“Now that Prince Hawthorne is here and things are better with Velmara, does that mean the mist will come down?” The student asks the question innocently, clear enthusiasm written across her features. But Laurel visibly tenses, her entire body on alert, and several of the teachers exchange worried glances with one another. Margery steps in, clearly trying to avoid what seems to be a tense and politically charged topic. It’s the rebels’ most prevalent point of contention with Laurel.

“I think we’re actually out of time—” Margery says to smooth over the situation.

“It’s okay,” Laurel says to stop Margery, voice quiet. Her gaze lands on the student, who now looks fearful at the reaction of the adults in the room. Laurel smiles kindly and walks to kneel in front of the small fae girl. She takes the child’s hands in hers, speaking to the room loud enough for all to hear but never breaking eye contact with the girl. “I would love nothing more than to bring the mist down for Thayaria. But we must be careful. Prince Hawthorne is my friend, but I still don’t trust the rulers of the other kingdoms. I hope that someday Prince Hawthorne and I will open up Thayaria’s borders together.”

Something in my chest flips when she says we’re friends, but it’s quickly replaced by the weight of her next words. I hope that someday Prince Hawthorne and I will open up Thayaria’s borders together. I sense the trueness of that statement. It’s a promise and a prophecy spoken by lips I think about too frequently.

Laurel stands, and the room stays eerily quiet. “Thank you for having me today,” she says, and they applaud softly. Margery takes over, directing the students back to their classes and asking the light channelers to stay. Laurel inches closer to me, and my body reacts instantly. I close the space between us, our arms grazing as we survey the room. For a brief moment, our hands even brush. “Thanks for coming today,” she says softly, leaning closer to me.

“Of course, I wouldn’t have missed helping my friend.” I give her a wink, and she rolls her eyes, a practiced exchange between the two of us at this point.

“Don’t make me regret saying we’re friends,” she says sternly, and I chuckle.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, witchling. I’m happy to be your friend.” She stares at me, but I meet her scrutinizing gaze. After what feels like an eternity, she nods, and I release the breath I’d been holding. “Did you attend this school?” I ask, nodding to the room.

“I did, though not for very long,” she admits.

“Why is that?”