Chapter 8: The True Accord

The silver quill snapped in Mira’s hand, splashing ink across the combined ledger like a fresh wound.

She didn't curse. She didn't reach for a cloth. She simply watched the black stain bloom over the meticulous columns of tuition transfers and faculty housing assignments. The ink seeped into the parchment, blurring the names of her fire mages with the names of Dorian’s starlight scholars, effectively erasing the divide she had spent a lifetime defending.

"The quill was an antique," Dorian said from the doorway. His voice was a low vibration in the silence of the shared office, devoid of his usual sharp edge. He didn't move toward her, leaning instead against the mahogany frame, his arms crossed over a charcoal doublet that made his eyes look like fractured ice.

"It was a relic," Mira corrected, finally looking up. Her fingers were stained dark, the heat of her skin making the ink smell of cedar and iron. "A gift from the first Chancellor of Ignis. I suppose it’s a fitting end for it. We’ve broken everything else this week."

"We haven't broken the Accord," he said. He walked toward the desk, his movements fluid and unnervingly quiet. He stopped just short of her personal space, though the air between them shimmered with the familiar, frantic pull of their clashing affinities. "The Council is satisfied. The student body is... oscillating between curiosity and cautious rebellion. We are surviving."

"Is that the metric now? Survival?" Mira stood, her chair scraping harshly against the floorboards. She paced to the window, looking out over the courtyard where the marble statues of the fire-bringers and the frost-walkers now stood facing each other, rather than back-to-back. "I have students who can’t sleep because the halls are too cold, and your scholars are complaining that the library smells like sulfur. The friction is heating up, Dorian. It won’t be long before someone actually catches fire."

"Then let them burn a little," he said.

She turned, ready to snap a retort about his reckless disregard for safety, but the words died in her throat. Dorian wasn't looking at the ledger or the courtyard. He was looking at her, his gaze heavy and unblinking. There was a smudge of ink on his own jaw—she realized she must have flicked it there when the quill snapped—and the imperfection made him look devastatingly human.

"You’re tired, Mira."

"I’m the Chancellor of a dying institution," she whispered, her pride finally fraying at the edges. "I’m allowed to be tired."

"You are the Chancellor of a new one," he countered. He moved then, closing the distance until the chill of his presence collided with the radiant heat of hers. The air hissed, a tiny sound of steam rising between their bodies. He reached out, his hand hovering near hers, before he slowly took her ink-stained fingers in his.

His skin was freezing. It should have been a shock, a repellant, but as his palm pressed against hers, the sensation was a jagged relief. It was the only thing that felt solid in a week of bureaucratic shadows. 

"The True Accord isn't on that parchment," Dorian said, his thumb tracing the line of her knuckles, smoothing over the black ink. "It’s here. It’s what we do when the lights go out and the Council isn't watching."

Mira felt the fire inside her lungs settle into a low, steady glow. She didn't pull away. She leaned in, her forehead almost touching his. "And what are we doing, Dorian? Precisely?"

"Negotiating," he murmured. 

He tilted her hand, kissing the ink-stained skin of her inner wrist. The contact sent a jolt of pure, white-hot energy through her veins, a kinetic explosion that made the candles in the room flare until the wax melted into pools. Mira gasped, her other hand flying to his chest, grabbing the lapel of his doublet to keep her balance. 

"That is a very dangerous tactic," she breathed against his lips.

"I’ve always played to win," he replied, and then he stopped talking.

He kissed her with a desperation that bypassed the years of rivalry, the months of bickering, and the weeks of forced proximity. It was a collision of elements. Mira met him with a ferocity of her own, her hands tangling in the silk of his hair, pulling him closer until the temperature in the room climbed to a fever pitch. In the wake of their touch, frost began to lace the windowpanes in intricate, jagged patterns even as the center of the room sweltered.

He backed her against the desk, the ledger forgotten beneath them. Mira felt the edge of the wood bite into her thighs, but she didn't care. She wanted the cold he offered, needed the way he could absorb her excess flame without being consumed. 

Dorian broke the kiss to press his face into the curve of her neck, his breath hitched. "Tell me to stop," he commanded, though his hands were firm on her waist, pulling her flush against him. "Tell me this is a mistake for the school, Mira. Give me a reason to walk out that door."

Mira closed her eyes, feeling the beat of his heart against her palm—steady, rhythmic, and utterly intertwined with her own. She felt the spark of her mage-light dancing under her skin, seeking the solace of his shadows.

"The school needs a unified front," she whispered into his ear, her voice trembling but certain. "And I have never been more certain of a decree in my life."

As she pulled him back down to her, the heavy oak doors of the office groaned, the locks clicking into place by a collective surge of their accidental, fused magic. 

The ink on the ledger was still wet, but it didn't matter; the old laws were gone, and the new ones were being written in the dark.