Page 120 of Magical Moonbeam

Gideon watched me with the stillness of a hunting cat. “And yet, here you are, glowing with purpose, cloaked in magic, walking through the fog like you own it.”

I shook my head. “I don’t own anything here.”

“No?” His smile curled faintly. “Then what do you call what you’ve done to Stonewick? To the Academy? The Wards bend for you. The old magics stir again. That’s not a coincidence.”

“I never asked for that,” I said, pulse flickering in my throat. “But I’m not going to run from it, either.”

The words hung there between us, taut and shivering.

Gideon stepped closer, boots brushing the mist that clung to the street like breath.

“You think this is about fear of being an outsider?” he asked, and for the first time, his voice dipped into something more—something brittle, barely masked by arrogance.

I stared at him, pushing back the fear and mysterious pull that was slowly winding through me.

“You think I turned my back on Stonewick because I wasn’t invited to the harvest dance or didn’t get chosen for a coven seat?”

“Then tell me why.”

He stared at me for a long beat. The silence between us swelled until it became something strange and humming.

“You want to know?” he asked at last, quieter now. “Why I cursed Stonewick?”

“Yes.”

Because it was time. I had to understand. Not excuse, not forgive, but understand.

Gideon turned slightly, gaze sliding toward the mansion behind us. The ivy on its stones twitched, as if stirred by his thoughts alone.

“It wasn’t one moment,” he said. “Not one betrayal. Not one slight. It was the weight of being told, over and over, that I wasn’t enough. That my blood was wrong. That my way of seeing the world was dangerous, and that what I needed wasn’t possible.”

He looked back at me, and for a moment, there was something vulnerable in his expression. Something cracked.

“What did you need?”

“What does it matter?” He shrugged. “I was told it doesn’t exist.”

My eyes narrowed on him, and I shook my head. “Maybe you asked the wrong person.”

He ignored my statement.

“Have you ever been called dangerous just for asking a question?”

I swallowed. “Yes.”

He tilted his head. “Then maybe we’re more alike than you think.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But I didn’t turn that pain into poison.”

His eyes flared. “Didn’t you?”

That caught me off guard.

“I’ve seen the way you hold your power,” he continued. “Tightly. As if you’re afraid of what will happen if it gets out of your control. Youburnwith fear, Maeve. You keep your memories locked. You hide dragons beneath stone. You tell yourself it’s for safety, but it’s control.”

A beat passed when I realized what he’d said, and I forced thatwordout of my mind. It was just a metaphor he used. He didn’t know aboutthem.

“And control,” he whispered, “is the first seed of a curse.”