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The upstairs salon became a warded workspace, half lab, half archive.

And then there was this room. It had once been a wine cellar, carved deep into the bedrock where the temperature stayed steady year-round. He cleared it out, reinforced the walls, and layered enchantments until the stone could drain magic dry.

A magical saferoom. Sarina called him paranoid. He called it knowing exactly what the world was capable of.

Standing side-by-side, wearing twin expressions of worry, Ivain and Sarina stared at the long table set against the wall.

Keeping their distance.

Atop a pedestal in the center of it sat an earth crystal the size of a large goose egg. Scrawling lines of runes crisscrossed the surface, the anchor for the seed of magic that pulsed within.

The aura was palpable, charged with a low hum that prickled along the skin like static before storm. Even across the room, it set Ivain’s teeth on edge.

“I’m still so angry at you,” he said, the words tight. “You knew the risk if she tried again, and you let her do it anyway.”

“She’s a mage,” Sarina said, her arms crossed tight over her body. “Mages use their magic, Ivain. Besides, you said it yourself. She’s extraordinary.”

“Talent does not equal experience,” he snapped, his voice rising. “She had no business going back into that dream.”

“And yet, she’s alive, isn’t she?” Sarina fired back. “More than that, she just handed you the solution to a very big problem.” She flung a hand at the green gem, its dull glow pulsing against the walls. “We’re dealing with a Curse, Ivain. This is not the time to let your fear outweigh the reality of what we’re facing. Taly’s magic is risky. No one’s denying that. But it’s also the only reason we’re not flying blind right now.”

He wanted to argue, to snap back, but the truth gnawed at him, bitter and undeniable. Putting aside the two-woman conspiracy of fire and foresight… Shards, why did it have to be a bloody Curse?

For decades, Ivain had been the unyielding rock upon which the island’s defenses were built. He had seen wars, plagues, and betrayals. Had faced them all without flinching.

But now, in this room, before that stone, something cracked. And in its place, something older crept in—something he hadn’t felt in years.

Dread.

Curses were magical diseases that could be designed to target any living tissue. Some even had their own intelligence, able to adapt, changing their mechanism and transmission method at will.

“At least we have the Eye,” Sarina said hoarsely. “We won’t have to waste time looking for it.”

The Eye of a Curse—the stone or stones that bound the magic. In this case, one had been used to poison the water. Thank the ever-loving Shards Skye had known enough not to touch it.

But that wasn’t even the worst of it.

Serpent’s Well fed the grow domes, where the earth mages grew the wheat that made the flour that got baked into bread—bread that every man, woman, and child in the city had been consuming for weeks.

“No wonder the humans have been getting sick,” he said, rubbing his eyes tiredly. Their constitutions were weaker; it wouldn’t take nearly as long for a foodborne Curse to build up inside their bodies. “I’ve been poisoning them.”

“You don’t get to take responsibility for this.”

“Don’t I?”

“No,” Sarina said with far more confidence than he currently felt. “You can’t blame yourself for the actions of others. You can only deal with the consequences.”

“We’ll have to recall the food supply. It’s going to cause panic, make people believe there’s a scarcity.”

“I’ll worry about public morale. I want you focusing on doing what needs to be done.”

The Eye gave another pulse of light before dimming, the light inside slowly dying as the nullifying effect of the saferoom drained its magic. Soon, it would be safe to take it upstairs, and he would begin picking apart the enchantments. Figure out what made it tick and hopefully how to undo it.

Ivain’s eyes moved to the opposite end of the table. The Eye was not the only thing Taly had come back with.

Candlelight danced across the crown’s gilded surface. Not just regalia—a claim. A purpose made manifest. A lure cast from the divine, forged to find its wielder.

“You’re sure you didn’t see anything?”