Page 8

Chapter 7

T he Guildhall of Arcane Practitioners was nestled within the Healer’s Circle, which made sense in theory. Magic and healing often overlapped, and this building—tucked at the farthest edge of the district, past the apothecaries and herb stalls—was meant to be a place of guidance. A resource for those with magic.

Except I already had a bad feeling about it.

The building was plain and practical, with none of the warmth that made the surrounding cottages feel lived-in. Its walls were stone, its windows narrow, and its only marker was a faded sigil of a scale resting on an open book.

Maeve squeezed my hand. “Is this a school?”

“Something like that.”

She tilted her head, considering the door. “Are we going inside?”

Before I could answer, the door swung open.

A young man in a dark green robe stood there, looking vaguely irritated. He wasn’t old, maybe a few years younger than me, but there was already something worn-out about him. His fingers were ink-stained, his posture stiff, and when his gaze flicked over me, then Maeve, there was no warmth in it.

"Can I help you?" His voice was clipped and efficient.

I tightened my grip on Maeve's hand and lifted my chin. "I need to speak to someone about my niece."

His eyes lingered on Maeve for a moment longer, as if already making his own conclusions, and then he stepped aside. “Come in.”

The guildhall smelled of parchment and burnt herbs. Shelves lined the walls, filled with dusty tomes and neatly labeled vials, but nothing about the space felt particularly welcoming. It was all too orderly, too stiff—like a place more concerned with rules than people.

Our footsteps echoed as we followed the man deeper inside. He stopped at a door, rapped his knuckles against it once, then slipped inside without a word.

A quiet murmur of voices. The rustle of parchment. Then—

“You may enter.”

I stepped forward, keeping Maeve close at my side.

The office was as stark as the rest of the building. A desk, a single window, bookshelves arranged with too much precision. The man behind the desk looked up as we entered, his quill pausing mid-stroke.

Thin. Neatly kept. Spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose. He wore the same dark green robes as the first man, but his were lined with silver. A mark of rank, probably.

His gaze flicked over me first, then Maeve, before he finally set his quill down. “You’re not a registered practitioner.”

I kept my expression neutral. “No.”

“Then what brings you to the Guild?”

I resisted the urge to glance at Maeve, keeping my posture measured. "My—" I hesitated, choosing my words carefully. "My niece has shown signs of magic."

The man barely reacted. He simply adjusted his spectacles and leaned back in his chair. "And?"

I frowned. "I’d like guidance. Resources. Something to help her control it."

"Control what?" he asked.

Before I could answer, Maeve spoke up. "I glow sometimes," she said brightly.

The man barely blinked. “That’s not unusual,” he said dismissively, reaching for his quill again. “Many children exhibit minor magical anomalies at a young age. Most fade with time.”

Maeve’s shoulders slumped.

A flicker of something sharp curled in my stomach. I had expected judgment, wariness—even fear. But this? This was worse.

He wasn’t afraid of Maeve’s magic.

He didn’t think it mattered at all.

“She’s not fading,” I said, forcing my voice to stay even. “It’s getting stronger.”

“Stronger in what way?”

I hesitated. I wasn’t about to tell him everything. “She doesn’t just glow,” I said carefully. “It reacts when she’s upset. It flares. I need to know how to guide her.”

The man made another vague, uninterested sound. “Emotional responses are common at this age.”

My patience thinned. “And what if it doesn’t regulate?”

“Then it doesn’t.” He set his quill down again, folding his hands atop the desk. “You said you wanted guidance. My guidance is this: wait. If the child’s magic is truly significant, it will manifest properly in time. Until then, I see no reason to be concerned.”

No reason to be concerned.

Maeve, small and uncertain beside me.

Maeve, who had called shadows without knowing how, who had knocked a solid oak shelf to the floor in a single burst of emotion.

I clenched my jaw. “You’re supposed to be a resource. Are you telling me there’s nothing available? No books, no teachers—?”

The man exhaled, the faintest hint of exasperation slipping into his features. “If she develops magic beyond a parlor trick, there are institutions that can assess her when she’s older.”

“Institutions,” I repeated flatly.

“For formal training,” he clarified, as if I were dense. “Children with real gifts are sometimes sent to academies where their abilities can be properly cultivated.”

Something cold pressed against my ribs. “That won’t be necessary.”

