Page 30

Marigold

I arrived early to Basic Magical Theory, using the quiet time to practice modulating my magic.

After several evenings in the library with Keane—and after what happened in Combat Class—I was finally starting to get it.

But using necromancy for delicate magic still felt like trying to water a garden with a fire hose.

On the desk in front of me, Scout puffed up like a tiny skeletal coach, tail curling dramatically as if bracing for either triumph or disaster as I attempted the levitation charm.

The trick, according to Dr. Reyes, was learning to access basic magical currents without letting your primary power overwhelm them. Like turning down the volume on one instrument so you could hear the rest of the orchestra.

“Just like Keane said,” I muttered, making notes. “Keep it simple.”

Ancient runes carved into the walls pulsed with soft light as other students filed in.

I traced the diagrams I’d drawn in my notebook—careful notes about different types of basic magic and how they should feel when performed correctly.

The technical terms still tangled in my mind, but at least now I understood what I was trying to achieve.

“Now then,” Professor Cribley said, her silver-beaded braids catching the light as she gestured. “Who can explain the fundamental principle of magical adaptation? How do we adjust our innate powers to perform standard spells?”

Hands shot up around me. Even Raven, who’d been doodling skeleton designs in her notebook, straightened with enthusiasm. I slid lower in my seat, cheeks burning. This was exactly what I’d been struggling with.

“Miss Grimley?” Professor Cribley’s kind smile did nothing to ease the knot in my stomach. “Perhaps you’d like to try? I noticed you’ve been putting in extra hours with Dr. Reyes.”

Scout leaned against my neck, responding to my anxiety. A few students shifted away, but Raven just grinned and gave me a thumbs up.

“I…” I swallowed hard, glancing at my carefully organized notes. “Something about… adjusting power levels?” The definition I’d memorized slipped away under the pressure.

Snickers rippled through the room. Lucas shot me a sympathetic look while frantically trying to send me signals with his hands. He’d spent time helping me study, and I was already letting him down.

“Not quite.” Professor Cribley’s smile dimmed slightly. “The fundamental principle states that every witch must learn to—”

A knock interrupted her. The door opened to reveal Keane, looking somehow both awkward and devastatingly gorgeous.

My heart did a traitorous little flip.

We had been meeting for tutoring on and off, and even though I was getting better at sorting magical energies, I was nowhere near getting better at sorting him.

Some days, he seemed like a friend—a quiet, intense presence who made things easier to understand.

Other days, he was distant, unreadable, barely acknowledging me outside our library sessions.

It was exhausting. And frustrating. And incredibly distracting.

As Keane walked past, I became painfully aware of how close he was. The scent of ink and fall air clung to him, something crisp and clean that made my stomach tighten in a way I absolutely refused to think about.

When he opened a small portal to deliver a message to Professor Cribley, I couldn’t help noticing the wrongness at its edges. It bled into the surrounding energy, a dark vein threading through otherwise clean silver magic.

While the professor read her message, Keane lingered near my table, apparently fascinated by the room’s architecture. But I noticed how his eyes kept darting to my open textbook, where I’d highlighted key passages about magical adaptation.

Another tiny portal opened next to my hand, no bigger than a playing card. Through it, I glimpsed neat handwriting:

Think of cleaning supplies—you don’t use industrial strength cleaners on delicate surfaces. Magic needs similar careful handling.

I barely stopped myself from rolling my eyes. Even when he was helping, he was annoyingly cryptic.

The portal’s edges flickered with that same wrongness, but when our magic connected through it, everything felt clean and natural again. Scout relaxed slightly, seeming to confirm my observation.

“It’s like…” I raised my hand when Professor Cribley resumed her lecture. “How you need different levels of cleaning solution for different materials? Some tasks need full strength, but others require a gentler touch?”

“Exactly!” Professor Cribley beamed. “An unusual analogy, but perfectly accurate. Every witch must learn to modulate their primary power, adjusting it to suit different magical tasks. Even the strongest magic must sometimes be applied delicately.”

When I glanced back, Keane was gone—but another small portal delivered a note:

Your hard work is showing. Library later to review resonance theory for the Trials?

A warm thrill spread through me, followed quickly by frustration.

Why was Keane helping me? Why did he go from cold and distant to quietly supportive in ways no one else saw? Was he being kind or was this just another part of whatever game the heirs played?

“Someone’s got an admirer,” Raven whispered, wiggling her eyebrows. Boris the beetle clicked his legs in what seemed like agreement.

“He’s just being nice,” I muttered, but the warmth in my chest betrayed me.

“The Third Heir doesn’t do ‘just nice’ with anyone,” Lucas observed quietly. “Did you see how long he stayed? Usually he’s in and out before anyone notices him.”

I tried to focus on Professor Cribley’s lecture but my mind kept drifting—between the wrongness in Keane’s portals, and the way he had quietly, unobtrusively helped me again.

Scout had curled up next to the spot where the portal had appeared, his tiny skeletal form managing to look both smug and concerned.

And unfortunately, I knew exactly how he felt.

Sleep wasn’t coming. Even Scout had given up trying to soothe me, curled in a skeletal ball on my pillow while I stared at my open magical theory textbook.

The words blurred together, refusing to stick.

My mind kept circling the same two thoughts—Keane’s magic isn’t right, and I shouldn’t care this much.

Finally, I threw off my covers. Maybe some tea would help. The royal dorm’s kitchen was just downstairs—one of those inexplicable luxuries that came with being an heir. I’d barely used it, still not quite believing I was allowed.

Padding barefoot down the dark steps, my oversized sleep shirt brushing my knees, I instinctively extended my magic the way Keane had taught me—soft, careful; sensing instead of overwhelming.

