, not in the metaphorical sense. It was perfect and porcelain white, featureless except for two slits where eyes should have been. Then, the third one stepped forward, stealing what little air remained in my lungs. He was not a Daemon, not like the others.

His wings, golden, enormous, the kind I had only ever seen in paintings, dragged behind him, tainted with streaks of black. This was no costume. And he, unlike the others, looked exhausted. Deep purple circles hollowed beneath his eyes like existance pained him.

I knew intuitively that he was a Fallen Angel. I felt the Thread hiss, returned, but I could not look away. More myth, than anything. That’s what Dante had said about Fallen Angels. But here one was, with the Archdaemons

I didn’t realize I’d stepped back until I felt the edge of the courtyard wall graze my spine. My body recognized what my mind refused to—this was not just myth. Fallen Angels were very real.

The final four Archdaemons emerged together, hoods drawn low over their faces as they drifted down the cloister. The air filled with the scent of iron and cold, a whisper of something not quite sulfur, not reasonably blood. Something that smelled like the edges of the universe.

Verrine stepped forward, her face a mask of absolute control.

“Honoured comrades, High Lords and Ladies of the High Council,” she greeted them, voice steady, unwavering. “Evermore welcomes you.”

The first figure spoke, though his voice was sound more than words, like something ancient dragging its nails through the folds of time. “The Archangels have not come?” He asked.

A ripple of unease went through the students. Verrine smiled. “No, they have not. The ruling is yours to decide.”

“The Rift must continue,” the hooded figure declared. “Ether has fallen, and a debt must be paid. A debt of souls.”

This wasn’t a ceremony anymore. This was a reckoning. The Rift had been scheduled for a month away, until now. Someone had decided it was time to collect.

“ Saints , this is bad,” Ruby whispered. “Negative ether means Elsewhere is owed bodies.”

“ Unacceptable ,” Godwin snapped, stepping forward, a hitch in his step. His face was pale, his hands fisted at his sides. A muscle twitched in his jaw, tension wound too tight beneath his skin. “The scales are not balanced because they’ve been broken . Someone has been altering the ether system!”

The Archdemon’s head snapped unnaturally in Godwin’s direction, voice booming. “There is still a debt to be paid. The Rift does not care for fairness. It cares for fate, and fate has chosen.”

A cold, smug smile tugged at Verrine’s lips. The Archangels were not coming. The High Council was only Archdaemons, and the Rift was happening.

Her voice cut through the stunned silence as she turned to the crowd of students. “Enough of tonight . Return to your towers immediately, the Dawning Ball is over .”

The music wouldn’t start again. The laughter wouldn’t return.

The golden warmth of the ballroom had turned cold, entirely hollow and drained of ether.

Creatures of the darkest night had just entered Evermore, and we had just been dismissed like children, as though the night itself hadn’t just cracked wide open .

Verrine had won, and none of us yet understood what we’d lost. The light had bled out of Evermore, piece by piece.

I winced against my wound, the tonic and stitches doing little in the way of pain.

I needed the Lumen back. Now. Dorian said it was protecting me, and I had a horrible feeling the next blow might be final.

You can only bring someone back once.

I still needed the deck to right whatever wrong I’d caused. Really, I needed Dante. That became the vow that steadied my breath while the rest of the courtyard scattered. I wasn’t finished with him. Not yet.