Helen Finchman’s recording orbs drift above the crowd. One near the podium, one by the main entrance, and one floating near the faculty section. Four others are scattered throughout the ballroom, their surfaces catching the flickering light of the memorial flames.
Headmistress Constance stands at the podium, commanding the hushed space.
“Their flames burned bright, and though they’ve been extinguished too soon, their light will never be forgotten.”
It’s standard memorial language. I’ve read enough Council reports to recognize the template.
Beside me, Vera stares straight ahead, her muscles tight. We haven’t spoken much since the hellhound attack. She’s been sleeping with the lights on, flinching at shadows, and I’ve been pretending not to notice.
Constance continues her speech, but my attention drifts through the crowd.
Avery Chambers sits three rows ahead, her shoulders hunched like she’s trying to disappear into herself.
Tobias Cane sits with the other Council members, his pale eyes fixed on nothing. He hasn’t looked at Avery once during the ceremony. He hasn’t looked at anyone, really. He just stares at the portraits like he’s watching eight centuries of traumatic memories playing out before his eyes.
Helen stands near the faculty section, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, the picture of a grieving administrator. But her gaze sweeps the room between dabs, her fingers reaching for her pearls whenever one of her orbs repositions.
The ceremony stretches on with more speeches, more carefully worded tributes, and more flames lit in honor of the dead.
Constance steps forward for the final tribute. “We commit their memories to the Spirit Flame, where they’ll burn forever in our hearts.”
Fifteen people rise from the front row—friends, roommates, and emberlink partners of the dead. Each one carries a candle to the memorial brazier in front of the Spirit Flame, lighting them with magic and adding them to the collective blaze.
The ceremony ends with a moment of silence that stretches long enough to become uncomfortable. Then Constance dismisses us, and the ballroom erupts into the controlled chaos of dozens of people trying to process collective trauma.
I don’t move immediately. Instead, I wait, watching the crowd thin and tracking Helen’s position near the facultysection. She’s speaking with Professor Delia Carver, nodding sympathetically at whatever the woman is saying.
Her orbs drift overhead, recording everything.
All except the one hovering near the second-floor balcony, positioned at the entrance of an alcove that overlooks the ballroom. It’s far enough from the crowd to avoid notice, but close enough to watch.
I count to sixty, then slip through the dispersing people to the side staircase. No one pays attention to me. I’m just another grieving first-year looking for a quiet place to fall apart.
The alcove is a small, recessed space with a stone bench, partially hidden by a decorative column. It’s the perfect location for a private conversation—or a private breakdown, if anyone asks.
Helen’s orb hovers at the entrance, its golden surface angled to the main staircase. It’s an early warning system, so if anyone approaches, she’ll know.
I settle onto the bench and wait.
Three minutes later, Helen appears at the top of the stairs. Her handkerchief is tucked away now, her maternal grief replaced by cold calculation. She crosses to the alcove without hesitation, lowering herself onto the bench beside me with the practiced ease of someone who’s done this a hundred times before.
“That was longer than expected.” Her gaze flicks to her orb, confirming our privacy. “The investigation is officially closed. The story’s been accepted.”
“And the Council members?” I ask. “Are they leaving?”
“Michael’s staying longer than originally planned. He wants to review the safety protocols personally.” Her mouth curves into a thin, practiced smile. “I’ll be teaching Fire Philosophy and Practices until a permanent replacement is found. Tobias will remain as well, to assist with student counseling.”
I nod slowly. Michael Aldridge, my uncle, the family traitor who joined the Council forty years ago and never looked back. I’ve spoken to him exactly twice in my life—one of them being here, at the academy—and both times felt like being examined under a microscope.
“Is there anything else I should be monitoring?” I ask.
Helen’s gaze drifts over the balcony railing to the ballroom below, where people are milling about in clusters of shared grief. When she speaks again, her composure slips.
“I’m worried about them, Nina.”
The admission catches me off guard. Helen Finchman doesn’t admit weakness. Helen Finchman doesn’t worry, at least not where anyone can see it.
“The Quest Crew?” I ask, since that’s what I’ve been calling them in my notes.