The man lifted his hands in an almost indifferent shrug. “Then my advice stands. If her abilities pose a real problem, return with a formal petition.”

I stared at him. For a moment, I couldn’t speak—couldn’t breathe—because I had truly, foolishly allowed myself to hope. To believe that I might walk into this place and find answers. Instead, I was being brushed aside.

Maeve shifted beside me. Her face was drawn tight, watching this man with the same wary curiosity she gave to unfamiliar animals—like she was waiting to see if he’d bite.

I wanted to bite.

I inhaled sharply through my nose, pushing down the sharp spike of frustration curling in my chest. “So that’s it?”

The man blinked at me, as if confused by my persistence. “What more do you expect?”

I expected someone to care. I expected someone to help me. I expected—

“Nothing.”

Maeve wasn’t the only one being dismissed here—I was, too. I could see it in the way his gaze flicked past me, already bored. To him, I was just another overprotective mother, wringing her hands over something trivial. He wasn’t worried. He wasn’t even listening.

He didn't see her.

He didn't see me.

A sick feeling settled in my stomach. But beneath the bitterness, beneath the bone-deep exhaustion of fighting battles that no one else even seemed to realize were battles, something else twisted through me.

Steel.

I had waited this long to seek help because I had known, deep down, how this would go. And now I knew for certain. I was no one’s concern but my own.

Maeve’s soft fingers curled tighter around mine. I squeezed back.

Then, very carefully, I exhaled and straightened. “Come, Maeve.”

Maeve hesitated a fraction too long, as if waiting for me to argue, to fight, to push harder. But I merely turned, keeping my grip firm in hers, and led her from the room.

The first man was waiting outside, but I barely glanced at him as we stepped past, moving through the cold corridors, past the endless shelves of neatly bound books filled with knowledge they had already made clear would not be shared with us.

A mistake. This had been a mistake.

Even as the bitter taste of frustration lingered in my mouth, I swallowed it down, forcing my expression into something unreadable. Maeve was watching me, as perceptive as ever, and the last thing I wanted was for her to see just how much this disappointment had cut me.

We stepped back into the street, the afternoon light too bright after the dim corridors of the guildhall. I lifted my chin, took Maeve’s hand more firmly in mine, and set off toward home with long, determined strides.

Maeve kept up, quiet but watchful, until she finally asked, “Will they help us later?"

I didn’t slow. “No.”

She hesitated, and when she spoke again, her voice was smaller. “…Then who will?”

I swallowed hard. "I will."

That was the end of it.

By the time we returned to the shop, dusk was settling in, painting Everwood in deepening hues of amber and navy. But something felt wrong the moment I approached the door.

I stopped short, my pulse kicking up, and pulled Maeve behind me.

The door was slightly ajar.

I knew I had shut it. Locked it.

A surge of cold panic tightened around my ribs. Maeve must have felt the shift in me because she stilled, pressing into my side without a word. My mind snapped to every possible explanation—none of them good.

Carefully, I reached for the shop door and pushed it open the rest of the way.

The sharp scent of ink hit me first. Then the mess. Shelves overturned. Papers scattered. And there—across the far wall—was a smear of red. An ink jar had shattered, its contents dripping downward in uneven trails, as if someone had flung it in a violent arc.

And in the center of the crimson stain, a single word—carved into the ink, smeared by unsteady fingers, dragged across the wall like a wound.

TAKEN .

The word seemed to pulse against the wall, stark and glaring in the dim light. My breath locked in my throat.

Maeve shifted at my side. "Ro?"

I forced my voice to stay steady. "Go upstairs, Maeve."

She hesitated. "But—"

"Now." I turned to her, crouching so I was at her level. I smoothed my hands over her shoulders, trying to keep my grip light, even as my pulse pounded in my ears. "I need you to go to our room and stay there, alright? Don't come down until I say."

Maeve frowned, her small hands twisting in my tunic. "But the shop—"

"Maeve." I exhaled slowly, pressing my forehead to hers for just a moment. "Please."

Something in my voice must have reached her because after a long, searching look, she nodded.

"Okay."

She turned and ran toward the stairs, her small feet light on the wood. I waited until I heard the bedroom door close before I turned back to the wall.

TAKEN .

