Page 77 of The Bound Blood
Next to me, Tamsin stiffens.
“Oh stars, that’s—” she breathes, voice barely audible—and then she drops off the bench onto her knees so fast I yelp.
“Tamsin?!” I hiss.
Her head bows automatically, hands pressed flat to the floor, her magic flickering like it’s trying to curl in on itself.
“I—” she mutters through clenched teeth, “—hate that my body just does this. But that’sDorian Holt, Crown Prince of the Fae.”
Nolan blinks at her. Raiden’s eyes widen a fraction. Kael doesn’t move, but the shadows around him do. I stare between all three of them and then back at the newcomer approaching the front of the room.
Tamsin’s voice trembles slightly as she adds, “Fae royalty tends to have… effects.”
I just blink. Because one thing is immediately, painfully clear: This guy is going to be a problem.
Dorian reaches the front of the room—and with a lazy flick of his fingers, the pressure in the air dissolves. It feels like someone snaps an invisible thread.
The fae students all gasp at once, straightening with shaky breaths and wide eyes as they find their seats. Tamsin sucks in air like she’s been underwater.
“Oh, thank the void,” she mutters, scrambling back onto the bench. “My knees are not built for royal theatrics.”
Dorian turns just enough to cast her a wicked little smirk as if he heard her. She squeaks and covers her face.
Then another figure steps forward from beside Veyne—the girl I noticed the moment they first stepped onto the dais together.
Ink-dark hair braided neatly down her back. Perfect posture. A quiet, powerful elegance that looks born, not learned. She moves with that same calm grace as she inclines her head.
“Crown prince,” she says softly, bowing with effortless precision. When she looks up, her smile is warm and familiar, like she genuinely knows him. “It is… good to see you again.”
Again?
Dorian’s grin softens, all theatrics falling away as he ascends a single step toward her.
“Lady Nyssa,” he murmurs, voice rich and low. “Still radiant, I see.”
She flushes faintly, but remains composed. “Welcome to Veilborn Academy.”
I blink.
Nolan leans in, whispering, “Nyssa trained with the Silver Court for a year, she is the headmaster’s daughter.”
Raiden mutters, “Of course she did.”
“You sound jealous, fox boy,” Tamsin murmurs, and he scoffs.
Dorian returns smoothly to Headmaster Veyne’s side, clasping his hands behind him like he’s settling onto a throne instead of a school platform.
Headmaster Veyne clears his throat loudly, pulling the room’s attention to the dais. Not that mine ever left it.
“Students,” he says, voice regaining its command. “As some of you may have guessed, we have a distinguished guest joining us for the duration of the crisis.”
Crisis. The word clasps cold fingers around my spine.
Dorian sweeps a graceful bow—dramatic, unnecessary, and obviously done for show.
“Dorian Holt,” Headmaster Veyne continues, “envoy of the Silver Court.”
Envoy. Not visitor. Not exchange student.
