Page 5

LYRA

L yra believed that magic was a lot like baking—best done with a wink, a little chaos, and a whole lot of butter.

So when she’d spent her Sunday morning whipping up a fresh batch of enchanted muffins for the Moonfang Keep staff, she hadn’t expected anything more than a few raised eyebrows and some appreciative chewing.

Maybe a happy sigh or two. Certainly not a surprise office enchantment that made Amos think he could speak French. (He could not.)

Milo, naturally, blamed her.

“You infused the batter with emotional frequency,” he said, perched on the back of her desk chair like he paid rent. “Did you want everyone to hallucinate their deepest cravings?”

“They weren’t hallucinating,” Lyra said, brushing a stubborn strand of hair from her cheek as she wiped down the breakroom counter. “They were just... emotionally aligned with baked goods. That’s all.”

“Petra cried into a blueberry scone because it reminded her of her high school boyfriend.”

“She said it was cathartic!”

“Delia tried to resign.”

“She always tries to resign,” Lyra muttered, then sniffed. “Besides, Jace didn’t even eat one.”

“Didn’t stop him from glowering like you’d cursed the coffee pot.”

“He glowers by default.”

“True. But that glower had layers.”

She rolled her eyes and flicked a tea towel at him. “You’re as dramatic as a haunted ouija board.”

He jumped to the floor with a haughty flick of his tail. “And yet, I’m rarely wrong.”

By mid-afternoon, the muffins were mostly gone, and so were most of the staff.

The Keep had gone quiet in that lazy, late-day way buildings did when the sun started to stretch golden fingers through the windows and everything felt like it could nap.

Lyra hummed as she floated through the archive corridor, levitating a few unsorted scrolls with a flick of her fingers.

“Moonfang Muffin Incident: Minor Chaos, Maximum Flavor,” she whispered, pretending to write headlines in her head.

She rounded the corner to the far study nook, planning to drop off the last of her mood muffins on the table by the windows, when her toe caught on something.

“Milo!”

The cat darted underfoot at exactly the wrong time, sending Lyra stumbling forward with a startled gasp and scrolls flying in all directions. She crashed hard into a solid wall of something warm and immovable.

Arms caught her before she could slide to the ground.

Strong arms.

Warm hands. One on her waist. One at her back.

And just like that, she was nose-to-chest with Jace Montgomery .

“Oh stars,” she breathed, dazed.

He didn’t speak at first. Just held her there, gaze locked on hers, and the rest of the world spun off its axis.

Her heart banged against her ribs.

His eyes were storm-dark. Focused. And too damn close.

She blinked, lips parted, suddenly aware of everything—the way his hand tightened slightly at her back, the rise and fall of his chest, the scent of him. Woodsmoke. Pine. Something wilder beneath.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice low and rough like he hadn’t used it all day.

“Fine,” she said, except her voice came out breathy and traitorous. “Milo tripped me.”

“I noticed.”

He didn’t let go.

And she didn’t move.

The space between them vibrated, tension crackling like live wire. Her fingers were curled into his shirt without realizing it, and his eyes flicked down to her lips just for a moment. A flicker. But she saw it. Felt it.

Something inside her fluttered. Her magic hummed under her skin.

They were standing in a room full of scrolls, tea-scented air, and old magic, but it felt like the center of a storm. Quiet, tight, charged.

Jace leaned in.

Just barely.

So close she could feel the heat of him on her skin.

So close she could taste the kiss in the space between their mouths.

But then he pulled back.

Fast. Like he’d been burned.

His hands dropped, his expression snapped back into neutral, and he took a hard step away.

Lyra blinked at the sudden loss of contact.

“I told you not to let magic wander in the archives,” he said stiffly.

“It wasn’t magic,” she replied, breath still shaky. “It was Milo.”

“Same difference.”

He turned, expression shuttered, and began gathering the scrolls she’d dropped like nothing had happened. Like they hadn’t just been inches from something that would’ve changed everything.

Lyra dropped her gaze to the floor, trying to gather her dignity with the scattered parchment. Her hands were trembling.

He’d almost kissed her.

And then… he hadn’t.

Which, fine. Cool. Totally fine. Who needed oxygen, anyway?

She brushed her hands down her skirt and stood up. “I was just dropping off muffins.”

He didn’t look at her. “You’ve done enough for the day.”

“I didn’t mean to cause chaos,” she said softly, not sure if she was talking about the muffins or the moment they’d nearly shared.

But Jace didn’t answer.

He just handed her the last scroll, his fingers brushing hers for the briefest second, electric—then walked away without another word.

Lyra stood in the quiet for a long moment after he left, heart still thudding like a drumline in a hurricane.

“I knew it,” Milo whispered from the shadows, tail flicking smugly.

She sighed. “Don’t even start.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You said everything.”