The Founders' Gala at Aramor Institute was a swirl of lights and lacquered shoes, where future scholars toasted with sparkling cider under vaulted glass ceilings. Faculty members mingled with dignitaries, and brass lanterns floated midair, humming softly above a hundred well-dressed graduates.
Near the edge of the celebration stood a tall girl with a crooked grin and a dark auburn braid coiled tight at the base of her neck. Her name was Ilia Vane, and she had just become the youngest person in the school's hundred-year history to complete the Interdisciplinary Ascendancy Exam.
Unlike the others, she wasn't wearing the ceremonial cape or the laurel pin. Her boots were scuffed, and her sleeves were rolled up. At her side lounged two very unceremonious friends: Dun, who looked like he'd rather be back in detention, and Mirel, who wore too much eyeliner for someone trying to blend in.
"They're whispering again," said Mirel, nodding toward three girls in sleek dresses by the punch bowl.
"They always do when they can't explain something," Ilia replied.
"I bet they think you bribed your way into the exam," Dun smirked.
"No," said Ilia, her smile sharp. "They think I cheated with blood magic."
The blonde ringleader approached, hips swinging like a pendulum. "Is this your idea of celebrating? Slumming it with rejects?"
"I don't see any celebration over there," Ilia said coolly, tipping her cup. "Just a lot of sour grapes."
The girl scoffed. "You're what—seventeen? You think the world's impressed?"
Dun laughed. "You were impressed enough to walk over here."
With a sneer, the girl reached out and knocked Dun's drink all over his shirt. Gasps rose around them. But Ilia only raised her brow, plucked the untouched wineglass from Mirel's hand, and poured it carefully—slowly—over her own head.
Silence. Then Mirel followed suit, howling with laughter. Someone else copied them. Then another. In seconds, half the hall was soaked and shrieking, transformed into a dance of chaos and glittering droplets.
Ilia looked around, blinking wine from her lashes, and felt—for the first time in weeks—free.
That didn't last long.
"You've got somewhere to be," Dun muttered in her ear.
Her heart sank. Right. The port.
"I'll meet you both later," she said quickly, squeezing Mirel's hand. "Don't wait up."
And then she was gone—boots splashing through the marble halls, cloak trailing behind her like a fading banner.
The city of Calligro was aglow in festival light, but Ilia barely noticed the fireworks blooming overhead. Her target was the Nightward Docks. And she was late.
She took a shortcut through Hollow Square, only to find it jammed with a crowd. Dozens stood before a man in a bone-white robe, shouting at a brass podium flanked by rusted statues.
"THE SPHERES ARE CORRUPTED!" he bellowed. "THE BURNED ONES WALK AMONG YOU!"
Ilia moved to slip past—but a voice next to her ear made her jump.
"Bit loud, isn't it?"
She turned. A guy in a floral button-down and cargo pants was leaning beside her, holding a dripping peach snow-cone. His silver hair caught the torchlight.
"Didn't mean to spook you," he said with a wink. "Old habit. Surveillance work."
"Spy?" Ilia asked dryly.
"Archivist," he said, licking his cone. "But sure, let's say spy. Sounds cooler."
The preacher had noticed them now. His eyes narrowed. "They carry it," he hissed. "I can smell it on them!"
"Us?" said the silver-haired guy, mock-wounded. "He's got a nose for drama."
The preacher was walking straight toward them, muttering about sigils and possession. Ilia started to step back—but just then, the sirens came.
"Disperse! This is an unauthorized gathering!" shouted a constable.
"Let's go," Ilia muttered. But a stern voice stopped them.
"You two—wait."
Ilia froze. The officer eyed the snow-cone guy. "Is that your daughter?"
"Excuse me?" he blinked.
"We'll need to verify guardianship."
Ilia swore under her breath.
"I'm going to regret this," she muttered—and slammed her boot into the officer's shin. He yelled. The snow-cone guy's reflexes kicked in: his dessert flew and clocked another officer in the face.
And then they were running.
Through the alleys of Calligro they dashed—dodging carts, hurdling crates, breath burning.
"You hit that guy with a snow-cone," Ilia gasped.
"I know!" he grinned, still running. "Weapon of flavor!"
Eventually, they found themselves at a dead end. A sheer brick wall blocked the way.
"No good," Ilia muttered. "We're boxed in."
"Speak for yourself," he said—and began climbing.
Ilia scrambled up after him. At the top, the city opened before them like a map. The sea glittered in the distance.
"We're not safe yet," he said.
"No," Ilia nodded. "But we're closer."
They raced across the rooftops. Below, sirens wailed. Ilia felt her heart rise with each leap, like the city was holding its breath with her.
At last, they reached the edge. The ship was there—The Marrowmist—pulling away.
"I'll never make that," she said.
"You might."
She looked at him, the strange silver-haired man. Then she ran.
Ilia hurled herself off the roof, arms flung forward—and missed.
But a strong arm caught her wrist.
She looked up into the storm-colored eyes of a man with scars and salt-white hair.
"Vex!" she cried.
"Really, Ilia?" he grunted, hauling her up. "We said low profile."
She laughed, breathless.
"Well," he said dryly. "Next time you fall into the sea, try not to bring the entire city guard with you."