By lunch, my brain felt like someone had taken a rune mallet to it. Silver Ridge’s cafeteria always echoed like the inside of a drum—cutlery clattering, laughter ricocheting off stone, chairs scraping like claws—but today the sound bounced harder. The wards hummed low and tight in the molding, emotion-dampeners glowing faintly, ready to flare if anyone’s dominance spiked.
Cute. Safe. Also suffocating.
I wove through the rows of long tables. Packs clustered like miniature territories, heads turning as I passed.
That’s her.
The quads’ Luna.
Night Market girl.
Whatever. Chin up, legs moving, heart pretending not to sprint.
Our usual corner table sat beneath a stained-glass window of the Great Accord—the fae queen and Lycan steward clasping hands like they weren’t ten seconds away from
