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T he boundaries of Saothrealain magic were tenuous at best. They were artificial, created long after the magic itself was born, and in truth held very little power over it.

Their effects were felt mostly by the magic’s practitioners that did not know their way through the gaps.

Rodney had never quite gotten around to mastering them: those gaps.

Some he could navigate with ease—with his eyes closed, and one hand tied behind his back—but not all.

It was those uncharted ones that frightened him, and it was those uncharted ones that he was building up the courage to explore now.

He’d left the group to venture into the smallest chamber in the back of the cairn.

He had to crawl inside; sitting cross-legged in the center, there was barely an inch of space between the tips of his ears and the root-addled stone.

He preferred it that way, though. Outside, when he’d attempted to Create something small, Elowas’ magic had been overwhelming.

He’d been able to weave the glamour that hid their group crudely, and only out of sheer necessity.

But here, the enclosed space would help him focus and, he hoped, would limit the magic swirling around him.

Rodney closed his eyes and blew out a long, slow breath through pursed lips.

He reached out, testing, running his fingers through the threads of magic.

He thought with a smile about how he used to do the same with the beaded curtain he’d hung over his bedroom door when he first moved into Aisling’s trailer.

It was a tangled heap on his closet floor now; he’d gotten caught up in it one too many times trying to get to the bathroom in the dark and had ripped it down.

With a full stomach, still warm from the fire and the stew and watching Aisling finally eat, and finally start to sound like herself again, Rodney felt somewhat better about the task he’d volunteered himself for. Not confident by any stretch, but less afraid.

For the time being, at least.

He set Kael’s dagger aside; it would be unwise to attempt anything with it yet.

He needed to work up to it, to learn the feel of the magic there.

He shut his eyes once more and tried to envision the threads around him as they rubbed against his skin.

He’d forgotten just how distinctly he could feel them without a glamour dulling his senses.

He’d always been able to intuit the colors of the threads when he pictured them in his mind.

He’d seen them all across the spectrum, from the darkest black to the most beautiful, opalescent shade of white.

The magic here was the color of the sky, the deepest shade of midnight blue.

It was rigid, and pressed in on him as it had before.

He tried not to let that crushing feeling drive him away, though.

Instead, he leaned into it. He pushed back.

Rodney again pictured that long lost ring on his finger.

The smooth, cool titanium of the band; its brushed matte finish.

He’d liked the weight of it when he picked it out of a box of gaudy costume jewelry at a yard sale.

He had bought the whole lot of it, knowing just how valuable those sparkly broaches and overlarge baubles would be to a faerie in a bargain. But that ring, he’d kept for himself.

He rubbed the pad of his thumb over the side of his middle finger, again and again like he was spinning the band. The repetitive motion helped him focus, helped him keep his thoughts from straying from the task, helped him hold onto every ounce of concentration he could manage until…

Metal.

Smooth, cool titanium.

He’d done it.

Rodney opened his eyes slowly and looked down at his hand.

The ring was solid; its edges didn’t waiver or warp when he turned his hand this way and that.

He pulled it off of his finger and held it at eye level, squinting.

It smelled faintly of spent magic, but apart from that there were no imperfections that might have given away that it was Created.

Rodney let out a loud whoop and pumped his fist. His enthusiasm was curbed when his knuckles scraped the rough stone ceiling, though, like Antiata was reminding him where he was.

Rodney huffed and wiped away the few droplets of blood seeping from the scrapes on his jeans.

Still, quietly, he celebrated his accomplishment.

Once he’d settled, Rodney considered what to work on next. He glanced around the small space and reached for a jagged bit of rock. It was brittle; bits and pieces of it broke off when he turned it over in his palm.

He’d make it strong.

It was one thing to Create something from nothing; it was a wholly different beast to change the nature of something that existed already. He’d failed at it before, a hundred times. Some failures worse than others. One, catastrophic.

The memory left Rodney feeling apprehensive again, though he knew he couldn’t afford to be. Fear was a luxury, and one he didn’t have the ability to fall back on any longer. He had to be brave, like Aisling. It was his turn.

Rodney balanced the rock on his open hand and held it outstretched in front of him.

He thought he’d caught a glimpse of something earlier: glimmers of gold, hidden in the sea of midnight blue.

As the weight of the rock in his hand kept him centered, he sifted gently through the magic around him, seeking out those gaps he’d always shied away from.

And then there it was, floating past his face like a spider’s web on the breeze: a different sort of thread.

Not gold, as he’d thought before, but a rich, warm shade of ochre.

Earthy, ancient. The midnight strands belonged to Elowas; these ochre threads were Antiata’s magic alone.

Rodney grasped for the one closest to him, tugging on it gently.

It was tensile, and far more responsive to his manipulations than the others.

The hum of magic that flowed down that thread, into his fingers, and up his arm to settle in the hollow of his ribcage was soothing.

Powerful—immensely so—but peaceful in a way he hadn’t encountered before.

He raised the rock carefully, bringing the two together.

He wrapped it and wrapped it in that thread until its shape became rounded and its surface was smooth as the stones on the beach on Brook Isle, beaten and rolled beneath churning waves.

When it was completely cocooned in the magic, Rodney opened his eyes and let the threads disperse.

The rock was warm, its once jagged edges even.

He closed his fist around it and squeezed as hard as he could.

It didn’t crumble. Then, he cocked back his arm and threw it at the cairn wall.

It didn’t shatter. Rodney grinned. He hadn’t wanted to admit to himself that he didn’t think he could do it.

