Page 43

Cyrus

The training room was too cold. My flames flickered uneasily across my skin, reacting to something I couldn’t name.

Across the sparring mats, Keane struggled with another portal that shouldn’t be giving him trouble.

Darkness bled from its edges in a way that made Ember ruffle his feathers and hiss softly.

“Focus,” I snapped, more harshly than intended. But watching one of our own weaken like this set my teeth on edge. “You’re leaving gaps in the defensive line.”

“Sorry.” Keane’s voice lacked its usual quiet confidence. His eyes were shadowed, his posture tight—and something about his magic prickled at the edge of my senses. It didn’t feel right. Not the clean, surgical precision I was used to from him.

It felt... burnt. Wrong.

A flicker of movement caught my attention. Marigold had arrived early for combat class, Scout perched on her shoulder. Something in my chest tightened at how naturally her necromancy reached for my fire, like during trials when our magic had flowed together perfectly.

“Your uncle’s therapy sessions are getting more frequent,” I said quietly as Keane closed another unstable portal. “And your control is getting worse, not better.”

“I don’t need your concern.” But his fingers pressed against his temples in obvious pain. His portal fox hadn’t manifested in days—never a good sign for a witch’s familiar bond.

“It’s not concern.” I kept my voice hard. Emotions were dangerous territory. “It’s practical. Your portals are becoming a liability.”

Movement by the door drew my attention again.

Marigold had started her warm-up exercises, her old sweater discarded to reveal simple training gear, a tank top that exposed way too much of her cleavage and hip-hugging leggings.

Her honey-blonde hair was pulled back in a messy braid, exposing the elegant curve of her neck.

My flames flickered higher without my permission.

“She notices too,” I added, watching Keane’s expression. “The wrongness in your magic.”

His face went carefully blank. “She doesn’t understand our world.”

“No?” My laugh held no humor. “She’s the only one who saw through Elio’s illusions. The only one who felt how our magic could work together during trials.” The only one who made my flames dance like they had a mind of their own.

Another portal stuttered open—not silver, not clean. Just wrong, bleeding magic that twisted in the air like smoke off spoiled meat.

Ember launched, letting out a sharp cry as the corruption spread. Even he felt it—a creature born of flame, recoiling from cold.

“Enough.” I grabbed Keane’s arm, ignoring how cold his skin felt. “Whatever game you’re playing—”

“Mr. Raynoff.” Professor Rivera’s voice cracked through the air. “A word about the training schedule?”

I released Keane, but not before saying quietly: “If you hurt her with whatever this is, I will burn you to ash.”

The threat surprised me as much as him. Since when did I care what happened to the Shadow Heir?

“Worried about her?” Keane’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “How unlike you, Cyrus.”

He disappeared through another shadow-bleeding portal before I could respond. My flames surged with frustration, and I had to take several breaths to control them.

When I turned back to the training floor, I found Marigold watching me. Scout chittered something that made her bite her lower lip in concern. The simple genuineness of her worry made my chest ache.

“Mr. Raynoff?” Rivera called again.

“Coming.” I tore my gaze from Marigold.

Ember settled on my shoulder with a restless flutter, feathers ruffling like he could still feel the rot bleeding off Keane’s portal. My fingers curled into fists.

Something was wrong with the magic here. Deeply wrong. And Keane wasn’t saying a damn word about it.

I followed Rivera back toward the dueling floor, the heat of Ember’s wings warm against my throat.

And for once, it wasn’t enough to keep the cold off my spine.