We shouldn’t be here.
Cassie insists we should be here.
The boutique doesn’t bother with a na—just a sigil stitched into the alley wall in silver thread so fine it catches like spider silk. Humans pass without a glance, their eyes skipping the mark as if it’s no more than shadow. Glamours hum along the bricks, pressing like static against my skin, prickling the fine hairs on my arms. If you don’t know what you’re looking for, you don’t see it.
Cassie saw it instantly.
“How very you,” she said with a grin. “Dark alley, no signage, probably cursed.”
“It’s not cursed,” I muttered, pushing the narrow door open. “Just… selective.”
The air shifts the mont we cross the threshold—denser, tasting faintly of frost and iron. The ceiling stretches impossibly high, the walls curving in ways that don’t exist outside the Veil. Mannequins glide through fog-lit alcoves like slow ghosts, draped in fabrics that shimr between colors when you look too long. Everything slls like moonlight steeped in wine, midnight garden parties where no one leaves unchanged. Beneath it all lies the warm resin-and-cedar undertone of old glamour, grounding and dangerous.
The floorboards creak underfoot—not in protest, but in acknowledgnt.
Cassie tips her head back, tracking the impossible ceiling. “Okay, I take it back. This is exactly cursed.”
“Just behave,” I murmur, sharper than I an to.
Her grin widens, bright and reckless. “Define behave.”
I ignore her, scanning the corners. The shopkeeper hasn’t shown herself yet, but I can feel her gaze—thin and precise as a needle. Fae-boutique rules whisper at the back of my mind: don’t haggle, don’t bleed on anything, never say thank you. I shove my hands in my jacket pockets and pretend I belong here.
Cassie doesn’t pretend. She’s already vanished between two racks of shadow-slick fabric, moving with an ease that unsettles . The boutique seems to notice her too—light bending a fraction differently around her shoulders, the air sharpening in her wake like it’s taking her asure. And for the first ti tonight, I’m not entirely sure the danger in this place is ant for .
Through the racks, I catch her holding up a crimson corset so small it might qualify as string. The red is so deep it drinks the light, boning stitched in tallic thread that glimrs like embers in motion.
“Too much?” she asks, voice dripping mischief.
“Yes,” I hiss. “Put it back.”
She doesn’t. Of course she doesn’t. Instead, she drapes it over her arm, adding to the growing pile of scandal she’s collecting. Her frost-bright scent cuts through the boutique’s incense—citrus over callia—so sharp it wakes every nerve in my body.
The next thirty minutes are torture.
Corsets. Sheer sh. Chainmail that scatters fractured light across warped mirrors. A spiderweb bralette so delicate the silk almost vanishes under her fingers. A feathered cloak that moans when she brushes the hem.
Every ti the curtain parts she steps out frad in mirrors, moving with deliberate, predatory grace. The shop air warms around her; her citrus-bright perfu thickens with vanilla musk the closer she gets. My own scent answers before I can stop it—marshmallow heat sharpening to wildfire spice, that flicker of citrus top note betraying exactly what she’s doing to .
I’m already tapping a three-beat against my thigh. She doesn’t miss it. On her next pass her pinky grazes mine—casual, grounding. Enough to break the rhythm before I spiral.
I hate her.
I hate her so much.
“None of these scream ‘festival of shadows and fae politics,’” she declares, spinning in sothing that’s basically lingerie with a crown. “Help out, Firebrand. I need direction.”
“You need sha,” I mutter.
But I’m staring. And she knows it.
“You are not wearing that.”
Cassie erges in the blood-ribbon corset and opera-length gloves, the crimson swallowing light like it’s hungry. Her scent blooms warr now, callia’s icy edge lting under the boutique heat. Mine spikes to et it—stargazer bloom awake and wild, rain-shore deepening like a storm’s pull.
“It’s not… appropriate,” I manage, which is the stupidest word I could have chosen.
“For what? A court of immortal fae? Isn’t this their thing? Over-the-top, high-drama, barely-dressed?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then what’s the problem?” She closes the space between us, slow and deliberate, floorboards creaking like they know what’s coming. My cuff seam is between my fingers before I even register it—roll, unroll, roll—until her hand brushes my wrist, thumb sliding along the seam in the exact glide that stops the loop cold.
“Unless you think I’ll embarrass you,” she says.
“No,” I say too fast.
“Is it that you think we won’t match?”
My stomach drops. The air between us slls like warm citrus and burnt sugar, and it’s impossible to think.
“You said you were bringing a friend,” she continues, turning so the mirrors scatter her in every direction. “Shouldn’t we coordinate? Couples costu?”
“We’re not a couple,” I manage.
“I didn’t say we were.” Wicked smile. “But it’d be a sha if people thought we were and we didn’t match.”
I open my mouth—nothing.
“Vampire queen and her innocent prey. Siren and shipwrecked sailor. Goddess and sacrificial offering—”
“Cassie.”
“Oh—what if you’re the powerful one?” Her grin sharpens. “Divine fire priestess, and I’m the helpless mortal girl you’ve seduced into damnation.”
