Page 208

Like she’s touching me from a thousand miles away.
And I hate it.
I hate how good it feels.
Orin watches me over the rim of his mug. “You’re scared.”
“I’m strategic.”
“No,” he says, setting the mug down with a gentle thud. “You’re falling.”
I stare at him.
But I don’t deny it.
Because that ache in my chest? The one burning deeper with every breath I take?
That’s her.
And I don’t know how long I can resist it.
“We have more important things to discuss,” I say, already turning from the kitchen.
I don’t wait for Orin’s reply. I know he’ll follow. He always does when the weight of things begins to shift.
We move through the ruined hall, past the bones of what was once Daemon Academy, our prison, our sanctuary, our battlefield. Outside, the morning air cuts colder than it should. There’s a sharpness to it now. Like even the wind remembers what’s been done here.
I stop at the edge of the courtyard where the pillar stands. Still upright. Still humming. Still carved with crests that should have lost meaning a long time ago.
But hers, Branwen’s, was never carved.
Because she didn’t need it.
The stone that bound us here, the rune-forged tether that marked our servitude to Daemon’s laws… it was hers to begin with. She made it. Crafted it with ancient magic, layered it with intentions we were never permitted to question. We thought the pillar was neutral. A fixture. A cage, yes, but a dormant one.
We were wrong.
I step closer, jaw locked as the hum under the surface buzzes against my skin. It’s faint, but the signature is unmistakable. Someone used it. Recently.
Orin approaches behind me, his steps slow, reverent in a way I refuse to be. He reaches out and presses his palm against the stone. His crest glows faintly beneath the surface, gold threaded with old, quiet power. His hand trembles.
“She used it,” he says, voice low.
“I know,” I snap. “I felt it. The pull, the distortion. Like something snapped inside the stone and rewired itself.”
“Not snapped,” Orin murmurs, still touching it. “Reactivated.”
The word lands in my stomach like a dropped blade.
Because if the pillar was dormant… if it needed her to awaken… then we’ve been standing on more than just the remnants of a curse. We’ve been standing on her design.
“She’s not just alive,” I say. “She’s moving.”
Orin nods. “And using this to do it.”
I pace a step away, dragging a hand through my hair, resisting the urge to punch the stone until it fractures.
“This was supposed to be dead magic,” I mutter. “Ruined with the Academy. This was ours.”