The war had made the word infamous. Taken meant lost to the darkness. It meant beyond saving. People whispered it in the wake of battle when a soldier fell not to steel but to something deeper—something twisted.

Drev had seen what happened yesterday. She had seen the shadows that curled at Maeve’s fingertips. And now, she’d left that word behind. Who else could this have been?

I didn’t know what she meant by it. Not exactly. But I knew what it felt like. A warning. Or a threat. Maybe both.

My hands curled into fists. A sick, twisting feeling spread through my ribs.

I grabbed a rag from behind the counter, shaking so hard the fabric nearly slipped from my fingers.

I needed to get rid of it.

I dipped the rag into the water basin and scrubbed. Hard.

The ink didn’t smear at first—it resisted, seeping into the wood and grain. I scrubbed harder. The wet rag turned red. Ink stained my fingertips, my palms, my wrists, trailing up my forearms.

Still, the word remained.

TAKEN .

I kept scrubbing.

The rag sloshed water over the floor. My breath came fast and uneven, my vision tunneling. The word blurred, streaked, but it wouldn’t go away.

It was everywhere. On the wall. On my hands. Beneath my nails.

My arms ached. My throat burned. I wanted to scream.

The floor creaked behind me.

I froze.

For a brief, breathless moment, I thought—whoever did this came back.

Then, a voice. Low, steady. "Rowena."

It was Kazrek.

I didn’t turn. I couldn’t.

He didn’t push. He didn’t speak again. He simply stood there, a quiet presence filling the wrecked space of my shop. And somehow, that stillness—that unwavering calm—was worse than any shouted accusation could have been. It forced me to confront the shaking in my own hands, the frantic beating of my heart. It forced me to acknowledge the fear that had settled deep in my bones.

“They won’t help her,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. The words caught in my throat, thick with unshed tears. I hadn’t meant to say it aloud. Hadn’t meant to admit the defeat that had settled in my chest like a stone.

He still didn't speak. But I felt him move closer. Not crowding, not imposing, just… there.

I scrubbed harder at the wall, the rough fabric tearing against the wood, against my skin. I could feel the ink staining me, marking me with the same word that marred the wall. Taken . A label. A curse.

His hand, large and warm, closed around my wrist. He didn’t pull the rag away, didn’t try to stop me. He simply held me there, his touch a steady pressure against my frantic scrubbing. And in that touch, in that silent understanding, something inside me cracked.

The tears came, hot and stinging, blurring my vision. I didn’t try to stop them. I couldn’t.

His other arm slipped around my waist, drawing me back against his chest. The movement was gentle but inexorable, like the tide pulling at shore-worn stones. He was so much larger than me—all warmth and solid strength—and for the first time in years, I let myself be held.

I didn't turn. I couldn't bear to face him, to let him see the tears that wouldn't stop falling. But I didn't pull away either. Something in me had finally given way, like a dam breaking after years of pressure, and I was too tired to fight it anymore.

Kazrek didn't speak. He simply held me, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm against my back. His hand stayed wrapped around my wrist, thumb brushing softly over my pulse point, while his other arm kept me anchored against him. Protection. Comfort. Things I hadn't allowed myself to need in so long I'd forgotten how it felt to accept them.

The rag slipped from my fingers, falling forgotten to the floor. Ink dripped down the wall, red as blood in the fading light. But Kazrek's warmth seeped into me, making the word seem less immediate, less threatening. For just a moment, I could breathe.

I felt the gentle press of his tusks against my hair as he bowed his head, sheltering me. The gesture was so tender it made my chest ache. How long had it been since someone had held me like this? Since I'd felt safe enough to let them?

"I can't lose her," I whispered, the words raw and broken. "I can't—"

His arms tightened, just slightly. A promise without words.

And there, in the ruins of my shop, with ink staining my hands and fear churning in my gut, I finally stopped trying to be strong. I let myself lean back into him, let myself feel the solid warmth of his chest, the steady beat of his heart. Let myself, just for a moment, not be alone.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy, but Kazrek didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He simply stayed.

I let out a slow, unsteady breath. My body felt wrung out, spent, the last of my fight dripping away with the ink on my fingers.

"You should go," I murmured, my voice hoarse.

Kazrek was quiet for a long moment. Then, low and steady, he said, "Not yet."

He didn’t ask. He didn’t push.

He simply… stayed.