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I gasped and pulled my hand back, my heart racing. This was it. This was thewrongnessI’d been sensing since the day I crossed the wards into Wickem. It wasn’t just in the trials or in Keane’s faltering magic—it was here, at the heart of the school.

And no one else seemed to see it.

My hand trembled as I clutched the chain around my neck, feeling the weight of the silver ring I wore. My mother’s ring. My father’s ring. The only thing left that tied me to them.

“Why show me this now?” I asked softly.

The wellspring didn’t answer with words, but its presence pulsed gently, steady and grounding. It didn’t feel like it was asking anything of me. It wasn’t demanding that I be stronger or that I figure everything out on my own. It simply acknowledged me.

For the first time since Keane betrayed me, I felt… seen.

The tears came then. Silent and hot, they slipped down my face as I stared into the light. I didn’t try to stop them. The wellspring didn’t judge. It just pulsed quietly, its magic brushing against my senses like a soft reassurance.

I didn’t know what I was supposed to do yet, but I knew this much: the corruption was real. And it was spreading.

If no one else was going to fight it, then I would.

I stood slowly, wiping my face with the sleeve of my jacket. The dead things stirred softly in the walls, waiting. The darkness at the edge of the pool seemed to ripple, as if watching me leave.

When I finally stepped out of the tunnels and back into the cold night air, my breath came out in slow, visible puffs. The ache in my chest hadn’t disappeared, but it felt… manageable now.

Keane had hurt me. That wouldn’t change.

But I wasn’t going to break because of it.

The wellspring had shown me what was at stake. I had a part to play in this. I wasn’t going to let anyone—Keane, the Council, or whoever else had tainted this magic—stop me from finding the truth.

I walked toward the dorms, shoulders straighter than before. Whatever came next, I wasn’t facing it alone. The wellspring had seen me. And I had seen it.

42

Marigold

The next day,I was called to the auditorium. The whole space felt wrong. Where the welcome ceremony had filled it with clean, natural magic, now something oily and corrupted seeped up through the floor. The Council members sat in their formal chairs arranged before the stage—three powerful figures whose very presence made the magic currents twist and writhe.

Cyrus and Elio stood to either side of the doors like ornate statues—perfect heirs performing their roles. But I caught the tiniest flicker of Cyrus’s fire magic responding to my presence and the way Echo’s scales shifted uneasily on Elio’s shoulder. Even forced apart, our magic still reached for each other, still remembered how perfectly it had flowed during trials.

Lord Raynoff dominated the center, power radiating from him in controlled waves. To his right, Lady Lightford sat with perfect poise, a mirror of Elio’s elegance. To his left, Lord Alstone watched with a measured expression, but something lurked beneath it—an edge that hadn’t been there before. The fourth chair—my father’s seat—stood empty, a silent reminder of the chaos they had worked so hard to contain.

“Miss Grimley.” Lord Raynoff’s voice carried easily in the acoustics designed for ceremonies. “Your recent behavior has become… concerning.”

“Particularly your unstructured approach to magical education,” Lady Lightford added. “Such unpredictable methods can be quite dangerous.”

The grand doors opened. Keane entered, moving with a grace that was wrong. Not stiff. Not unnatural. Just… deliberate. Too deliberate. His blue eyes slid past me too smoothly, looking through me rather than at me.

But then, for a fraction of a second, the barest hesitation, like he had to force himself to keep walking.

“Your father had similar theories about letting magic flow… naturally.” Lord Alstone’s voice held a carefully measured concern. He nodded to Keane. “Show her what unstable magic leads to.”

Keane’s hands moved in patterns that felt twisted, wrong. A corrupted portal opened, and through its darkness, I saw my father’s diary floating in that wrong space between spaces. The leather-bound book I had studied so carefully, trying to decode his secrets.

“When Keane told us about this,” Lord Raynoff said, his tone regretful but firm, “we recognized the same dangerous theories that led your father to nearly destabilize years of careful work.”

Lady Lightford lifted the diary with elegant fingers. “Such a shame. But we cannot risk these disruptions spreading. The next generation must understand the importance of proper magical structure.”

“Is this what Project Cornerstone is about?” I demanded, my voice raw. “Forcing magic into unnatural patterns?”

The Council exchanged glances. Lord Raynoff leaned forward, expression almost paternal. “You misunderstand, Miss Grimley. Project Cornerstone represents progress—proper regulation and control of magical power. Something your father unfortunately failed to grasp.”