The Great Hall had been transformed into a sprawling, autumnal cathedral of amber and gold for the Equinox Social. A canopy of amber, gold, and crimson foliage drifted from the hammerbeam ceiling, the perpetually falling leaves glowing with a soft, inner fire before dissolving into spice-scented mist just above the guests’ heads. The long oak tables had been replaced with intimate, velvet-draped poseur tables displaying items for the silent auction, and the air hummed with the refined murmur of the magical elite.
Most Tuesday evenings, this was simply a public hall where students gathered for chatter or food—but this evening, this last day before the nights grew long and winter crept in, this was the place to be.
Gwen moved like a missile through the hall, seeking primary targets to secure relevance and artfully boast about her accomplishments—top marks in her classes, tutoring the Chosen One at the Chancellor’s request, and the highest number of volunteers for prefect-led patrols. Her dress was a study in elegant simplicity: a pleated A-line in midnight blue crepe with a surplice bodice that flared with every purposeful stride. It was a look designed to earn flattery from fawners and veiled envy from the proud—a visual declaration that she was exactly where she belonged.
Beside her, Sloan was a vibrating vision of sapphire. Her guipure lace cocktail dress belied her nervous energy; the intricacy of the leaf-patterned lace embodied sophistication, and the sheer lace overlay at the crew neckline transitioned into delicate scalloped cap sleeves. Neatly pinned into a sleek bun, her jet-black hair was a dark canvas for a headband of crystal and gold leaves. She looked every bit the meticulous Social Events Chair. This wasn’t just a party; for Sloan, this was a debut that had to be perfect.
The O’Dorchaidhe-Sterling duo was completed by their usual shadow cabinet. Charlotte was a stark figure, dressed in layer upon layer of black lace and obsidian jewellery, her dark features pulled into an expression of habitual distaste. Estelle followed closely, a shimmering vision in a champagne-gold satin sheath and a preppy pearl collar that perfectly complemented her golden-hued features. Estelle was currently checking her reflection in the side of a silver punch bowl.
“I don’t know why we’re even bothering with a silent auction,” Charlotte said, her droning tone cutting through the crowd’s murmur. “Half the items are ‘donated’ by Newbloods looking for tax breaks, and the other half are items no Ink with taste would dare bid on.”
“Charlotte, please,” Estelle whispered, her eyes darting around the room. “At least the lighting is flattering. Although,” her voice dropped to a horrified hiss, “is that… a polyester dress? Sloan, tell me my retinas are failing me.”
Sloan suddenly tightened a claw-like grip around Gwen’s forearm. “What is that Vapour doing here?” Sloan hissed, her eyes locking onto a first-year girl in a dress by the punch bowl. “We have a dress code—and that off-the-rack disaster is practically a hate crime.”
“It’s aesthetic pollution,” Charlotte added, her expression hidden behind an obsidian-beaded fan.
“I’m just worried about the photos,” Estelle fretted, smoothing her honey-blonde hair. “If I’m caught in a frame with someone wearing normie-thrift, my mother will have a stroke.”
“Relax, Sloan,” Gwen said, her voice a cool balm. She didn’t look at the girl; she kept her eyes on a passing professor. “This is your event. Don’t let a fumbled brushstroke ruin your masterpiece.”
“Right,” Sloan breathed, smoothing her skirts and lifting her chin. Her hostess mask—a masterpiece of poise and condescension—slid back into place. “You’re right. One clashing element isn’t the end of the world.”
But as the night progressed, the trickle of Vapours turned into a flood. The unwritten rule of the Equinox Social—that it was Ink-only—was being systematically dismantled. Students in thrifted suits, jeans, and mismatched accessories laughed at auction items; Cal Whitley shamelessly piled three plates of hors d’oeuvres, looking entirely unimpressed by the autumnal splendour.
Sloan’s mask began to crack. “There’s too many of them,” she whispered, her eyes wide with mounting dread. “Gwen, the party favours… the gold-leaf molasses biscuits… I only prepared 150. I didn’t account for the… the population density.”
“Fifty per cent of the room is currently occupied by people who think ‘Ink’ is something you put in a printer,” Charlotte remarked, her dark eyes narrowing as she watched a group of Newbloods laugh too loudly. “The guest list has been compromised, Sloan.”
