The tension in the Keep had been building for weeks.

Not the bad kind—not the blood moon kind, not the Valentine kind. The other kind. The kind that came from training too hard, sleeping too little, and spending every waking hour with the same four people. They were a team. They trusted each other. But trust didn’t stop annoyance.

Cora was annoyed because Derek’s ghosts kept drifting into her room at night. Derek was annoyed because Sera’s cat kept staring at him. Sera was annoyed because Mason left his gauntlets everywhere. Mason was annoyed because Cora never put her sword back on the rack.

Lucian was annoyed because everyone kept asking him to mediate.

Something had to give.

It started with a comment.

The Silver Falcons had returned from a mission—a successful one, by all accounts. Dorian had led his team through a revenant nest with zero casualties. The Council had praised them. The rumor mill had crowned them "the team to watch."

Cora heard this while eating lunch in the dining hall. Her fork stopped halfway to her mouth.

"The team to watch," she repeated.

Leo nodded. "That’s what they’re saying. Silver Falcons are the favorites for next year’s tournament."

Cora set down her fork. "We beat them."

"In a close match."

"We beat them."

Leo shrugged. "People have short memories."

She looked across the table at Lucian. He was eating his food, face calm, but she caught the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

"You’re not going to say anything?" she asked.

"About what?"

"About the Falcons being called favorites."

"They were favorites last year too. We still won."

"That’s not the point."

"What is the point?"

Cora picked up her fork. "The point is respect."

She stabbed a piece of chicken.

---

The prank war began three days later.

Cora struck first. She’d been planning it for a while, waiting for the right moment. Dorian’s room was on the second floor of the Falcons’ dorm, third door on the left. His schedule was predictable—training until eight, dinner until nine, then back to his room to read or whatever arrogant people did.

She phased through the wall.

The room was clean. Too clean. His desk was organized. His bed was made. His sword hung on a rack above the dresser. Cora felt a little insulted by how tidy it was.

She found his shampoo in the bathroom. She pulled the small vial from her pocket—blue dye, the kind that stained for days—and poured half of it into the bottle. Then she shook it gently, put it back, and phased out.

The next morning, Dorian’s hair was blue.

Not subtly blue. Bright blue. The color of a cartoon character.

He walked into the training yard and everyone stared.

Dorian touched his head. "What?"

Jace coughed. "Your hair, Captain."

Dorian ran to a mirror. His yell echoed across the Keep.

Cora smiled from the bleachers.

---

The Falcons retaliated within hours.

Someone—probably Lena—had discovered that Derek’s ghosts were vulnerable to salt. Not holy salt, just regular table salt. It disrupted their form, made them flicker.

Derek found salt lines outside his door, across his windowsill, and even on the handle of his staff. His ghosts couldn’t get near him. Dr. Blackwood hovered at the far end of the hallway, looking offended.

"This is petty," the ghost said.

"This is war," Derek replied.

He waited until midnight. Then he sent his ghosts into the Falcons’ dorm.

Not to harm. Just to hide.

Lena’s weapons were the first to go. Her daggers, her short sword, her backup knife—all of them moved to the common room closet, wrapped in a blanket, invisible to casual search.

She woke up, reached for her weapons, and found nothing.

"Where are they?"

The ghosts didn’t answer.

She searched for an hour. Found nothing. Reported to Dorian with a face like thunder.

Derek watched from his room, his ghosts reporting back in whispers.

"Good," he said. "Next."

---

Mason didn’t do pranks. He was too serious for pranks. But when Sera told him that the Falcons had called his gauntlets "clunky," something shifted behind his eyes.

He waited until the Falcons were in the showers.

Then he walked down their hallway, one hand out, palm open. Not fire—just heat. Gentle heat. Enough to warm the metal doorknobs to an uncomfortable temperature.

Not burning. Just... unpleasant.

The Falcons returned from training, grabbed their doorknobs, and yelped.

Dorian’s voice carried. "Who did this?"

No one answered.

Mason sat in the common room, reading a book, his face unreadable.

Sera glanced at him. "You’re enjoying this."

"I’m reading."

"You’re smirking."

"I’m not."

She pointed. "That’s a smirk."

Mason turned a page. "It’s a facial expression."

---

Sera’s move was the most elaborate.

She’d been paying attention to the rumor mill—who was dating whom, who had failed a test, who was being investigated by the Council. She found a thread. A small one. A rumor that a vampire had been spotted near the Falcons’ dorm.

It wasn’t true. But it was plausible.

She spread the story through the campus network. Anonymous post. Just a few lines.

"Heard from a reliable source: vampire sighting near Silver Falcons’ quarters. Keep your weapons close."

The Falcons spent the next two nights on edge, patrolling their own hallway, checking windows, setting up salt lines. They found nothing, of course. But they didn’t sleep well.

Dorian’s blue hair had started to fade. His patience had not.

He confronted Ashen Dawn in the training yard.

"Enough."

Cora crossed her arms. "Enough what?"

"The pranks. The dye. The hiding weapons. The doorknobs. The vampire rumor."

"I don’t know what you’re talking about."

Dorian’s eye twitched. "Your hair is normal."

"I don’t use dye."

"You know what I mean."

Lucian stepped forward. "It was just fun. No one got hurt."

Dorian stared at him. "Your team started this."

"Your team escalated."

The two captains stood in the center of the yard, the tension thick enough to cut.

Then Dorian laughed.

It was a real laugh. Tired, but real.

"You’re insufferable."

"You’re not so bad yourself."

Dorian ran a hand through his still-faintly-blue hair. "Truce?"

"Truce."

They shook hands.

---

Alistair found out anyway.

Someone reported the pranks—probably a senior hunter who thought the whole thing was beneath the dignity of the Ashen Guard. He called both teams into his office.

"The prank war is over."

Cora opened her mouth.

"Now."

She closed it.

Dorian nodded. "Understood."

Alistair looked at each of them. "You’re both talented. You’re both competitive. That’s fine. Use that energy on the training field. Not on each other’s shampoo."

Cora hid a smile.

Alistair saw it. "Dismissed."

They filed out.

In the hallway, Dorian paused. "For the record, the blue was a good prank."

Cora blinked. "Thanks."

"Don’t let it go to your head."

He walked away. 𝙛𝒓𝓮𝙚𝔀𝒆𝒃𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝓵.𝙘𝒐𝒎

The team stood in the hallway, the echoes of the prank war fading.

Sera picked up Bolts, who had been watching from a bench. The cat purred.

"So," Derek said. "What now?"

Cora stretched. "We train."

"And after training?"

"We train more."

Lucian walked past them. "And after that, we sleep."

He disappeared down the stairs.

The team looked at each other.

Then they followed.