My scent spikes—marshmallow heat molten, stargazer bloom heady in the air—and she has to know she’s the reason.
“You are insufferable.”
“You like it.”
“No. I’m picking the the.”
Cassie tilts her head, citrus-bright and dangerous. “What?”
“Fine. We’ll match. But I pick. And if you say one more thing about seductive prey or virgins, I’ll glamor your tongue right out of your mouth.”
Her grin only widens. “If you did, I bet you’d think about it later.”
“Cassie.”
“I’m shutting up.”
She’s not. She never is.
But I’m already storming toward the far racks, trying to hide the way my magic claws at my glamour, the way my scent won’t settle, the way my skin still tingles from every place she’s touched. Because I agreed. Because I said yes. Because part of wants to match. And I don’t know what that ans.
The mont the words leave , I regret everything.
I’m halfway down the back aisle when I catch it—a flash of molten gold between jeweled masks and drifting fog.
Golden silk, thin as breath. Not court-white, not polished champagne—firelight caught in molten glass. A wrap top plunging low, a skirt slitted scandalously high, a chain of sunburst charms draped like ceremonial armor. My fingers twitch before I realize I’m reaching.
And then—
“Holy hell,” Cassie’s voice cuts through, sharp citrus over incense haze. “Is that for ?”
“No,” I say too fast, my scent flaring before I can tamp it down.
She steps closer until her frost-bright perfu curls into my marshmallow heat. Her head tilts, eyes narrowing. “You sll different. Again.”
I stiffen. “What?”
Her grin goes knowing. “Don’t play dumb, Firebrand. It shifts when I’m around. Mood-ring perfu? Very Fae.”
“It’s not—” I start, but she’s already circling the gown, eyes glinting.
“So what else? You’ve got glamour. Magic. Powers. Can you fly? Set things on fire with your mind?”
I roll the cuff seam—roll, unroll, roll—just to think. “So of us can do certain things. I’m not giving you a list.”
She leans in until the air spikes again, citrus hooking into wildfire. “So you’re saying yes, but also that you don’t trust enough to tell .”
I glare. “I’m saying try on your dress.”
Cassie smirks like she’s already won and vanishes into a fitting alcove, black fabric spilling after her.
When she steps back out, the room stills. Even the mannequins seem to look.
The black velvet clings like sin, boned in silver, slit high enough to ruin lives. Sheer glittering sleeves float like ash around her arms, and a crown of blood-gem thorns rests in her hair.
“Vampire queen,” she says, low and pleased.
I look down at the gold in my hands. “I can’t wear this.”
“Why not?”
“It doesn’t look like .”
“No,” she says, stepping closer, citrus scent warming at the edges, “but it could.”
“There’s too much skin. I’m not—”
“Not what?”
I shrug, eyes darting away. My pulse hamrs. The cuff seam’s between my fingers again until Cassie’s thumb smooths over it, breaking the loop.
“You and ,” she says softly. “Opposites. Celestial enemies about to kiss.”
I blink. “Did you just—?”
She grins like sunlight on ice. “You heard . Now put it on.”
I retreat before she can see my face, fighting the glow breaking through my glamour. The silk slides over my skin like warm water, whisper-soft but heavy with enchantnt. A mirror sprite tuts until I let her brush faint gold runes over my collarbones.
When I step out, I let the glamour drop. Just for a second.
Hair blazing molten red-orange-gold-silver. Eyes deep starlit brown with flecks of light. Skin ward to copper at sunset.
Cassie freezes. Then stumbles—a half-step back before her knees bend like she has to sit down and breathe.
“Oh,” she says, and it isn’t teasing. It’s reverent. “That’s… wow. That’s really not fair.”
Heat floods my cheeks hotter than my hair. “It’s just—”
“No,” she cuts in, still staring like I’ve ended her whole religion. “You have no idea, do you?”
“I… guess not?” My fingers twist the silk like I can wring sense out of it.
She shakes her head, smiling in this stupid, wrecked way that knots my stomach. “Firebrand, you’re dangerous.”
“I’m not.”
“You are. And you sll like it too.” Her smirk tilts gentler, breathless. “Guess I’ll have to get used to being the reason you sll like… whatever this is.”
I groan. “Stop talking.”
“Make ,” she says, wicked grin snapping back in place.
I can’t. Not when she’s looking at like that. Not when my glamour’s cracked, my skin humming, and I’m standing here in gold firelight silk like it belongs to .
And the worst part?
I’m starting to like how it feels.
Cassie’s still staring like I’ve set the whole boutique on fire just by existing. I try to reel my glamour back, but it’s like shoving embers into a jar—they flare stubbornly.
“Fine,” I mutter, unable to bear her gaze. “You’re right.”
Her brows lift. “About what?”
“My scent,” I say, cheeks burning. “It’s… yeah. You’re the reason it keeps changing.”
Cassie’s grin is slow and lethal. “I knew it.”
“Don’t look so pleased with yourself.”
“Oh, I’m very pleased with myself,” she says, stepping close until citrus and callia tangle with wildfire and storm. “Anything else you’ve been keeping from ?”
I hesitate. The air between us hums, silk and velvet brushing as I shift my weight. “I have… so fire powers.”
