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My magic surged toward his instinctively, pushing back the darkness for just a second.

Keane inhaled sharply, his hand lingering longer than necessary before he pulled away. The moment stretched between us, charged with something I didn’t understand and definitely wasn’t ready to name.

“We used to make hot chocolate too,” I said quickly, trying to ignore the heat still tingling along my skin. “But nothing this fancy.”

“My mother’s recipe.” His voice softened around the edges. “She said chocolate fixes most things, but magical chocolate fixes everything—especially study fatigue.”

“Tell that to my Magical Theory grade.”

The joke slipped out automatically—my usual deflection when things got too real. But instead of pulling away, Keane smiled.

“I failed my uncle’s pre-Wickem magical theory assessments.” He said it like it didn’t matter, but the tension in his shoulders told a different story. “My uncle was… displeased.”

‘Displeased’ sounded like an understatement. Wisp flickered back into view, curling against Keane’s leg in what seemed like a protective gesture.

He hesitated, then sighed. “Spent every night that summer in the library, studying with Wisp. Not because I cared about the grade. Because I couldn’t stand disappointing anyone else.”

I hesitated, unsure how to respond. His struggles were different from mine, but the pressure to prove ourselves—that was something I understood.

“I had to work through high school—we barely had enough money to make ends meet—so there wasn’t much time for studying. But—”

“But you kept trying.” Something in his voice made me look up. Keane’s blue eyes met mine, filled with understanding instead of pity.

I swallowed. This was the most honest conversation we’d ever had.

“Some days I still feel like I’m playing dress-up,” I admitted, gesturing at my theory notes peeking out of my bag. “Like someone’s going to realize I don’t belong here.”

“You belong here more than most of us.” He took a sip of his chocolate, considering. “I see how hard you’re working to understand everything properly. That matters more than being born into it.”

Something about the way he said it made my throat tighten. I wanted to believe him.

He winced suddenly, pressing two fingers to his temple. I noticed the shadows around him seemed to deepen, tendrils of that strange darkness pulsing outward.

“Are you okay?” I asked, reaching out but stopping short of touching him.

“Just a headache.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “The stabilization sessions with my uncle have been… more frequent lately.”

“Stabilization sessions?”

He nodded, looking away. “Portal magic can be unstable. Has been since my parents died. Uncle’s therapy helps keep it under control.” His fingers traced a pattern on the counter, something that looked almost like a warding symbol. “Without it, well… things get dangerous.”

The darkness at the edges of his magic shifted, almost reacting to his words. I studied it, focusing on the way it moved—not like a natural shadow, but something oily, invasive.

“Is that what the therapy’s for?” I asked carefully. “To fix the… darkness?”

His head snapped up, eyes widening. “You can see it?”

“Sometimes,” I admitted. “When your portals flicker, there’s something wrong in them.”

He tried to open another portal to show me something—a memory of his mother, I thought—but this time the darkness at the edges was unmistakable. Wisp whined softly and Scout pressed against my hand in warning. Keane closed the portal quickly, rubbing his temples again.

“Uncle says it’s just part of the process,” he said, his voice tight. “The treatments work. They have to.”

There was something he wasn’t saying, something beneath the careful words. The shadows around him seemed almost sentient, pulling at him in ways that made my necromancy recoil. Whatever these “treatments” were, they didn’t seem to be helping.

But before I could push further, he changed the subject.

“What about you?” he asked, his voice deliberately lighter. “What was life like before all this?”