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Something in them bled. Darkness seeped into what should have been silver light, like ink spreading through water. Like corruption.

“Keane!” Marigold’s voice held more than just warning. She reached for him instinctively, her magic brushing his, and for a second, his power stabilized.

But only for a second.

I snapped my focus back to my flames, willing them to burn hotter, brighter—

And they refused.

They weren’t mine anymore. Not entirely.

I could feel Marigold’s necromancy woven into them, could feel the pull of something larger than us, something ancient.

Too late.

The lightning construct struck Keane hard, his magic shattering for half a breath. His hands trembled as he forced another portal open, but the corruption in it was unmistakable now. Dark veins spread through what should have been clean silver light.

Wrong. That was wrong. Keane never lost control.

Elio’s illusions snapped into place, masking the error, while Marigold’s necromancy surged to fill the gap in our defenses.

But I wasn’t the only one who had seen it.

My father’s fingers curled slightly against the armrest. Not anger. Recognition. He had seen this before. He just hadn’t wanted to admit it.

The Lightfords exchanged a glance. Lady Lightford whispered something to her husband, and his jaw tightened, his usual smirk gone.

And Alstone?

Alstone was already looking at Keane.

Not with satisfaction. Not with concern. But with barely restrained fury.

Because whatever had just happened, it meant something was wrong with his methods. And that was unacceptable.

We finished the trial as expected, our combined power overwhelming the constructs. But that moment of perfect harmony was gone, replaced by something darker. More dangerous.

“What the hell was that?” I demanded as we left the field. My flames still burned blue where they brushed against Marigold’s lingering power.

Keane straightened, but his careful mask couldn’t hide how Shadow pressed anxiously against his legs. “Nothing.”

Liar.

I knew how Keane moved, how he fought. And that hesitation, that corruption threading through his magic—that wasn’t him.

My father’s presence weighed heavy from the stands, demanding control, demanding perfection. But for the first time, I wasn’t sure control was the answer.

Not when all our magic had worked together so naturally, before the darkness crept in.

Not when my flames still burned that pure blue, remembering how right it felt when we stopped fighting each other.

Not when Keane—the most disciplined of us all—was being consumed by something that felt fundamentally wrong.

As we walked off the field, the whispers started about how right we’d looked together, before the darkness took hold.

Ember let out a low trill, fire flickering blue at the edges. Still wrong. Still shifting. I clenched my jaw. Everything was moving—fast, sideways—and we didn’t get a say in any of it.

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