Gwen realized the night was teetering on the edge of disaster. If the food ran out and not enough favours distributed—or worse, half the student body was obviously snubbed—the night would be remembered as Sloan’s failure. Gwen couldn’t allow that.
“Focus, Sloan,” Gwen commanded, catching her friend by the shoulders. “We don’t panic. We make setbacks into comebacks. Charlotte, Estelle—stop posing and start moving. We need a re-headcount, now.”
“But I’m not on the Social Committee,” Charlotte said, her lip curled.
“You’re part of the Circle, Charlotte,” Gwen reminded her coolly, her O’Dorchaidhe authority an indomitable ice wall. “If this event fails, the Circle looks weak. We look weak. Go. Count.”
Charlotte rolled her eyes and pivoted, following the command to count.
“Estelle, find Kate,” Gwen ordered, “and I want you both to start the duplication charms on the favours immediately. Make sure they’re precise, we don’t want desserts tasting like cardboard.”
“Duplication charms—on biscuits?” Estelle looked horrified, her golden features pale. “Gwen, that’s… domestic magic. It’s practically middle-class Cairngorm crap.”
“It’s damage control, Estelle. Do it, or I’ll tell everyone your ‘vintage’ Dior was a knock-off,” Gwen lied smoothly, knowing exactly where Estelle’s insecurities lay.
Estelle gasped, her hand flying to her pearl collar. “Fine! But I’m doing it behind the screen. No one can see me working like a…baker.”
“Sloan, you keep the faculty distracted and blissfully unaware. I’ll handle the kitchens,” Gwen said, already turning toward the servant passages.
The transition from the gilded Great Hall to the service corridors was like stepping behind a curtain. The air turned damp and smelled of yeast and roasting meats. In the vaulted stone kitchens, Gwen had to navigate a sea of scurrying hobgoblins. Negotiating with them was a delicate art; they were strictly contractual and had no use for money. Gwen eventually traded a promise of a front-row seat at the next professional Fen-Ball match (sourced through her father’s connections) and a handful of antique silver buttons from Sloan’s sewing kit for an extra vat of punch, a bonus course of savoury tarts, and double the desserts. She had nothing to barter for liquor, so she hoped the Vapours would take it upon themselves to spike the punch.
Emerging back into the dimly lit corridor that led to the Great Hall, Gwen felt an earlobe tug as a spiralled silver earring tangled with a loosely curled strand. She sighed, not pausing as she carefully unwound the earring from her hair.
A shape detached itself from the gloom of a gothic archway.
“Hey. I was looking for you.”
Gwen’s heart gave a sudden, traitorous thud against her ribs. Her fingers flinched, launching her earring—the pinging bounce across the floor like a pebble skipping across water. She stood motionless, watching the earring stop where Will Holloway leaned against the cold stone.
He looked frustratingly handsome in a dark, vintage blazer, likely a used or borrowed thing, as it was slightly worn at the cuffs. But the remarkable fit across his broad shoulders made all her racing thoughts skid to a stop. The hint of obsidian trailing under his pressed white collar was yet another reason she stared a moment longer than she should have. His tie, however, was predictably crooked, a small rebellion against the evening’s rigid formality that reminded her of her mission to restore order.
“Holloway,” she said, her voice regaining its icy structure even as her pulse betrayed her. She looked past him, scanning the shifting shadows for any watching eyes. “You shouldn’t be here. You should be in the Hall with the other…attendees.”
“I got bored,” Will said, a wry, lopsided smile playing on his lips. He stepped into the pool of amber light cast by a flickering wall sconce and stooped to pick up her earring. He offered it back to her, and she took it with a single muttered word of thanks before striding by him.
“What’s the rush?” he asked, matching her pace. “Emergency with the pastries? Or did a fork end up on the wrong side of a plate?”
“Yes, actually,” Gwen snapped, finding her silver signet ring and twisting it with a nervous, rhythmic fervour. She felt the crushing weight of the event, the shadow of Isolde’s scrutiny, and the biting memory of the Laws she had forced him to read. “I am the Social Events Chair’s right hand tonight. I don’t have the luxury of standing in drafty corridors and trading quips. So, please, leave me alone.”
Will stayed with her. He studied her, his green eyes narrowing with a terrifyingly perceptive depth. “You look like you’re bracing for a hit, Gwen. It’s just a party. You—and Sloan—both obviously worked hard putting this together. Can’t you enjoy it for five minutes?”
