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“Music is meant to be felt, not perfected.”

Then she left.

I could have stopped her. Could have thrown up another illusion, crafted the perfect retort, built the walls back up before she tore them down further.

But I didn’t.

For a long moment, I just stood there, her words settling into the cracks she kept finding in my defenses.

Then, slowly, I lifted the violin once more, drawing the bow across the strings. The melody her mother had hummed through hard times.

This time, I didn’t try for perfection. I simply let the truth echo in the dark.

26

Marigold

After leaving Elio’ssanctuary, I returned to my chambers, but sleep refused to come. I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, but my thoughts wouldn’t settle. They kept circling back to him.

The infuriating, calculating bastard who kept making my life miserable. The one who had humiliated me, tricked me, made me question every step I took at Wickem. The one I was supposed to hate.

But tonight… something shifted.

It wasn’t just the music. It was him.

I had seen him without his mask—not the golden prince, not the illusionist who played tricks with words and light, but the real Elio. And the truth of him had unraveled something inside me.

Scout clicked against my shoulder, the small bones of his body vibrating with something unreadable.

“I know,” I murmured, rolling onto my side. “It’s not supposed to feel like this.”

But it did.

And that was the most dangerous part.

Scout suddenly stiffened, then his tiny skeletal feet tapping a frantic rhythm against my shoulder before he sprang down, darting toward my office with unmistakable intent.

“What is it?” I whispered, rising to follow.

A strange energy hummed in the air, something familiar.

Scout clicked excitedly. On the shelf was a leather-bound volume. It hadn’t been here before. I was certain of it. But now nestled between books I’d already sorted through, it sat waiting like it had been left for me. Only I was the only person who could enter these rooms…so who had sent it?

The skull sigil of the Fourth Council Seat was embossed on the cover—my father’s seat. My inheritance. The leather felt warm beneath my fingers, pulsing, alive.

I flipped open the cover, and my breath caught.

The first page held precise but urgent handwriting:

My dearest daughter,

If you are reading this, then the wellspring has called you home despite efforts to keep you away. There is much I wish I could tell you directly, but some truths are too dangerous to commit plainly to paper.

Know that appearances deceive, and what seems like betrayal may hide loyalty, while trusted authorities may conceal deeper threats.

The answers you seek are hidden in these pages, but they must be earned carefully. Trust your instincts about magic’s true nature. Watch for signs in the wellspring’s song.

And remember—even the cleanest water can be forced down poisoned channels.