The wind that came off the Mediterranean was warm and salt-heavy, bending the flame of every lantern along the stone walls of the fortress. Beyond the battlements, the dark water stretched endlessly, murmuring against the cliffs beneath the Venetian stronghold.
It’s late—one of those chaotic, half-planned group sleepovers where someone brings too much wine and Riggs brings too little energy. The common room of Cassandra’s dorm is a disaster: crumpled blankets, discarded socks, open philosophy books and half-eaten chocolate bars.