“Enjoying a party is a privilege for people who don’t have to uphold a legacy,” she said, the words spilling out with more vitriol than intended. “This is a performance, Holloway. And there are a lot of critics in the crowd. I don’t get to enjoy a bow until the curtain call. Now, go back to your friends before someone sees us.”
Will stepped in front of her, forcing her to stop and acknowledge him. “No one is looking, Princess,” Will said softly. The sudden scent of stale coffee and patchouli reached her, clashing with the heavy, stifling wafting of cinnamon, liquors, and an expensive blend of fragrances from the Hall. His hand reached for her neck, gently tugging a coiled strand from the earring she’d just reinserted. “And even if they were, since when do you care what ‘lesser’ people think?”
“I care about everything,” she whispered, her voice cracking just enough to reveal the barbed, terrifying anxiety she usually kept locked behind her porcelain mask. She cleared her throat, finding a lump there. She blinked watery eyes and quickly straightened Will’s tie. “Only people with nothing to lose stop caring, Will.”
Will hesitated. His hand hovered near her arm as if to steady her, but he caught himself, hands shoved into his pant pockets. “Fine. A vapid performance—business as usual.” His eyes searched hers with a sombre intensity that made her breath catch in her throat. He exhaled sharply and shook his head. “You look nice, Gwen.”
He turned and strode back toward the Great Hall, leaving Gwen alone in the cold, stone silence. Her heart was still racing. For the first time that night, the gold and amber light spilling from the doorway felt unwelcoming, like a stage set with no soul behind it.
*
Gwen followed a moment later, her heels clicking a sharp, defensive tempo. Inside, the Great Hall was a restored masterpiece. While the guests had doubled since she’d departed, so had the food and—with a quick glance at the added punch bowls and party favours—so had everything else. Crises averted.
The line between old money luxury and budget mass market was blurred where the Newbloods stood. Not surprising. Bringing the two world’s together was literally in their blood. Many Circle members still kept Vapours at a nuclear crater of distance, but it had been decades since it was fashionable to hate Newbloods, making it safer for Inks and Vapours to interact through them.
At the far end of the hall, Chancellor Eddow stood on the raised dais, a chalice of gold-veined glass in his hand. Beside him, Sloan stood tall, her sapphire gown shimmering under the floating candles, looking every bit the triumphant architect.
Charlotte leaned against a fluted pillar near the dais, her dark leer heavy-lidded boredom as she adjusted a layer of black lace on her sleeve. Beside her, Estelle stood with a brittle, golden poise, her eyelashes batting as gold-painted nails brushed invisible lint off Oliver Anderson’s shoulder, her third attempted conquest of the night.
“Quiet all,” the Chancellor commanded, his voice echoing through the gothic rafters like a roll of thunder.
The room shuffled, then stilled. The call for order reminded them of their expected positions. The segregation was palpable; the Inks had moved into a tight, polished cluster near the front, while the Vapours were a ragged, nervous fringe near the walls. The Newbloods were a disorderly bridge between.
“Tonight,” Eddow began, his gaze sweeping over the crowd, “we honour the thousand-year history of the Equinox at Cairn-Gait. A millennium of tradition, of guarding the spark of high sorcery, and of ensuring that the blood of the gifted remains the foundation of our world.”
Gwen felt a prickle of discomfort crawl her spine beneath her midnight blue crepe. Usually, this speech filled her with a sense of belonging, a warm affirmation of her birthright. Now, after her sessions with Will, the words ‘blood of the gifted’ sounded less like a prideful boast and more like a warning—a boundary line drawn in salt.
“To our history,” Sloan announced, raising her glass. Her eyes were bright with the manic thrill of a performance she believed she was winning. “To a thousand years of pure excellence!”
“Only for Inks!”
The shout ripped through, raw and ruining. Estelle let out a tiny, wounded gasp, her hand flying to her pearl collar as if the boy’s shout had physically bruised her.
It came from a Vapour standing near the back—a freckled, frizzy-haired young man in a frayed suit jacket. Gwen’s eyes narrowed. He looked genuinely angry, but as she scanned the room, she noticed a cluster of Alistair Thorne’s inner circle—including Catriona Sinclair and Isolde Thorne—standing just behind the boy, their expressions not of shock, but of quiet, expectant amusement. They looked almost cultish with their matching iron pendants—Catriona’s on a gold drop chain, Isolde’s on a silver choker chain, and Alistair’s hanging from his Ouroboros pin.
