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“Not powerless.” The pen scratched as Cori gave a final flourish. “Not with this.” Then she held up the paper.

The design was simple: two circles, one drawn inside the other, with a long, unbroken line dividing both.

Cori said, “It’s called the Crucible, and it is the original symbol of creation. Written in the stars by the gods themselves, if you believe that sort of thing.”

“And what am I supposed to do with it?”

“That’s for you to decide.” But she smiled, leaning in to whisper, “Between you and me, and this is off the record, Billreallyhates it.”

An answer inside a riddle twisted around to mean nothing. That was how it felt dealing with time mages. Still, it was more than he’d had a moment ago, and he took the paper.

“Thank you,” he said. “I think.”

Cori winked, looking up when the clock chimed 10:30.

“You have to go,” he said.

She nodded, and he felt a pang. He wanted more time. He wanted to talk like they used to. He’d missed his friend.

She finished her brandy and fetched her cloak, swinging it over her shoulders at a rakish angle. He called out before she could open the door.

“Why Bilal?” She arched a brow in question, and he shrugged. “When we met, you told me your name was Bilal? Why? I was so young. I wouldn’t have known the significance of your name.”

One hand on the doorknob, she smiled, and it was more real than anything he’d seen from her all night. Made her look like Taly again.

“It’s a nickname,” she said. “Short for Magn’jun bilal tiagiagin. I thought it suited me.”

The door opened and closed, and Ivain knew that if he went after her, the hallway beyond would be empty. He felt the whisper of her magic as she melted back into the Weave.

In the silence, he began to laugh.

The language was familiar, ancient Draegonian. Sarina had made a study of it when she was young, and while he might have to ask her, he was pretty suremagn’jun bilal tiagiagintranslated to “that crazy bitch.”

Chapter 66

The day of the festival, Taly awoke with a scowl on her face.

Why? Because of the damn runes etched on the underside of her wrists, that’s why.

Ivain hadn’t gone back on his edict—she was still in magical timeout. It had been a week now without a flicker, without even a spark of gold weaving through her fingers. The enchantments were a wall slammed between her and the thing that made her Fey.

She sat up, rubbing her wrists absently. She’d given up trying to scrub the ink off. The runes didn’t burn or itch—they just sat there, a quiet silence that was somehow worse.

It was like she’d never had magic. Like all of it—leaving home, the Queen, Vaughn—had been nothing but a bad dream, the kind you wake up from drenched in sweat, heart pounding, only to laugh it off. She had to check the mirror every morning just to make sure her ears were still pointed.

“I canfeelyou thinking,” Skye grumbled.

She didn’t answer—just let the thread between them hum gently where it brushed the edge of her thoughts. The bond was the only thing keeping her sane. The only part of her that didn’t feel dulled. Despite Ivain’s efforts to separate her from the Weave, no matter how far her magic slipped from reach, this remained. Him.Them. That tether between their souls, quiet but unbreakable.

A hand snaked beneath the blankets, snagging her ankle. Taly squealed as she was dragged back under.

“Good morning,” she sighed as he kissed his way down her neck.

Skye murmured something that sounded like the same, his weight folding over hers. One hand crept beneath her nightdress, the fabric gathering slowly in his grip. Her legs parted without thought.

Then he was there, skin to skin. His hips settled between hers as he eased forward. She gasped, the stretch familiar and slow, her body curving up to meet him.

She loved mornings. Loved her nights too, though for different reasons. Nights were for fucking—for raw intensity and relentless exploration. There was no room for gentleness in those hours, just that endless push and pull of power and passion and the sweet, fraying edge of surrender.