Page 13

13

LIORA

T he sky tonight bleeds purple.

The kind of dusk that feels like it knows too much. Heavy with warning, steeped in magic. The Veil’s thinner than it should be. I feel it in my teeth, in the way my shadows curl around my legs like they’re nervous.

I walk fast, hood up, blending into the dark like I was born in it—which, technically, I was.

The meeting’s already started. I can feel the pulse of warded magic thrumming through the air like a second heartbeat.

I slip into the hidden entrance behind the old apothecary on 4th and Mercer. To mundanes, the building’s condemned—windows boarded up, ivy overgrown, signs falling apart. But the ones who know better can taste the enchantments woven into every brick.

And the ones who know me… usually aren’t thrilled when I show up.

The scent of burning herbs hits my nose the second I step into the underground chamber. Warm. Smoky. Familiar. Too familiar.

“Liora,” someone murmurs, voice coated in polite tension. “You’re late.”

“Fashionably,” I reply, sweeping back my hood.

Seven witches sit in a circle carved into the stone floor, moonlight filtering through the open slats in the roof above like it was summoned for the occasion. Sigils are scrawled in every corner, fresh with blood and gold. Protection spells. Foresight barriers. Maybe even tether wards.

They’re scared. I hate that I can smell it.

Thorne stands off to the side, watching me like I’ve already disappointed him and he hasn’t even said it yet.

“Didn’t know we were in such a rush to panic,” I add, stepping into the light. “Something happen? Let me guess—sky cracked again? Demons in Harlem? Prophetic fever dreams from a seer on mushrooms?”

“Don’t,” Thorne warns quietly. “Not tonight.”

That makes me pause. Because if he’s worried, it’s worse than I thought.

I glance at the council, all seven of them watching me like I’m the match they’re trying to decide whether to light or drown.

“Someone want to tell me why this meeting was so urgently called?”

A witch to my right—Leira, silver hair, hawk eyes, mouth always one syllable from starting a war—leans forward. “A ripple,” she says. “Big enough to shake the fabric. Magic older than anything we track.”

I raise an eyebrow. “And you’re sure it wasn’t a tantrum from one of the archmages in Central?”

“It came from you.”

My spine straightens.

“That’s impossible,” I say, careful, measured. “I’ve been laying low.”

“Not low enough,” Thorne murmurs, stepping forward now, cloak brushing the floor like a shadow.

I glare at him. “If this is about last night, I?—”

“It is,” he says sharply. “Whatever you did... wherever you were ... it’s tipping things.”

My mouth goes dry.

Because I know what he’s referring to. The moment my hand brushed Dante’s, and something ancient in both of us woke up . And when we kissed last night… well, I’m sure that didn’t help.

“You told me to control it,” I bite back. “I’m trying.”

“Trying,” he repeats like it’s an insult. “Trying is what gets worlds undone.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

The shadows behind me stretch out, defensive. My magic rises with my temper, and I force it down. Barely.

Thorne’s gaze softens, just a little. “I know what you are. I trained you to hold the line. But this—this thing you’re forging with that… shifter —it’s not a line anymore. It’s a path.”

“To what?”

He looks at me. Doesn’t answer.

Because we both already know.

To ruin. Or salvation. No in-between.

Leira’s voice cuts in, cold and clipped. “Seraphiel’s been seen in the rift between the fourth and fifth wards.”

My stomach drops. That close?

Thorne sighs. “He’s closing in, Liora. His enforcers are pulling from the bone legions. There are whispers he’s preparing a ritual.”

“What kind of ritual?”

“The claiming kind.”

I swallow hard. No.

No, he wouldn’t. Not yet. I’ve been careful.

Mostly.

“I didn’t call him,” I say. “I didn’t reach for him. I haven’t?—”

“ You kissed someone with guardian blood, ” Thorne interrupts.

My eyes snap to his. “You were watching?”

“I felt it.”

Shame prickles hot under my skin. My voice goes quiet. “It wasn’t supposed to mean anything.”

“Magic doesn’t care what it was supposed to mean,” Leira says. “You two connected. Bonded. That kind of union? It echoes.”

“Then un-echo it,” I mutter.

“It doesn’t work that way,” Thorne says. “The more you lean into it, the more he’ll feel you. And the more Seraphiel will twist it.”

“I’m not his,” I snap.

“No,” Thorne agrees. “But he thinks you are. And belief, in beings like him, is a weapon.”

The witches fall into tense silence. The fire in the center of the chamber crackles, casting gold across the lines carved into the stone like veins pulsing beneath skin.

I cross my arms, shifting my weight. “So what? You called me here to scold me? Tell me to be a good little shadow and stay in my corner while he crawls closer?”

“We called you here,” Leira says, “to remind you of what’s at stake.”

Thorne adds, more quietly, “If he claims you in any form—ritual, bond, or blood—it will fracture the Veil completely. No borders. No balance. No more rules.”

“I know what happens,” I whisper. “I saw it in New Orleans.”

That shuts them all up.

Because no one forgets what happened there. Not the fire. Not the bodies. Not the power I couldn’t rein back in once it was loosed.

“I’m not that girl anymore,” I say, softer now. “I’m not seventeen. I’m not helpless. I’m not his .”

Thorne steps closer. Places a hand on my shoulder. “Then act like it. Don’t let him drive you with fear. And don’t let the wolf pull you with hope. You’re stronger than both.”

I nod. Barely. But deep down I’m not sure I believe him. Because I felt what woke up in me with Dante. And I’m not sure if I’m strong enough to survive it.

Let alone control it.