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Cyrus tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. His attention flicked between Keane’s magic, still unsteady despite Wisp’s presence, and the careful way he stood, as if he were hiding something. As if he were weaker than he should be.

“Having trouble sleeping?” His tone was casual, but there was something beneath it. Something sharp.

“Just restless after the trials,” I said quickly. Too quickly.

Cyrus’s gaze snapped to mine, something flickering in his expression—something that looked too close to recognition. His magic flared for half a second, his flames flickering blue. His smirk deepened, but there was tension in it, like he had just realized something he didn’t want to admit.

“Right.” His flames curled tighter around his hands, restless. Unsettled. “Because that’s all this is. Just trial aftermath.”

But the way he said it sent something cold down my spine. Like he wasn’t talking about tonight at all.

The temperature in the room spiked. Cyrus lingered for another breath, his gaze flicking back to Keane before finally turning and stalking away.

Keane’s expression had gone carefully blank, but I knew him well enough now to see through it. Wisp pressed against him protectively, despite her increasingly unstable form

I hesitated, then reached out, catching his wrist before he could move away. “Keane, if it’s not that you’re pulling away from me… then what is it?”

He didn’t answer.

Just looked at me for a long moment, something fractured and unreadable in his expression, before slipping away into the shadows.

I let him go, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very, very wrong. The corruption around him wasn’t just present—it was fighting.

Scout chittered in concern, pressing close against my shoulder.

After Keane left,I went back to my rooms, but sleep was impossible.

I sat on the balcony, staring at the stars. I had always loved these quiet hours, when the world was still and the dead things whispered softer, when the weight of the world didn’t feel quite so crushing. But tonight, I couldn’t settle. The night air felt too sharp, too electric.

Keane had told me the trials didn’t change anything—that he still wanted this, wanted me. But something was wrong. Something his uncle had done. He wouldn’t talk about it, and that terrified me. I had never seen him that shaken. Not even when his magic failed during the trials.

I got up. I had to do something. Maybe I wouldn’t get answers from Keane. But my father’s diary had to hold something useful—some clue I’d missed.

Heading into my office, I opened the diary and spread the pages of my notes from Keane’s magic theory lessons. Scout perched beside me, occasionally tapping certain symbols with his tiny skeletal paw. The dead things always whispered when I touched this book, but tonight, they felt more urgent—more expectant.

“Look at this pattern,” I murmured to Scout, tracing a sequence that appeared multiple times. “It’s like… magic flow diagrams, but they don’t match standard wellspring theory.”

The margins were filled with what looked like random notations, but they formed distinct patterns when I really studied them. Some mirrored the natural flow of wellspring energy I’d felt during trials. Others… didn’t.

One section caught my eye—the word Cornerstone appeared repeatedly, always marked with a specific symbol. My father’s handwriting was neat but hurried around these entries:

Project Cornerstone reports inconclusive. C insists control is necessary, but I remain unconvinced. Energy flow unstable.

I frowned. Control? Control over what?

Scout chittered excitedly at another passage:

Experiment records incomplete. Need more wellspring readings before conclusions drawn. Resistances increasing. If energy is self-correcting…

Self-correcting? My brow furrowed. I knew wellspring energy was powerful, but my father’s words implied something more than just a power source.

The next several pages contained complex magical theory equations, but I could barely make sense of them. Some phrases stood out, though:

- ley line anomalies - energy strain from unnatural constraints - further manipulation risks instability

My stomach twisted. Had my father been studying something dangerous? Or had he been trying to stop it?

The final entries were different—more urgent, almost frantic: