Page 83 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

She took a sip, and a smear of chocolate clung to her upper lip. Her tongue darted out, catching it without thought. Ark watched, his own cup forgotten for a moment, before he looked away. He took a careful sip, if only to take his mind off her lips. The chocolate was overwhelmingly sweet, but beneath it, a velvety richness he hadn’t expected.

The skating rink was now filled with adults and children alike. The night echoed with shrieks and laughter, the steady scrape of blades against ice mingling with music. Imogen ambled away from the crowd toward them, waving both arms.

“Miss Aura! Can you do fireworks?”

Cassia looked up, brow arching. “Fireworks?”

“Like the Summer Solstice ones!” A young half-elf boy joined her, and other children followed. “With sparkles and colours and booms!”

Cassia chuckled. “I think you’re giving me too much credit. I haven’t quite mastered pyrotechnics.”

“But you froze the garden last year,” Imogen insisted, full of tragic betrayal. “And made the mini caramel tornado!”

Devlin glided up behind the cluster of children, arms folded. “Unless you want singed mittens and property damage—which means we’ll have to go home early—don’t push your luck.”

The disappointment hit the children all at once—a little chorus of groans, dropped shoulders, theatrical sighs. Cassia tried to smile through it, but Ark caught the subtle shift in her shoulders. The faint frustration. The guilt.

She always wanted to give them more.

He didn’t plan to speak up, but the words spilled out. “I’ll do it.”

Cassia turned to him, eyes widening. “What?”

“I’ll do a single show and keep it above the tree line.”

A pause stretched between them. The children went still, their eyes shifting to him—some with awe, some with suspicion.

“Really?” Devlin asked, like he couldn’t quite believe it.

Cassia blinked. “You don’t have to⁠—”

“I know.”

He passed Cassia his cup and turned away from them all, using his teeth to remove his left glove. Cold air bit at his fingers.

But a different cold, from a different night, brushed his memory. A young Oromon, small and trying not to cry. The vast silence of the Varil manor pressing down on them when their parents left for yet another interminable Regency Council session. Ark had stolen into the courtyard and, with clumsy, early attempts at pyro magic, conjured a handful of miniature silent stars to dance above the rose bushes.

He hadn’t been able to bring their parents back, but he could fill the void with light. He could take his brother’s eyes away from the back of the carriage and turn them up to the sky.

Now, Ark stepped into the clearing at the edge of the ice, just far enough from the crowd. The stars stretched wider above him. The first thing he did was drop the glamour, freeing his energy for the magic the fireworks required. A shimmer of false skin gave way to the true self that lay beneath.

The air shifted. The children went quiet behind him—even the adults paused mid-conversation.

Ark raised his left hand. Magic flowed. Fire—alive and coiling—crackled with heat just shy of combustion. He let it rise into the air and shaped it with precision: a spiral of red, a burst of blue, a crown of silver stars that unfolded like a slow bloom. Then, a series of cascading lights, timed in intervals, falling like glittering meteors across the treetops. For a moment, he let the final arc hang in the sky—an ember trail that flared gold and collapsed into soft light.

As the last of the display vanished into darkness, the crowd erupted. Cheers, claps, whoops of surprise. The children jumped up and down. It was as though Yulefrost had come early.

Ark exhaled, shoulders lowering as the magic dispersed, warm smoke curling around him. The pyromancy had demanded more than he had to spare. His injured hand screamed in protest, the burn flaring white-hot beneath the bandage. He ignored it.

Some things were worth the pain.

When he turned, Cassia was still standing where he’d left her. She was staring at him like she hadn’t looked away once. The weight of it landed somewhere tender in his chest, a place he didn’t usually let anyone reach.

Then her friends’ voices cut through, shattering the moment.

“I see,” Opalina murmured behind her, wry and unblinking. “So this is what we’re working with.”

Lilibeth let out a low whistle. “Cass, if this is pretend, remind me to fake-date a Nocturne next time.”