Page 45 of Quiet Burn

That’s never optimal, but I suppose the amount of danger inherent in this damn event requires it.

The marble of the lobby of Canto IV is a cold contrast to my simmering irritation as I stand sentinel. My claws, out despite my human guise, tap an impatient rhythm against my thigh. Two weeks was all we had to prepare for this blasted Samhain Ball. It was barely enough time to get clothing, much less assess all the negatives of having two other schools, Hell’s elite, and the competitively motivated students here in one venue. The direction was for it to be woven into our already chaotic schedules like an afterthought. Yet here this trial looms, significant as any battle, on the horizon tonight.

My gaze sweeps across the opulent space, its grandeur lost on me as usual. Discordia University spares no expense on presentation, but even the gilded trimmings can’t pull my thoughts from the Caliphate Games—a tournament resurrected from dusty annals of history, now thrust upon us. The last winners rule Hell, their lineage stamped on each of us in this caliphate—save for Kit.

Our families were the last victors, bound by their idea to band together, and they started the largest war in Hell’s long history to take the throne afterward.

We were ready for a war eventually—all my brothers and I—but not this soon. Even watching others meet and leave for the dance in laughing groups, I sense their nerves beneath the surface, the weighty expectations of performing for those in charge looming. It’s worse for us, of course, because we’re not just students; we’re heirs to thrones.

Kit is a vulnerability we can’t afford. Both inside and outside these walls, enemies abound—the mere thought of Bamford Academy and Brimstone Academy joining us tonight tightens my jaw. Our deep desire to shield Kit from them all gnaws at me. Protecting what is mine is a flame that never wanes, flaring up with every tick of the clock that passes without them descending those cursed stairs.

I am the Prince of Hell, and no one is allowed to cross me, especially with those I have claimed as mine own.

“Late,” I growl to no one, tail twitching beneath the fabric of my suit. I’m dressed to kill or be killed, whichever comes first. My bespoke jet black tux with tails and a vest have the royal crest of the demon line of wrath hidden in them, and I have allowed my spikes and tails to show in the most threatening way possible.It’s my visual concession to the threats waiting for us in the ballroom.

The stakes are higher than ever, and as I hear footsteps approaching, my heart concedes to battle-readiness over disdain for punctuality. Tonight, we must be formidable for Kit, for the caliphate, for whatever hellish curveballs this celebration throws our way.

Ding.

Polished shoes clatter against the marble, announcing their arrival before I even glimpse them. Slash looms into view first, an imposing monolith in his tailored darkness, the sleek lines of his suit sharpening his broad-shouldered silhouette. His dorsal fin, a defiant crest of shark hybrid identity, protrudes through the fabric—a statement of power in itself. The air around him feels charged, as if the lobby has shrunk in response to his enormous size being present.

“Finally,” I mutter, my impatience a coiled serpent in my stomach. The corner of Slash’s mouth twitches in what might be amusement—or a warning. He’s not one for expressing emotions like some others in our group.

“We’ve got this, Prince,” he grumbles, his voice a low rumble that echoes in my chest. “Our little demon will end the evening safe and sound.”

How he is so certain, I don’t fucking know.

Beside him, Zavida is a stark contrast—his lithe form wrapped in ethereal white, the metallic orange of his bow tie a flicker of wildfire. My Kitsuné’s nervous energy is palpable, tails twitching with restless flames licking at their tips. When I loop an arm around him, his tension eases ever so slightly, a subtle surrenderto my possessive display. He’s dressed in flame colors from head-to-toe—red shirt, white vest with the line of envy crests stitched into it, and white shoes that all compliment his bright, fiery red hair, and black nerdy glasses.

“Remember, we’re showing unity—for Kit,” Zavida whispers, eyes flickering behind thick lenses. I release him, nodding once, though my scowl deepens at the reminder. “Temper your… natural tendencies so people do not disbelieve our gambit, Sir.”

“Unity with an unemerged human,” I echo, my voice laced with sarcasm. “What a novel concept for the Prince of Hell.” Zav and Slash give me a dirty look and I roll my eyes. “Yes, yes, I know. Be kinder.”

The elevator dings again, and Salem ambles out, his white hair tipped with black like the panda inside of him. He’s a vision of monochrome elegance, the black and white of his attire mirroring his dual nature. As he knocks back an energy potion with practiced ease, my lips twitch despite myself. This is more dressed up than I’ve seen him in so long I can’t even remember; he wore jeans and a hoodie to our secondary school graduation.

“Trying not to fall asleep on your feet, Salem?” I smirk as he pulls another out of pocket. I didn’t even think about how hard this would be on him, but I’m glad he did.

“Shut it, Prince Prickface,” he retorts. There’s no heat in it, only the warm glow of camaraderie, and his obvious favor of Kit’s nicknames for me. “Just making sure I’m awake the entire time. KitKat remembered when we got back to the room last night after dinner.”

Sigh. Of course he did. That shrimp is always making people look bad with his conscientiousness.

Anton clears his throat, drawing my attention to the fact that he’s a peacock in every sense, strutting from the elevator with a confidence that makes me roll my eyes skyward. His rainbow hair shimmers, echoing the brilliant hues of his cascading tail-feathers and matching tailed suit. He’s practically glowing with pride—his demon line’s signature trait—as he preens like a runway model.

“Where’s Xerxes?” I can’t help but probe, noting the absence of his other half. They’ve been glued at the hip since early school, and it’s strange for them not to enter together.

Anton simply arches one perfectly sculpted eyebrow, amusement written all over his features. “He’ll make an entrance, as always. He just wanted to come with Kit this time since he was designing their attire.”

I snort, shaking my head. “I should’ve guessed. He loves to be the center of attention.”

They both shuffle nervously, their excitement a tangible pulse in the air. I can’t fault them; even I’m curious about what Xerxes has concocted for tonight’s spectacle. I can’t focus on it too much, though, because I have to remain vigilant about the rest of this crap.

I’ll let the others handle fawning over our newest member tonight.

“Be careful what you eat or drink,” I say. “We have to keep our wits—especially with anything surrounding Kit.”

The crowns atop each of our heads feel heavier with the weight of responsibility, but they are our silent oaths to each other more than our families. Zavida is right about staying united; we notonly have to survive this evening but also the far more risky Games in the next few months.

My brooding is interrupted by the lift arriving again. The doors slide open, and framed by the silver archway, stand Xerxes and Kit—an image of duality so stark it snatches the breath from my chest.

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