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Dahlia

Dinner smelled like comfort—garlic, rosemary, and the kind of warmth you only get when food’s been made with real effort.

The kind you make for people you want to keep safe.

My arms were jelly, my thighs ached like I’d gone ten rounds with a god, and I was pretty sure I’d sprained a joint or two—but the chicken came out perfect.

I wasn’t sure what had possessed me to roast an entire chicken after a day of getting my ass handed to me in training, but here we were.

Kieran had tried to help. I’d banished him from the kitchen after he sliced a carrot into something resembling a crime scene.

The man could summon shadowfire, but a julienne? Apparently not.

Now we were gathered around the table, bowls passed hand to hand, silverware clinking, and tension softening under the weight of good food and shared exhaustion.

Silas leaned back in his chair with the kind of smugness that made me wish the wine bottle had a cork to throw at him.“If I survive this war,” Silas said, flashing Thea a grin, “I expect a medal. Or a dinner without the threat of impalement.”

Thea didn’t even blink. “If you survive this war, I’ll personally stab you. Just to keep you from getting your hopes too high.”

Henry let out a long, theatrical sigh as he poured himself more wine. “Kids, not at the table.”

I bit back a laugh and caught Kieran’s eye. He was trying to hide a smile, which only made mine worse. Sunny chirped from her perch on the windowsill like she wanted in on the toast.

Silas lifted his glass anyway. “To tradition, then.”

Thea matched him, all deadpan. “To me not poisoning your wine. Yet.”

Gods, we were a mess. But it was our mess.

The conversation quieted for a beat as Henry rose slightly in his seat, lifting his glass.

He looked around like he was taking a mental snapshot of us—Thea sharpening a knife at the table, Silas nursing his third helping of potatoes, Kieran beside me with a steady hand on my thigh under the table.

“To witches,” Henry said, voice gravelly but warm. “To weirdos. And to the ones who keep getting back up.”

My throat closed a little.

“And,” he added, nodding toward me, “to the one who keeps feeding us. Bless her chaotic soul.”

Laughter rippled around the table, glasses raised. Even Thea gave me a rare, genuine grin. I raised my own glass, cheeks flushed and heart embarrassingly full.

We ate. Talked. Teased. Silas claimed he could out-spar Thea with one hand tied behind his back.

Thea told him she’d be happy to tie both and bury him in the backyard.

Kieran murmured something filthy under his breath when I leaned past him to grab the salt, and I choked on my water. Henry pretended not to hear any of it.

It was loud. Ridiculous. And perfect.

When the food was gone and the candles burned low, I leaned into Kieran’s side, exhaustion dragging at my limbs like a weighted blanket. He pressed a kiss to my hair without saying a word.

Silas finally stopped talking. Thea kept her eye on him, sharpening her knife with slow precision. Henry dozed off in his chair, a mug in one hand and Sunny curled in his lap like a purring nap accessory.

The laughter faded slowly, like smoke curling off a blown-out candle.

The table was a mess of empty plates, crumpled napkins, and half-drunk glasses.

But nobody moved. Not really. Not for a while.

I think we all wanted to pretend, just for a moment, that we weren’t at the edge of something terrifying.

The training didn’t stop after that night.

It went on for several brutal, unforgiving weeks.

The first few days, I thought I might actually die.

My body ached in places I didn’t know could ache.

My arms felt like lead weights. My legs refused to move in straight lines.

Thea had me dodging, rolling, striking, blocking—over and over again until I could barely lift my hands to untie my boots.

I got hit. A lot. Silas knocked me off my feet more times than I could count.

The ground and I became very well acquainted.

And magic? That was no kinder.

Kieran was patient—so patient—but even he couldn’t shield me from the frustration of failure. I could summon a spark one minute and fizzle out the next. Sometimes the power came easily. Sometimes it felt like grasping smoke.

But I didn’t stop.

Every fall, I got back up. Every missed spell, I tried again.

And little by little, it started to click.

My body moved faster. My reflexes sharpened.

I could feel the magic settling into me like it belonged there.

I wasn’t perfect. Not even close. But I wasn’t the same woman who’d almost fainted trying to light a candle on command.

And neither was anyone else.

Henry hadn’t left the cottage in days, buried in Jane’s journals, muttering about old glyphs and forgotten names.

Thea spent every spare minute sharpening blades and glaring at Silas like she might finally take him out.

And Kieran—gods, Kieran—he gave me everything.

His knowledge, his time, his strength. He never let me feel like a burden, even when I knew I was one.

But there were limits.

He didn’t teach me the dark stuff. Not the blood-bound rites or soul-binding curses. I saw it in his eyes when I asked—hesitation edged in fear.

“This magic,” he said one night, his voice quiet and tight, “it backfires if your heart skips the wrong way. If you lose focus for a second, poof. Done. I’ve seen it burn through stronger witches than me. And I can't watch it burn through you.”

I wanted to argue, but he wouldn’t let me.

“You’re adapting faster than any of us expected,” Kieran murmured. “It’s like your blood remembers what your mind hasn’t learned yet, but I will not risk your life.”

So I didn’t ask again.

I just trained harder.

We all did.

Because whatever was waiting for us at the Temple of the Unbound, it wasn’t going to care how many push-ups I’d mastered or how many sigils I could trace from memory. It would want blood. And I’d be damned if I let it take mine without a fight.