Now that he had, he was happy to admit he’d proven himself wrong.

He’d long been his own greatest critic; this success felt personal in a way he didn’t expect.

Small though it was, he hadn’t been strong enough to even attempt magic like that in an age. Not since…

Fuck. Rodney stopped himself before he could slip back into the memory of that day, that life. He’d only just been able to finally shake the chill that the vision of Sítheach had left him with. To revisit his past failures would be to doom himself to another.

He sat still for a time while the space around him quieted and the thrumming in his chest faded away.

Antiata’s magic was far kinder to an inexperienced Weaver than was the god realm’s, and seemed stronger in some ways as well.

The midnight threads were taut and unyielding, and even when he had managed to draw them together as a passable glamour to hide the group, the effort had left him feeling raw and drained.

Weaving with the Enclave’s magic was energizing.

It was responsive, alive. There wasn’t much of it, though.

He wondered whether its dearth had to do with Orist, withering and dying up above the stone ceiling.

It would be a tragedy to lose something so pure to the darkness here.

“Okay,” Rodney murmured to himself. “Okay.”

He picked up Kael’s dagger gingerly. Its blade was impossibly sharp, polished to a bright gleam that Rodney kept angled away from his face.

He had no interest in seeing his own reflection; he didn’t need to be reminded of what he looked like now.

The tail was reminder enough, each time it tapped his shoulder or flicked at the tufted tips of his ears.

He still wasn’t above cutting the damn thing off.

Stop thinking, just feel, he’d been told once.

It was poor advice in his younger years, when he was green and reckless enough as it was.

Then, he should have put much more thought into his work—into how to learn, how to Create things properly without cutting corners, and about the consequences of taking those shortcuts.

Now, though, it was exactly what he needed to hear.

Those ochre threads were easier to find this time, now that Rodney knew what he was looking for.

They came to him almost like he’d called, drifting and diaphanous.

Instead of pulling at them, he simply guided them delicately with the tips of his fingers.

As if they could feel his intent, the threads moved towards the blade on their own.

They twisted and twined together, entangling as a fragile tapestry.

Rodney could hardly tell whether he was weaving the magic, or if the magic was weaving itself. Maybe it was both.

The chamber filled with tonal humming, the same humming that bloomed again in Rodney’s chest. It was in his head now, too, like fingers circling the rims of hundreds of crystal glasses.

The dagger vibrated as the threads wove around it, wrapping just as they had done around the rock.

But while the rock had changed in appearance, the dagger withstood that influence.

Instead, it seemed to absorb the magic, the tapestry folding over and over the blade and melting into the metal.

It grew heavier in Rodney’s grip. Sturdier.

Finally, the last of the trailing threads coiled around the hilt of the blade and disappeared into the patterns carved there.

Rodney opened his eyes as the humming dimmed, leaving the chamber vacuous and cold.

The dagger felt alive in his hand, and deadlier—a more formidable weapon than it had been before.

But it wasn’t enough, not nearly. Not to kill a god.

He didn’t realize he was trembling until he shifted his weight in an effort to regain feeling in his legs. His joints cracked and his neck ached and he was acutely aware of just how much of himself he gave each time he used his atrophied magic—even despite how gentle Antiata had been with him.

The main chamber was cooler when Rodney limped back in. Raif still sat beside the fire, but Aisling had gone, along with Sudryl and Kael.

“She’s in there.” Raif murmured knowingly. He nodded towards the mural chamber.

“With Kael?” Unable to remain on his feet much longer, Rodney eased himself to sit down against the wall. He stretched his long legs out in front of him and massaged his stiff knees.

“He’s gone back outside. How did you fare?”

Rodney frowned; he’d hoped he had gone unnoticed when he slunk off after their meal to work on his magic. Of course the soldier would have caught him. As observant as ever, even when exhausted.

“I could feel it,” Raif explained, responding to Rodney’s unspoken thoughts and irritated expression. “Like a sort of pulling. Here.” He raised a hand to the back of his neck.

Rodney hummed. “Better than it was before, out there. Antiata isn’t so aggressive as the rest of the realm. It’s easier here. Not easy, ” he amended. “But easier. And I think I’m better at it here, too. Weaving, I mean.”

“You think it worked?” Raif’s voice was flat. He knew the answer.

Rodney looked at the dagger where he’d laid it on the floor. It looked the same, unremarkable. He knew it was stronger now, woven through with Antiata’s ochre threads, but it was still little more than a sharp blade.

“What more can be done?”

Rodney batted at his tail and said sheepishly, “I’m still working on that part.”

“I am concerned for him,” Raif mused after several moments of silence. His eyes were trained on the sliver of night he could see outside the cairn’s entrance. “For what this will do to him— killing the…killing Yalde. It may not be the god he’s worshipped, but it’s the god that raised him.”

For that, Rodney had no good response. It was true that the loss would be severe, a blow not only to the king’s beliefs but to his very identity.

Except had the Low One not already been killed by Yalde himself when he revealed the truth?

Kael would mourn the Low One, surely, but could killing Yalde perhaps count instead as an act of revenge?

At least, Rodney would have preferred to frame it as such.

It wasn’t about what Kael would be giving up, but…

“Giving up,” Rodney muttered, the sudden epiphany coming from his own stream-of-conscious thoughts. He palmed the dagger once more, gripping its hilt and testing its new weight.

“I’m sorry?” Raif glanced over at him.

“I think I know what it needs.”