Page 15

Chapter 14

T he lamp flickered over my father’s old workbench, casting uncertain light across the back room of the shop.

Maeve hadn’t been able to settle. After an hour of her tossing and turning, I’d finally given up and left her in Auntie Brindle’s care. The brownie had shooed me off with a knowing look, promising stories of ancient magic and gentle dreams.

Still, I couldn’t shake the words Maeve had whispered when I kissed her goodnight: “The shadows wanted to tell me something.”

Now, I stood over the open trunk at the back of the shop, my father’s journals and notes spread across the worn wood.

He’d been meticulous in his work—recording every magical property tied to ink, paper, and pigment. Binding techniques. Arcane sigils. Formulas that worked. Ones that didn’t. I’d turned to his research because it made sense. This had always been his way of making the unknowable a little more solid. A little more safe.

But none of it was helping.

The cracked pendant sat beside the papers, its etched symbol shifting subtly in the lamplight, never quite staying still. The white stone the woman in blue had given me lay just inches away, humming with a quieter kind of pressure.

The air between them felt thick. Charged.

Like the moment just before a storm breaks.

The sound of heavy crates being settled in the storeroom had been my constant companion—Kazrek, still methodically unloading our market supplies despite the late hour. He'd insisted on staying, moving with quiet purpose as he organized our scattered life back into order. Now, his footsteps approached the back room, and I heard him pause in the doorway.

I didn't look up, but I felt the weight of his gaze—the way he observed without rushing, taking in the scattered papers, the hunched curve of my shoulders, the restless movements of my ink-stained fingers.

"You should be in bed," he said finally, his deep voice gentle in the lamp-lit quiet.

I traced the edge of one of my father's diagrams, following the familiar loops of his handwriting. "What's the point?" When I looked up, Kazrek's eyes caught the lamplight, concerned but patient. "I doubt I'll be able to sleep tonight."

He considered this for a moment, then moved into the room. Instead of taking the chair across from me, he lowered himself to the floor beside my stool, his broad shoulder nearly brushing my knee.

"Tell me what happened," he said quietly. Not a demand, just an opening.

I picked up the dark stone, turning it over in my palm. "She touched it, and..." I swallowed, remembering the pulse of wrongness that had rippled through the air. "Something answered."

Kazrek held out his hand, and I hesitated only briefly before placing the pendant in his palm. His fingers curled around it carefully, and I watched as his expression shifted—subtle changes that most wouldn't notice, but I'd learned to read the slight tightening around his eyes, the way his jaw set.

"The crack," he murmured, tracing the etched symbol with his thumb. "It formed when Maeve touched it?"

I nodded. "She said it spoke to her. That the shadows knew her."

"The shadows?" Kazrek's voice was careful, measured. "Like what happened with Drev?"

I winced at the comparison. The memory of that day in the shop—of darkness coiling around my sweet, bright-eyed niece—was still too raw. "She's not..." I started, then stopped, struggling to find the right words. "Maeve isn't violent. She's just a child who loves stories and chases butterflies and..."

"Ro." Kazrek's hand found my knee, steady and warm. "I know who she is."

I exhaled shakily, letting my fingers brush over his. "But yes," I admitted. "It felt... similar.”

Kazrek studied the crack in the stone, his brow furrowed in concentration. The symbol caught the lamplight oddly, seeming to twist beneath his gaze. "There's something familiar about this marking," he muttered. "I've seen it before, during the war maybe, but..." He shook his head, frustration creeping into his features. "But I can't place it."

"Nothing in Father's journals matches it exactly.” I gestured helplessly at the scattered papers before me." There are similar patterns in some of the binding runes, but this is different. Older, maybe. Or..."

Kazrek set the stone and took both my hands in his, his callused fingers enveloping mine completely. The warmth of his touch seemed to ground me, pulling me back from the spiral of my thoughts.

"The important thing," he said, his voice low and steady, "is that you're both safe right now."

I let out a bitter laugh. "For how long?" The words came out sharper than I meant them to, edged with the fear I'd been trying to hold back. "Whatever darkness is inside that stone recognized something in Maeve. Something that wants to take her from me."

Kazrek shifted, pushing up onto his knees. Even like this, he was still taller than me on the stool, his broad frame blocking out the lamplight. He released my hands only to cup my face between his palms, the gesture so careful and deliberate that it made my breath catch.

"Listen to me," he said. "No one is taking her."

"You don't know that," I whispered, but my hands found his wrists, holding on. "Everyone leaves eventually. Or they're taken. Or—"

Kazrek cut off my words the only way that would silence me.

He kissed me.

His lips were firm against mine, not demanding but undeniable. For a heartbeat, I froze—caught between the instinct to pull away and the hunger to lean in.

I'd spent years building walls. Years of setting aside what I wanted, of being strong when no one else was. I'd made caution into a virtue, self-denial into a shield. But Kazrek's hands cradled my face like I was something precious, and his mouth moved against mine with a quiet certainty that made my carefully constructed barriers tremble.

My fingers tightened around his wrists, not to push him away but to steady myself. The shop floor suddenly felt unsteady beneath me, as if the kiss had tipped the world slightly off its axis.

When he pulled back, his eyes searched my face for... what? Permission? Rejection?

"I don't want you to be afraid," he said, his voice low and rough. His thumbs traced small circles against my cheekbones. "Not of this. Not of us."

Us. The word lodged in my chest, foreign and frightening and full of possibility.

"I'm not—" I started, then stopped, because the lie was too transparent even for me. "I don't know how to do this," I admitted, the words coming out as barely more than a whisper.

His eyes never left mine. "Do what?"

"Let go." My throat tightened. "Trust someone else to carry the weight. I've been holding everything together for so long that I don't..." I struggled to find the words. "I don't know who I am without it."

Kazrek nodded slowly, understanding darkening his gaze. Then, with deliberate care, he hooked his hand behind my knee and pulled my stool forward, positioning himself between my legs. The movement was confident but unhurried, giving me every opportunity to stop him.

I didn't.

"Maybe," he said, as his other hand slid to the nape of my neck, fingers tangling in the loose strands of my hair, "you don't have to figure that out tonight."