Page 65

Keane

The moment thetrial ended, I knew something was wrong.

Not just because of the whispers in the stands, or the lingering hum of magic in my veins, but because of the way my uncle watched me.

Lord Alstone never displayed overt displeasure. He never needed to. The weight of his gaze was enough. It dissected and decided before I could even open my mouth. I had known that gaze since I was ten years old—since the moment my parents died, and he took me into his control.

Wisp curled around my wrist, her shifting form flickering between solidity and smoke. She was reacting to me—to my magic.

The magic had steadied during the trial, stronger, cleaner than it had been in years. Because of Marigold. Because when our magic worked together, mine felt whole.

And that was a problem.

I forced my expression blank as I approached the Council’s observation box. My uncle had already risen from his seat, hands folded behind his back, every inch the picture of authority. To the outside world, he was the composed and respected Lord Alstone. To me, he was the architect of every carefully measured punishment meant to mold me into something useful. Something compliant.

And today, I had failed him.

No. Not failed. Just… faltered.

A flicker of instability in my portals. A breath too long. A hesitation that shouldn’t have existed. But slight didn’t matter when you bore the Alstone name. When your family’s magic was supposed to be unshakeable.

By the time I reached him, my hands were steady, my face carefully neutral. “Uncle.”

He studied me for a long moment, expression unreadable. Then, finally, he spoke. “You are slipping.”

My jaw tightened. “It was a momentary miscalculation.”

His gaze sharpened. “Your magic was unstable. Again.”

The last word was like a knife slipping between my ribs. He hadn’t been at the Welcome Ceremony. He hadn’t seen that combat class. But somehow, he already knew.

“I will correct it,” I said quickly, but his silence stretched between us, pressing heavier with every second.

“You said that last time.”

The breath I took was slow, controlled. “It won’t happen again.”

His expression didn’t change, but I knew what was coming next. The stability sessions.

They had been growing more frequent since the start of term. I had never questioned them—not since my parents’ deaths left my magic erratic and dangerous. But lately, the sessions felt different. Harder.

The aftermath was always worse than the session itself. The nausea, the headaches, the sense of something pressing against the edges of my mind. And every time, it took longer to recover. To remember how portals were supposed to feel.

I had always assumed that meant I was the problem. That I needed more control, more correction. But now…

Now I wasn’t so sure.

Twice now, Marigold’s magic had made mine steadier than any therapy session ever had. As if my power wasn’t broken, just suppressed. As if the very thing my uncle insisted was dangerous—the thing the Council feared—was the only thing that actually made me whole.

Lord Alstone placed a hand on my shoulder, a gesture that might have looked fatherly to anyone watching. To me, it felt like a collar tightening.

“Come,” he said. “We’ll discuss your progress.”

Progress. That was what he called it.

I nodded once, silent, and followed him toward the tunnels beneath the Council chambers—the part of Wickem no one visited unless they had to.

Wisp let out a soft, uneasy whimper in my mind.