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“Keane,” I tried again. “This isn’t you.”

“You don’t know anything about me.” His voice cut like a blade. Flat. Devoid of the warmth that made me love him.

The words were worse than a strike. I sucked in a sharp breath, reeling from the finality of them.

Cold terror flooded my veins. He was slipping through my fingers.

With a cry, I yanked on his arm, trying to pull him away from the portal. He barely staggered, but for a moment, he didn’t push me away.

Then his magic surged—dark and unrelenting. The force threw me back. The impact sent me crashing against a bookshelf, pain jolting up my spine. My vision blurred, the edges tinged with shadow.

By the time I blinked away the haze, Keane had already stepped into the portal, the diary clenched in his fist, but the torn pages left behind.

“No!” I lurched forward, but it was too late. The portal closed with a low, echoing boom, sealing him away from me.

Silence fell.

I pressed my hands against the cold stone, my whole body trembling. Keane was gone. The boy who had kissed me like I was the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. The boy who had made love to me like we had forever.

Had it all been a lie?

I reached for the scattered pages, my hands shaking as I gathered them. Fragments of what was left of my father, fragments of what was left of Keane.

My hands curled into fists. No. He hesitated. He had fought, even if just for a moment. That had to mean something.

But he had still left me. He had still betrayed me. And I wasn’t sure I would ever forgive him for it.

I clutched thetorn pages to my chest, my breath coming too fast. My first instinct was to run—to put as much distance as possible between myself and the gaping wound Keane had left in my heart. But my feet moved before I could decide where to go. Not back to my room. Not to Elio or Cyrus. The cold air burned my lungs as I veered toward the east wing, my body pulling me toward the old service tunnels beneath Wickem.

I didn’t understand why. Only that I had to go. That something was waiting for me in the dark.

The whispers of the dead grew fainter as I descended the steps, leaving only a heavy, humming stillness. I followed that feeling deeper into the tunnels, my hands trailing along the damp stone walls. The cold grounded me, numbing some of the pain I couldn’t shake.

Keane’s face hovered in my mind—his expression when we kissed under the stars, the warmth in his touch. He wasn’t like the others. He was supposed to be different. But now…

Now I wasn’t sure who I could trust.

The humming grew louder, vibrating in the stone beneath my feet. I turned a corner and stepped into a vast underground chamber.

I froze.

At the center of the room was a pool of shimmering light. Magic. It wasn’t just visible—it was alive, pulsing with quiet, rhythmic power. The wellspring. The heart of Wickem’s magic.

I approached slowly, the light casting long shadows that danced across the rough walls. The dead things remained silent, watching from the edges of my awareness. For once, they weren’t trying to warn me. It was like they understood I was meant to be here.

I sank to my knees at the edge of the pool and stared into its depths.

Shapes moved beneath the surface—vague impressions of people and places, memories half-formed. I thought I saw a man’s face for a moment. My father? No… it disappeared too quickly to be sure. My reflection stared back at me, distorted by the rippling light.

“Why would you take it from me?” I whispered into the empty chamber. My voice cracked. I wasn’t talking to the wellspring. I was talking to Keane.

My fingers grazed the surface of the pool. The instant I made contact, a surge of magic jolted through me.

It wasn’t hostile—just overwhelming. Memories that weren’t mine filled my mind—other witches who had stood here, generations who had drawn from the wellspring’s power. I felt their fears, their triumphs, their grief. And something darker.

A shadow.

At the edges of the pool, tendrils of corruption twisted through the light like black smoke. The clean energy pulsed harder, pushing against the darkness, but it couldn’t drive it away. The tendrils clung, growing slowly, like rot spreading through a wound.