Her eyes go wide, all spark and hunger. “Show .”
“No.”
“Mira—”
“Stick around,” I cut her off. “Be my friend. Eventually you’ll see more magic than you’ve ever read about in those romantasy books you think I don’t know you hide in your locker.”
Cassie blinks. “How do you—”
“I’ve seen the covers,” I say, lips quirking despite myself. “And… I read them too.”
She stares for a beat. Then she laughs — real, startled, delighted — and the sound hits like heat in my chest.
“Firebrand,” she says, eyes bright, “you just beca my favorite plot twist.”
We change back into our own clothes before heading for the counter.
I’m still trying to get my pulse to stop acting like it’s in a drumline when Cassie veers toward a glass case near the register.
The thing inside doesn’t belong here.
A necklace — silver chain, crescent pendant cradling a teardrop of sothing that isn’t stone so much as frozen shadow. Light slides off it wrong, like it’s been dipped in night.
Cassie leans in. “This is gorgeous.”
My stomach knots. “Don’t—”
She opens the case before I finish.
The air changes.
Pressure drops; the glamour hum under my skin flickers like a dying bulb. Sowhere deeper in the shop, fabric whispers — mannequins turning their heads toward us.
Cassie holds it up to her throat, smirking. “Relax. What, afraid I’ll look better in cursed jewelry than you?”
“It’s not for you,” I snap, sharper than I an.
Her brows arch, wicked. “So it is cursed. Love that for .” And before I can stop her, the chain clicks shut at her neck.
The floorboards answer with a low hum that rattles my teeth. The pendant flares — not with light, but with a cold pulse that sinks into my bones.
“That’s not good,” I breathe.
“It’s perfect,” Cassie says, tilting toward the mirror. “Very… dark princess.”
“She’s marked,” a voice says.
The shopkeeper steps out of shadow, tall and ageless, eyes catching too much light, hair falling in a river of white-gold. The kind of Fae that makes immortal feel small.
My glamour flickers hard enough to sting. “What did you say?”
Her gaze rests on Cassie, then slides — slow, deliberate — to . “You know what I said, child of fire.”
Cassie laughs like it’s theater. “Marked how? For a sale?”
The shopkeeper doesn’t answer her. Only inclines her head toward — warning, promise, curse.
My throat’s dry. Fingers twitch at my cuff seam, useless. Every instinct in screams to rip the chain from her throat, to burn it out of existence, to drag her away before it brands her deeper. Instead I force my voice steady: “Put it on my mother’s account.”
The card feels too heavy in my hand — black tal etched with a sunburst glyph, no na, no limit. The clerk takes it with both hands, bowing before disappearing.
Cassie tips her head, still wearing the pendant, still too unconcerned. “That card looks like it could buy a planet.”
“It could,” I mutter, pretending my hands aren’t shaking.
The shopkeeper returns, parcels stacked with ceremonial precision. Cassie reaches for the bag, but the woman’s eyes pin instead. Voice soft enough I almost lean in:
“Be careful where you walk, princess. So shadows hold teeth.”
It’s ant for . Only .
I nod, gather the bags, and push through the door. The glamour hum fades, threshold chill sliding over my skin—
And then, almost lost in the hush of fog and rain, another word.
Cinderborn.
It claws into , talons of ash and fire. My steps falter half a second before I force them steady again.
Cassie notices. Of course she does. Her citrus scent sharpens, callia crisp with suspicion, and I know mine’s flaring in answer—wildfire marshmallow burning against storm-salt air.
“You okay?” she asks, studying sidelong.
“Fine,” I lie, too quickly.
But the word still echoes in my skull, heavy as prophecy.
Cinderborn.
And gods help , the only thing I want is for her to be marked as mine.
The alley exhales around us—cool air, wet stone, the boutique’s warped geotry already swallowed back into shadow.
Cassie falls into step beside , swinging the smaller bag like it weighs nothing. “So… what was that about?”
“What?”
“That whole ‘shadows hold teeth’ cryptic fortune-cookie energy.” Her grin flickers, just for a second. “She was looking right at you.”
“She likes theatrics,” I say, keeping my voice even. “Old Fae do that. Makes them feel important.”
Cassie bumps my shoulder, studying out of the corner of her eye. “You’re twitchy.”
“I’m always twitchy.”
“Yeah,” she says, softer now. “But not like this.”
I don’t answer. The word still rings in my ears, heavy as ash and gold.
Halfway to the street, Cassie slows to adjust the necklace. “You sure this isn’t cursed?”
I give her a look. “If it was, you’d already be dead.”
She smirks. “Romantic.”
We reach the mouth of the alley. City noise floods back—rain-slick tires on cobblestone, roasted chestnuts sharp on the air. Cassie tips her head toward the road where her car waits.
“Well, Firebrand,” she says, holding my gaze for a beat longer than necessary, “guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Guess so.”
She turns, necklace catching the streetlamps like it’s drinking their light, and walks into the crowd. I watch her until the city swallows her whole.
Only then do I let myself breathe—and wonder if the shadows the clerk warned about are already following us.
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