The battlefield hung in a stunned, half-naked hush (steel still ringing, ozone crackling, Cassian's trousers one heroic sneeze away from total surrender), when a voice sliced through the chaos like a perfectly chilled knife through butter.
"Alright. Stop, everyone, stop."
The voice belonged to Reginald Blackthorne, the silver-haired, eternally unflappable head butler who had betrayed me to the children earlier. He stepped out from behind a topiary shaped like a rearing dragon, pristine tailcoat not even wrinkled, white gloves spotless despite the blood-spattered lawn. In his hand he held… a silver pocket watch, ticking with the calm inevitability of taxes.
"The drill is over. Assassins, you may retreat."
Every masked assassin snapped to attention, bowed in perfect unison (yes, even the one currently bleeding from Cassian's lightning), and vanished into the hedges like embarrassed stagehands. One of them actually muttered "sorry for the inconvenience" on the way out."
Reginald turned to Vespera, expression as warm as a glacier. "This was a leadership examination for Miss Vespera Valerian. She performed flawlessly under pressure: decisive, protective, and terrifyingly photogenic. I shall report full marks to the clan elders."
Vespera flicked a strand of raven hair from her eyes, violet lightning still dancing along her fingertips. "Thanks," she said (not humble, not arrogant, just the verbal equivalent of a shrug that could level mountains). Reginald gave the tiniest nod of approval and glided away, shoes somehow not making a single sound on the blood-and-dew grass.
Cassian stood there like a statue some sculptor had abandoned mid-chisel, trousers now officially at half-mast, lightning fizzling out in confused sparks. Seraphine looped an arm around his bare waist, bedsheet fluttering like a surrender flag. "Come along, Stormfury. We still have unfinished business involving that bottle of honey oil and the chandelier." She winked at the rest of us. "Take care, children. Try not to overdo the… everything."
Cassian managed a dazed salute with the one boot he was still wearing. We waved back, chorusing, "Take care! Hydrate! Maybe find pants!"
Over by the rose arbor, Aurelia and Lyria were still trying to bisect each other in champagne lingerie, blades flashing, insults flying ("He smiled at ME first!" "He said MY eyes looked like sunrise, you walking disco ball!"). Vespera sighed the sigh of the only adult in the room, marched over, grabbed each by the scruff of their lace bras like misbehaving kittens, and hauled them bodily toward the manor. "This way, idiots. Cold shower. Separate rooms. Possibly separate continents."
Muffled squeaks of protest faded down the corridor.
I looked around at the wreckage, the traumatized topiary, the lingering smell of ozone and jasmine perfume and whatever cologne Cassian thought "storm cloud" was. My stomach gave an audible, mortified growl.
"Breakfast?" I suggested weakly.
Every single person (children included) nodded with the solemn enthusiasm of war survivors who'd just remembered food exists. The kids latched onto our legs again, sticky and tear-streaked but now giggling at the memory of half-naked heroes.
Together, the entire ragtag parade (blood-splattered tunics, inside-out shirts, one boot missing, two prodigies being dragged by their underwear, and one very confused butler pretending none of this happened) shuffled toward the dining hall, leaving a trail of rose petals, discarded weapons, and a single abandoned stiletto heel that will haunt the gardeners for weeks.
Somewhere in the distance, Reginald's voice floated back on the breeze: "Cook, prepare pancakes. Extra syrup. We're going to need the sugar."
A few minutes later, the grand dining hall of House Valerian buzzed with the warm, golden glow of morning light spilling through tall arched windows, the stained glass casting jewel-toned patterns across the long mahogany table laden with a feast that could feed a small army twice over. The air was thick with the irresistible symphony of scents: stacks of fluffy pancakes dripping with amber maple syrup that carried a sweet, smoky warmth; crisp bacon sizzling faintly on silver platters, releasing salty, savory curls of steam; fresh-baked croissants flaking buttery crumbs onto porcelain plates with each tear; bowls of ripe berries bursting with tart-sweet juice that stained fingertips purple and red; and pots of rich, dark coffee mingling with the creamy perfume of hot chocolate swirled with vanilla.
Everyone had mercifully found clothes—Aurelia Valerian and Lyria Valerian now sat side by side at the far end, demure in simple linen dresses the color of dawn and dusk, eating with the careful, wide-eyed politeness of scolded puppies who'd been promised no dessert if they misbehaved again. Their forks scraped delicately against plates, cheeks still faintly flushed, occasionally exchanging sheepish glances that dissolved into stifled giggles before they both straightened up like perfect little ladies under invisible glares.
At the center of the table, Elias Valerian and Cassian "Stormfury" Valerian had turned into honorary jungle gyms. Children swarmed them in a joyful tangle of sticky hands and syrup-smeared grins, perching on laps, standing on chairs, and demanding airplane spoonfuls of pancake. Elias laughed brightly as a four-year-old commandeered his fork to "feed the dragon" (Cassian's open mouth), while Cassian rumbled playful growls, pretending to snap at incoming berries before letting the kids shove them between his teeth. The table shook with their chaos—spoons clinking, juice glasses wobbling, delighted shrieks bouncing off the vaulted ceiling like sparks.
Across from them, Vespera Valerian sat with regal poise, midnight robes now pristine and buttoned to the throat, violet eyes sharp as she leaned in to converse in low tones with Reginald Blackthorne, the head butler. Reginald stood beside her chair, posture arrow-straight, voice a measured murmur as he gestured subtly with one white-gloved hand. Whatever they discussed carried weight—the faint crackle of residual magic still clung to Vespera's fingertips, and Reginald's eyebrow arched with dry approval.
Curiosity pulled the remaining cousins like moths to flame. Lirael, Sienna, Mira, Thalia, and the rest of the boys drifted over, plates in hand, sliding into nearby seats or perching on the table's edge to join the hushed circle. Voices overlapped in eager whispers—questions about the "drill," speculation about next tests, playful jabs at today's wardrobe disasters—all blending into a lively hum that rose and fell like a tide.
The hall itself was pure, glorious chaos: laughter ricocheting off crystal chandeliers, silverware clattering in joyful discord, the rich perfume of breakfast weaving through bursts of children's shrieks and the low rumble of adult teasing. Sunbeams danced with dust motes, syrup glistened like liquid gold, and for a fleeting moment—amid the clatter and warmth and sticky hugs—House Valerian felt less like an ancient noble clan and more like the rowdiest, most loving family breakfast in the realm.