The Hall, like a tomb, was still. The Inks turned as one, their expressions shifting from festive to disdainful.
“We were banned for nine hundred of those years!” the freckled Vapour student shouted again. “Why even bother letting us come now? To watch you toast to our exclusion?”
Gwen’s eyes flew to Will. He was standing in the precarious neutral zone between the tables, his face pale. He looked at Gwen, his green eyes asking a silent, devastating question: Are you really okay with this? A stomach-knotting certainty hit her: She had always been okay with it. It was the world as it was meant to be. But the way the Vapour’s outburst seemed to have been perfectly invited—the way Alistair and his inner circle hadn’t even flinched—made her skin crawl.
“You don’t have to stay,” Sloan said coolly, an empty smile fixed on her face.
“All students are welcome at the Equinox,” Eddow insisted, though his voice sounded weary.
Sloan nodded politely, but it was empty. She wasn’t about to disagree with the Chancellor publicly, even if she screamed internally.
Alistair Thorne stepped forward. He smoothed his charcoal-grey velvet blazer, his gold Ouroboros Circle pin glinting. “Now, now,” Alistair drawled. “Let’s not allow a misunderstanding of historical context to dampen such a… diverse evening. Since ancient times, the Equinox has always celebrated abundance, balance, and gratitude. Surely, we can all find some common ground in these generous times.”
Gwen moved to his side, her spine a rigid line. “Chancellor Eddow and Chairman Thorne are right,” she added, her voice a sharp chime. “Equinox has always been an event to honour our unified community. The Circle will welcome any feedback to improve our great school. Tomorrow.” Her spiralled earring dangled between her neck and hair, yet again finding itself coiled in a curl as her head swivelled to observe every face in the crowd. “But tonight, let’s enjoy the beautiful party Sloan Sterling put together for us. All of us.”
It was a cold, calculated attempt at de-escalation—but the fuse had been lit.
“Unified?” another Vapour yelled. He grabbed one of Sloan’s handmade history trivia cards from a nearby table and shredded it. “You mean us watching you toast to a legacy we’re not a part of?”
He threw a savoury tart at an antique tapestry depicting a 1500s battle. It hit the woven stag with a buttery thud. Sloan shrieked about the sixteenth-century silk, and the room tilted into chaos.
A Vapour girl in a thrifted satin dress gripped the amethyst pendant hung from her neck, a jagged fuchsia flash jolting from her outstretched palm. “Gearr!” she cried.
Gwen’s eyes, trained by a decade of duelling tutors, tracked the spell. It was aimed at the centrepiece—a clumsy, emotional cast. But then, Gwen saw it: Catriona Sinclair made a subtle, sharp flick of her wrist—the stone on her ring glinting. To an untrained eye, it looked like a failed deflection. To Gwen, it looked like a Redirect.
The fuchsia bolt didn’t hit the centrepiece. It veered violently to the left, slicing through the air with unnatural intent until it caught Alistair Thorne squarely across the chest.
The rasp of tearing silk was sickeningly loud. Alistair stumbled back, his bespoke shirt ruined, looking every bit the tragic victim of Vapour aggression. The Inks erupted in a collective gasp of outrage.
Estelle’s face was a portrait of horror, her golden features pale. “Gwen, do something!” she cried out, her voice thin and desperate. “Those Vapours are ruining everything!”
Gwen felt a cold, hard weight settle in her chest. Her reputation was tied to this event’s success as much as Sloan’s. Any untempered behaviour was a stain on her role as Community Service Chair.
“Enough!” Gwen commanded, though her mind was reeling. Why would an Ink redirect a spell at their own Chairman? Had Catriona simply messed up her attempt to help? She looked toward the high table for Sloan or the Circle Chairs, but her breath hitched. In the blooming violence, she saw two figures slipping through the shadows of the side gallery. Catriona Sinclair and Isolde Thorne were moving with a quiet, hurried purpose, disappearing through the heavy oak door that led toward the dormitory corridors. They weren’t staying to help quell the riot.
“Escort the troublemakers out!” Gwen shouted to the Prefects she’d personally selected, locking eyes with each of them to call them. A few looked too eager to use restraining spells on Vapours, but most, like Julian Vane, appeared anxious to assign blame. “Gently, if they permit.”
