Page 36

Marigold

I couldn’t sleep.

The wellspring’s power still hummed through my veins hours after the trials, but that wasn’t what kept me awake.

My mind tangled between what had happened on the field—the way my magic had burned in perfect sync with the others, the flicker of realization in Cyrus’s eyes—and what had happened before.

Keane’s kisses.

We had stolen time together before the trials—his lips had been warm against mine, hesitant at first, then deepening into something certain.

He had taken me into town, away from the others, where we could just be.

But as soon as we returned to Wickem, he had pulled away, keeping a careful distance whenever we weren’t alone.

And then, after the trials, his uncle had called him away.

Scout chittered softly from his perch on my bedside table, picking up on my restlessness. I exhaled and pushed back the covers. Maybe watching the mountains from the common room would help settle me. Maybe I’d stop feeling like something was unraveling just out of sight.

I wasn’t surprised to find Keane already there, standing at the window.

Wisp flickered at his feet, her form shifting between solid and spectral, never fully settling. The way Keane stood—shoulders tense, hands curled into loose fists—wasn’t right. His magic pulsed erratically around him, tiny rifts opening and closing like nervous tics.

“Can’t sleep?” I asked softly.

He turned, and the look in his eyes made my breath catch. Shadows lingered beneath them, his expression tight. Something had happened after the trials when he walked away with his uncle. I’d seen the way he flinched when his uncle touched him.

“Too much on my mind,” he murmured. His voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of something unspoken.

The space between us felt charged. Scout scampered to join Wisp by the window while I moved closer, drawn by that same pull I’d felt before the trials. The same pull I had felt every time I was near him.

“The way our magic worked together today…” he started, voice low.

I swallowed, watching the way his hands clenched like he was bracing for something. “Was that all it was?” The words slipped out before I could stop them. “Just magic?”

His jaw tightened. Another portal flickered to life at his side, the edges darker than they should be, unsteady. “Marigold…”

I wanted him to say it. I needed him to say it.

“About what happened before the trials…” His voice was rough, like he was forcing the words out. “It doesn’t change anything. I still want this—I still want you.”

My breath hitched. Scout clicked excitedly, and Wisp’s form brightened, flickering silver for a brief moment. The air between us felt fragile, on the verge of breaking apart or snapping into something inevitable.

Keane lifted a hand, brushing his fingers lightly against my cheek, the touch familiar now after our stolen moments together. But tonight, there was tension in it, something strained beneath the warmth. His magic trembled at the edges, flickering unstable.

My breath caught.

Wisp pressed closer to him, stabilizing, and for the first time since I had walked in, his magic stilled.

“Well, isn’t this cozy?”

The moment shattered.

We sprang apart as Cyrus’s voice cut through the room. He stood in the doorway, flames curling around his fingers, Ember’s wings casting golden light that made everything feel too exposed. The temperature spiked instantly.

Cyrus’s gaze moved between us, sharp and assessing. His smirk was in place, but it didn’t reach his eyes. His fingers flexed, and the flames around his hands burned just a little too hot.

Keane tensed beside me, but he didn’t step away. His posture was braced, guarded—not against me, but against Cyrus.

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:

They won’t listen. The readings are clear. Pushing beyond natural limits will only—

The sentence cut off abruptly. The date was just days before his execution.

I sat back, exhaling shakily. Something about Project Cornerstone got him killed.

I traced my fingers over the ink, thinking of the diary’s weight in my hands, the torn pages, the whispers of the dead. Had my father really died for this?

Scout pressed against my hand as I carefully closed the diary. I wasn’t ready to share this yet. Not even with Keane. Not yet.

But I might not have a choice for much longer.