Page 56

It was exhausting. And frustrating. And incredibly distracting.

As Keane walked past, I became painfully aware of how close he was. The scent of ink and fall air clung to him, something crisp and clean that made my stomach tighten in a way I absolutely refused to think about.

When he opened a small portal to deliver a message to Professor Cribley, I couldn’t help noticing the wrongness at its edges. It bled into the surrounding energy, a dark vein threading through otherwise clean silver magic.

While the professor read her message, Keane lingered near my table, apparently fascinated by the room’s architecture. But I noticed how his eyes kept darting to my open textbook, where I’d highlighted key passages about magical adaptation.

Another tiny portal opened next to my hand, no bigger than a playing card. Through it, I glimpsed neat handwriting:

Think of cleaning supplies—you don’t use industrial strength cleaners on delicate surfaces. Magic needs similar careful handling.

I barely stopped myself from rolling my eyes. Even when he was helping, he was annoyingly cryptic.

The portal’s edges flickered with that same wrongness, but when our magic connected through it, everything felt clean and natural again. Scout relaxed slightly, seeming to confirm my observation.

“It’s like…” I raised my hand when Professor Cribley resumed her lecture. “How you need different levels of cleaning solution for different materials? Some tasks need full strength, but others require a gentler touch?”

“Exactly!” Professor Cribley beamed. “An unusual analogy, but perfectly accurate. Every witch must learn to modulate their primary power, adjusting it to suit different magical tasks. Even the strongest magic must sometimes be applied delicately.”

When I glanced back, Keane was gone—but another small portal delivered a note:

Your hard work is showing. Library later to review resonance theory for the Trials?

A warm thrill spread through me, followed quickly by frustration.

Why was Keane helping me? Why did he go from cold and distant to quietly supportive in ways no one else saw? Was he being kind or was this just another part of whatever game the heirs played?

“Someone’s got an admirer,” Raven whispered, wiggling her eyebrows. Boris the beetle clicked his legs in what seemed like agreement.

“He’s just being nice,” I muttered, but the warmth in my chest betrayed me.

“The Third Heir doesn’t do ‘just nice’ with anyone,” Lucas observed quietly. “Did you see how long he stayed? Usually he’s in and out before anyone notices him.”

I tried to focus on Professor Cribley’s lecture but my mind kept drifting—between the wrongness in Keane’s portals, and the way he had quietly, unobtrusively helped me again.

Scout had curled up next to the spot where the portal had appeared, his tiny skeletal form managing to look both smug and concerned.

And unfortunately, I knew exactly how he felt.

Sleep wasn’t coming.Even Scout had given up trying to soothe me, curled in a skeletal ball on my pillow while I stared at my open magical theory textbook. The words blurred together, refusing to stick. My mind kept circling the same two thoughts—Keane’s magic isn’t right, and I shouldn’t care this much.

Finally, I threw off my covers. Maybe some tea would help. The royal dorm’s kitchen was just downstairs—one of those inexplicable luxuries that came with being an heir. I’d barely used it, still not quite believing I was allowed.

Padding barefoot down the dark steps, my oversized sleep shirt brushing my knees, I instinctively extended my magic the way Keane had taught me—soft, careful; sensing instead of overwhelming. The kitchen ahead glowed with years of accumulated magic—happiness, comfort, connection. But Keane’s presence inside was different. That now-familiar corruption threaded through his magic, dark veins running beneath the surface.

He stood at the counter, measuring cocoa powder into two mugs with his usual precise, controlled movements. He wore dark pajama pants and a faded t-shirt, something that made him look softer than usual. More approachable. Wisp flickered briefly visible beside him, her blue light casting shifting shadows before fading again.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” I asked softly.

He didn’t startle, though I hadn’t made any noise. “I heard your steps.” At my confused look, he added, “Portal users develop good spatial awareness. Hard to sleep some nights because of it.”

“Is that why you’re making hot chocolate at…” I squinted at the clock, “three in the morning?”

“Thought you might join me,” he said, not quite meeting my eyes. “I saw all those theory books you were hauling up to your room earlier. Figured you might need a break.” A faint blush colored his cheeks.

I should not find that attractive.And yet.

He handed me a mug, and as our fingers brushed, something happened. A pulse of magic passed between us, and suddenly the corruption in his portals didn’t feel so distant or theoretical anymore—it felt like something I wanted to chase out of him, to fix.