Will stepped into the divide, his hands raised. “Let’s all take a breath!” His eyes found Gwen. “If you kick them out now, you’re just proving him right.”
Gwen didn’t look at him. She couldn’t. The laser focus of her peers was on her back. Charlotte’s cynical stare cataloguing signs of weakness, Estelle’s dramatic pleas to restore the status quo, and a dozen other Circle members expectantly awaiting a swift, icy O’Dorchaidhe response.
To agree with Will was to betray the very people she was meant to lead. She couldn’t be the ‘Hero of the North Wing’ and the O’Dorchaidhe heir.
“I am protecting the safety of all students, Holloway,” she said, a lump in her throat. “Move aside.”
As the Prefect team surged forward, the Great Hall erupted into a riot of flying glass and shouting. Spells whistled through the air—not the elegant, structured chants of the Advanced Arcanum, but raw, desperate bursts of energy. Gwen stood at the front, her signet ring hot and stinging her skin from the overwhelming demand of casting binds and shields. She deflected a Turas! with a contemptuous flick, her Aegis Bastion shimmering in the dim light as candles flickered out one by one with each clash of hexes.
In the centre of the fray, Gwen saw Bryn Hall try to pull the trivia-shredding student away from a scuffle when she was shoved back by an Ink student—her arms flailed, and she landed with a spectacular, soaking splash directly into the massive crystal punch bowl.
A high, melodic trill of laughter cut through the din—Estelle was pointing, her features bright with a cruel, shimmering delight at the sight of the ‘Vapour turtle’ stained in punch red and rolling away from shattered glass. Charlotte offered a singular, slow-clapping gesture of mocking approval from the safety of her pillar.
“Bryn!” Will yelled, trying to reach her, but he was blocked by an Ink-Vapour pair wrestling for each other’s anchor objects.
Cal Whitley didn’t hesitate. Seeing Bryn soaked in crimson punch and shivering, he roared an incantation in a blunt, guttural tone. He slammed his palm against the stone floor, and a wave of frost raced across the granite, tripping the Ink who had shoved Bryn and sending him sliding across the hall.
“Stop it! All of you!” Gwen shouted, aiming ‘Gabh i ngaiste!’ at several students to ensnare their hands with invisible rope. But her voice was lost in the cacophony of shattering crystal glassware and manic shouting.
The booming command from Chancellor Eddow immobilized the room. “Díghluaiste!”
The remaining candles died. The temperature plummeted.
“The Equinox Social is over,” Eddow announced, his voice carrying the weight of a falling mountain. “All students are to return to their dormitories immediately. Prefects, this includes you.” His eyes stared down at Gwen, the dismissal non-negotiable. “The professors will take over patrols tonight.”
The silence that followed was heavy with the smell of spilled punch and bitter magic. Sloan was shaking, her debut a ruin. Gwen finally turned her head and saw Will and Cal helping a shivering Bryn out of the crystal bowl. Will looked over his shoulder at Gwen, and the lack of anger in his eyes—replaced by a weary pity—felt like a knife between her ribs.
She had defended the legacy. She had stayed on the right side. Estelle scurried over to mock the Vapour’s crudeness and praise Gwen’s orders, seeking to glue her own status to Gwen’s performance.
But as Gwen watched the Inks whisper and everyone else retreat in a daze, she felt like she was missing something.
*
The clock on Gwen’s mahogany nightstand struck midnight, the ticking of the second hand echoing through a room draped in velvet shadows. The only light came from the sharp, artificial blue of her phone screen, a jarring sacrilege against the room’s historied wallpaper and antique brass fixtures.
Her thumbs flew across the glass, but the spinning loading icon was becoming a permanent fixture.
Sloan: They’ve proven it tonight, Gwen. They are base. Animals. U see Bryn in the punch bowl!? Ew. They don’t belong in any sorcery community, let alone Cairn-Gait. Estelle said she’s starting a petition—year-long ban so they can’t ruin more of my parties.
Gwen: It wasn’t all of them. The ones who started ruined everything. I had the Chancellor’s ear. Now I’ll spend the next month apologizing for a riot I didn’t start.
Gwen stared at the screen. Her message hung there, irritatingly unsent. The ley lines beneath the castle—the ancient, pulsing veins of power that fed the school’s wards—were particularly agitated tonight, disrupting modern signals with a low-frequency hum that Gwen could feel in her teeth.
