Page 44

Marigold

The library was eerily silent, the warm scent of old parchment and books doing nothing to ease the tension crawling up my spine. The shadows flickered strangely along the towering bookshelves, bending unnaturally around the portal pulsing at the far end of the room. And in front of it—Keane.

He stood rigid, his posture unnaturally stiff, like a marionette held by invisible strings.

The flickering candlelight barely touched him, swallowed by the darkness curling around his feet.

But what made my stomach twist wasn’t the portal or the corrupted magic—it was the book clutched in his hands.

My father’s diary.

“Keane?” My voice cracked, my breath shallow. This is a nightmare. This isn’t real.

But it was.

The portal behind him shimmered, the darkness at its edges wrong, pulsing like something alive. Shadowy tendrils licked outward, hungrily curling around his ankles. His eyes, those deep stormy blue I knew so well, were voids of blackness now.

“You don’t have to do this.” My breath was unsteady as I edged closer, each step a plea. “This isn’t you. I know you, Keane. We meant something to each other. Were all your words—just empty promises?”

Something flickered in his expression, so brief I almost missed it. The slightest tension in his jaw. The faintest twitch of his fingers on the diary’s worn cover. For one heartbeat, he was mine again.

Then it was gone.

“Step back, Marigold.” His voice was hollow, distant. Not his.

“Not without you.” The words ripped from me, desperate, aching. I surged forward, reaching for him, grabbing his wrist before he could step into the portal. “You’re stronger than this! Fight him! Fight whatever he’s done to you!”

“Keane, please,” I begged, gripping his sleeve, my fingers digging into the fabric.

His magic surged against mine, a flicker of silver breaking through the darkness for a single heartbeat—pure, untainted—before the corruption swallowed it whole.

His breath hitched, his fingers tightening on the diary like he was fighting something unseen.

I lunged for it, desperate to stop him, and in the struggle, the delicate pages tore. Loose fragments fluttered to the floor, scattered between us like the last remnants of something broken beyond repair.

Keane froze.

For just a second, his magic faltered. Silver fought against the blackness bleeding from his portals, like a single star trying to hold back the void. His chest rose sharply, a shuddering breath forcing its way through clenched teeth.

“Keane, please,” I begged, gripping his sleeve, my fingers digging into the fabric. “I know you’re still in there. Come back to me.”

His head tilted down—just enough that our foreheads nearly touched. His fingers twitched, hesitating, like he wanted to hold on to me.

“Keane…” I whispered, my heart breaking with every breath. Please.

His jaw clenched. The moment slipped away.

But just before it did—just before the darkness swallowed him whole—his lips parted, barely moving. “Find the Last Witness.”

The words were so faint, I almost thought I imagined them. But then his magic surged—dark and unrelenting.

“Keane,” I tried again. “This isn’t you.”

“You don’t know anything about me.” His voice cut like a blade. Flat. Devoid of the warmth that made me love him.

The words were worse than a strike. I sucked in a sharp breath, reeling from the finality of them.

Cold terror flooded my veins. He was slipping through my fingers.

With a cry, I yanked on his arm, trying to pull him away from the portal. He barely staggered, but for a moment, he didn’t push me away.

Then his magic surged—dark and unrelenting. The force threw me back. The impact sent me crashing against a bookshelf, pain jolting up my spine. My vision blurred, the edges tinged with shadow.

By the time I blinked away the haze, Keane had already stepped into the portal, the diary clenched in his fist, but the torn pages left behind.

“No!” I lurched forward, but it was too late. The portal closed with a low, echoing boom, sealing him away from me.

Silence fell.

I pressed my hands against the cold stone, my whole body trembling. Keane was gone. The boy who had kissed me like I was the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. The boy who had made love to me like we had forever.

Had it all been a lie?

I reached for the scattered pages, my hands shaking as I gathered them. Fragments of what was left of my father, fragments of what was left of Keane.

My hands curled into fists. No. He hesitated. He had fought, even if just for a moment. That had to mean something.

But he had still left me. He had still betrayed me. And I wasn’t sure I would ever forgive him for it.

I clutched the torn pages to my chest, my breath coming too fast. My first instinct was to run—to put as much distance as possible between myself and the gaping wound Keane had left in my heart.

But my feet moved before I could decide where to go.

Not back to my room. Not to Elio or Cyrus.

The cold air burned my lungs as I veered toward the east wing, my body pulling me toward the old service tunnels beneath Wickem.

I didn’t understand why. Only that I had to go. That something was waiting for me in the dark.

The whispers of the dead grew fainter as I descended the steps, leaving only a heavy, humming stillness. I followed that feeling deeper into the tunnels, my hands trailing along the damp stone walls. The cold grounded me, numbing some of the pain I couldn’t shake.

Keane’s face hovered in my mind—his expression when we kissed under the stars, the warmth in his touch. He wasn’t like the others. He was supposed to be different. But now…

Now I wasn’t sure who I could trust.

The humming grew louder, vibrating in the stone beneath my feet. I turned a corner and stepped into a vast underground chamber.

I froze.

At the center of the room was a pool of shimmering light. Magic. It wasn’t just visible—it was alive, pulsing with quiet, rhythmic power. The wellspring. The heart of Wickem’s magic.

I approached slowly, the light casting long shadows that danced across the rough walls. The dead things remained silent, watching from the edges of my awareness. For once, they weren’t trying to warn me. It was like they understood I was meant to be here.

I sank to my knees at the edge of the pool and stared into its depths.

Shapes moved beneath the surface—vague impressions of people and places, memories half-formed. I thought I saw a man’s face for a moment. My father? No… it disappeared too quickly to be sure. My reflection stared back at me, distorted by the rippling light.

“Why would you take it from me?” I whispered into the empty chamber. My voice cracked. I wasn’t talking to the wellspring. I was talking to Keane.

My fingers grazed the surface of the pool. The instant I made contact, a surge of magic jolted through me.

It wasn’t hostile—just overwhelming. Memories that weren’t mine filled my mind—other witches who had stood here, generations who had drawn from the wellspring’s power. I felt their fears, their triumphs, their grief. And something darker.

A shadow.

At the edges of the pool, tendrils of corruption twisted through the light like black smoke. The clean energy pulsed harder, pushing against the darkness, but it couldn’t drive it away. The tendrils clung, growing slowly, like rot spreading through a wound.

I gasped and pulled my hand back, my heart racing. This was it. This was the wrongness I’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.