The kitchen ahead glowed with years of accumulated magic—happiness, comfort, connection.

But Keane’s presence inside was different.

That now-familiar corruption threaded through his magic, dark veins running beneath the surface.

He stood at the counter, measuring cocoa powder into two mugs with his usual precise, controlled movements.

He wore dark pajama pants and a faded t-shirt, something that made him look softer than usual.

More approachable. Wisp flickered briefly visible beside him, her blue light casting shifting shadows before fading again.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” I asked softly.

He didn’t startle, though I hadn’t made any noise. “I heard your steps.” At my confused look, he added, “Portal users develop good spatial awareness. Hard to sleep some nights because of it.”

“Is that why you’re making hot chocolate at…” I squinted at the clock, “three in the morning?”

“Thought you might join me,” he said, not quite meeting my eyes. “I saw all those theory books you were hauling up to your room earlier. Figured you might need a break.” A faint blush colored his cheeks.

I should not find that attractive. And yet.

He handed me a mug, and as our fingers brushed, something happened. A pulse of magic passed between us, and suddenly the corruption in his portals didn’t feel so distant or theoretical anymore—it felt like something I wanted to chase out of him, to fix.

My magic surged toward his instinctively, pushing back the darkness for just a second.

Keane inhaled sharply, his hand lingering longer than necessary before he pulled away. The moment stretched between us, charged with something I didn’t understand and definitely wasn’t ready to name.

“We used to make hot chocolate too,” I said quickly, trying to ignore the heat still tingling along my skin. “But nothing this fancy.”

“My mother’s recipe.” His voice softened around the edges. “She said chocolate fixes most things, but magical chocolate fixes everything—especially study fatigue.”

“Tell that to my Magical Theory grade.”

The joke slipped out automatically—my usual deflection when things got too real. But instead of pulling away, Keane smiled.

“I failed my uncle’s pre-Wickem magical theory assessments.” He said it like it didn’t matter, but the tension in his shoulders told a different story. “My uncle was… displeased.”

‘Displeased’ sounded like an understatement. Wisp flickered back into view, curling against Keane’s leg in what seemed like a protective gesture.

He hesitated, then sighed. “Spent every night that summer in the library, studying with Wisp. Not because I cared about the grade. Because I couldn’t stand disappointing anyone else.”

I hesitated, unsure how to respond. His struggles were different from mine, but the pressure to prove ourselves—that was something I understood.

“I had to work through high school—we barely had enough money to make ends meet—so there wasn’t much time for studying. But—”

“But you kept trying.” Something in his voice made me look up. Keane’s blue eyes met mine, filled with understanding instead of pity.

I swallowed. This was the most honest conversation we’d ever had.

“Some days I still feel like I’m playing dress-up,” I admitted, gesturing at my theory notes peeking out of my bag. “Like someone’s going to realize I don’t belong here.”

“You belong here more than most of us.” He took a sip of his chocolate, considering. “I see how hard you’re working to understand everything properly. That matters more than being born into it.”

Something about the way he said it made my throat tighten. I wanted to believe him.

He winced suddenly, pressing two fingers to his temple. I noticed the shadows around him seemed to deepen, tendrils of that strange darkness pulsing outward.

“Are you okay?” I asked, reaching out but stopping short of touching him.

“Just a headache.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “The stabilization sessions with my uncle have been… more frequent lately.”

“Stabilization sessions?”

He nodded, looking away. “Portal magic can be unstable. Has been since my parents died. Uncle’s therapy helps keep it under control.” His fingers traced a pattern on the counter, something that looked almost like a warding symbol. “Without it, well… things get dangerous.”

The darkness at the edges of his magic shifted, almost reacting to his words. I studied it, focusing on the way it moved—not like a natural shadow, but something oily, invasive.

“Is that what the therapy’s for?” I asked carefully. “To fix the… darkness?”

His head snapped up, eyes widening. “You can see it?”

“Sometimes,” I admitted. “When your portals flicker, there’s something wrong in them.”

He tried to open another portal to show me something—a memory of his mother, I thought—but this time the darkness at the edges was unmistakable. Wisp whined softly and Scout pressed against my hand in warning. Keane closed the portal quickly, rubbing his temples again.

“Uncle says it’s just part of the process,” he said, his voice tight. “The treatments work. They have to.”

There was something he wasn’t saying, something beneath the careful words. The shadows around him seemed almost sentient, pulling at him in ways that made my necromancy recoil. Whatever these “treatments” were, they didn’t seem to be helping.

But before I could push further, he changed the subject.

“What about you?” he asked, his voice deliberately lighter. “What was life like before all this?”

Instead of pressing, I pulled out my phone, showing him my wallpaper—Mom and me wearing aprons, grinning after our first big contract. “Before everything changed,” I said softly.

Keane studied the picture for a long moment. Long enough that I felt it.

We stayed there until the sky started to lighten, sharing stories of the people we’d been before Wickem.

He told me about learning portal magic in his family’s library, and about Wisp appearing when his parents died—like he’d found a friend when he needed one most. I told him about Mom’s cleaning business, and about the weird things that used to happen around me that suddenly made sense when I’d come here.

Between stories, I kept noticing how he’d pause, squint slightly, like fighting against pain. Each time, the shadows in his magic would pulse stronger. If his uncle’s “therapy” was supposed to be fixing his portals, it was doing a crappy job.

And when I finally stood to leave, I hesitated, my fingers tightening around my empty mug. Something protective and fierce welled inside me—I didn’t just want to understand his magic anymore.

I wanted to save him.