Across the room, her roommate, Elodie, sat before an oval, silver-backed mirror. She wasn’t looking at her reflection; she was whispering to the glass, her words shimmering into smoke and vanishing. It was a traditional enchanted mirror—slow, archaic, and perfectly reliable despite the magical interference.
“It’s a shame Catriona missed Bryn Hall landing in the punch bowl,” Elodie said, her voice drifting back as she finished her message. “Can’t say I blame her for turning in early to avoid the headache.” Elodie looked over, her smile like a cat with a mouse’s tail between her claws. “The whole North Wing is talking about this mess, Gwen. I even heard the Board of Trustees is already meeting.”
Gwen didn’t respond. She watched her phone finally vibrate. Sloan’s reply had taken thirty-seven minutes to arrive.
Sloan: It doesn’t matter if it wasn’t ‘all’ of them. A drop of poison spoils the well. They R rootless. Threat to the legacy. Morning we show them what happens when they mess with us.
Gwen tossed the phone onto her duvet in frustration. She couldn’t do this. The weight of the morning—the inevitable inquiry, the memory of Will’s disappointed face, and the vitriol that would surely be waiting in every class—felt like a physical pressure on her chest.
Just sleep, she told herself. Tomorrow is just another performance.
She had finally empties her thoughts when a shout tore through the dorm. Gwen bolted upright and snatched her ring from the nightstand, the black tourmaline already warm and humming in her grip. Her stomach churned with a nauseous terror. The headless Rider, she thought. It’s back.
“Gwen! Get down here!” Alistair’s voice boomed from the common room. The tone was controlled, but urgent. No pain or terror, but a call for readiness.
Gwen threw on her silk robe and raced down the spiral staircase. The Aurelius common room, usually a sanctuary of leather-bound prestige, was in total disarray. A waterfall of parchment erupted from the mouth of the great gothic fireplace, pouring out of the chimney in a relentless, rustling stream. Hundreds of cream envelopes tumbled onto the hand-knotted wool rug. A few had caught fire from the dying embers, and two second-years were frantically stamping out small flames.
“They won’t stop!” one of the boys yelled, looking to Gwen and Alistair for direction.
Gwen stepped forward, her slippers crunching on paper. She snatched an envelope from the air. It was heavy, vellum-quality, held shut by a single, dark red stain—a circle of wax. Exactly like the letter Eddow and the Circle had each received after the Rider’s first hunt. She ripped it open.
The handwriting was distinctive. The way the G’s curled and the sharp, aggressive slant of the T’s—it was a perfect match for an elegant script she’d seen on a dozen Circle invitations.
The short letter within was scrawled in viscous red ink, reading like a fever dream:
The shadow grows, the golden age is done, the rootless vines have choked the rising sun. The halls are stained by those of common birth. We claim the Rider’s flame, and purge the tainted earth. The black ink of the oath outlasts a Vapour without name.
Gwen felt a wave of cold devastation. The rhyme was a perversion of the Circle’s First Rule: “The black ink of the oath outlasts the clear water of the well.” She had shared those rules with Will as a point of pride—a testament to the enduring power of a sorcerer’s commitment to protect magic and kin. But this version? It was a declaration of war. It twisted the Circle’s legacy from being protectors of magic into being executioners of people. It was exactly the kind of twisting Will had suggested.
“This is… a call for a purge,” Elodie whispered, looking over Gwen’s shoulder at the bleary-eyed students descending the stairs. The corner of her lip curled. “Eddow is going to throw a fit.”
Gwen stared at the waterfall of letters, completely stunned. Her mind raced back to the flurry of spells exchanged in the Great Hall, the way Catriona’s redirected a spell made Alistair a reason for Ink outrage, Bryn drenched in punch, Will’s disappointed gaze, and her order to escort the Vapours out. Gwen had wanted to protect her reputation. She had defended Circle traditions without questioning the cost.
As she re-read the red letter’s handwriting, felt the familiar paper weight and texture, brushed the Ouroboros imprint in the corner, she realized the fire wasn’t coming from the Vapours. It was being lit from inside her own house.
The animosity hadn’t reached a breaking point naturally. It had been orchestrated. And Gwen wondered if she was standing on a stage that was rigged to burn.