Chapter 26 Harper
HARPER
Ilook at the clock again. Twenty minutes gone. And still nothing.
The supply closet shelves mock me with their neat little rows of ingredients, not a single vial of Firelda root or nightshade tonic in sight.
My hands sift through jars, parchment labels, dried herbs, and nothing even remotely close to helping me sleep.
Frustration coils tight in my chest until it boils over.
I slam the closet door shut harder than intended, the sound echoing down the empty corridor.
A glass potion bottle rattles off the counter and drops to the floor with a dull, rolling thud.
Thick glass, too solid to shatter. Even that feels like an insult.
I press my palms into my eyes, counting my breaths, trying to settle the thread of unease that’s been vibrating through me since morning.
And then a voice cuts through the quiet.
“Unpredictable and whiny. Two more things your father failed to mention.”
The air leaves my lungs in one sharp rush.
Ares.
He stands across the classroom as though he materialized from the shadows themselves, leaning casually against a desk, one leg crossed over the other, arms folded loosely.
His hood is down, revealing raven-dark hair that falls in careless waves around a face too sharp and too striking to belong to someone who enjoys causing fear.
His mouth tilts at one corner, half amusement, half challenge, entirely predatory.
I straighten slowly, heartbeat quickening for reasons I refuse to examine too closely. “How did you get in here?”
His smile widens. “You’d be surprised how few locks in this school are designed to keep me out.”
He pushes off the desk, walking toward me with a pace so unhurried it’s insulting.
“You look exhausted,” he says under his breath, as though it’s a secret between us.
“Sleepless nights… nightmares… magic fraying at the edges.” His gaze drags down my form, lingering at my throat, then lower. “You wear exhaustion like a perfume.”
I force myself not to step back, even as my pulse betrays me. “What do you want, Ares?”
“What I always want,” he murmurs, stopping only a few feet away, close enough that the faintest hint of smoke and wintergreen coils around me. Close enough that I feel the low hum of magic beneath his skin. “To talk.”
“That’s not what you came here for,” I say, voice low.
He tilts his head, studying me with unsettling intensity, as though mapping the shape of every fear and desire I haven’t voiced. “You’re sharper tonight,” he notes, almost pleased. “Agitated. Dangerous. You’re starting to wake up, Harper.”
I hate the shiver that moves through me at the way he says my name, threaded with something that isn’t quite admiration and isn’t quite threat. Something in between. Something far riskier.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I snap. “If anyone sees you-”
He laughs softly. “If anyone sees me, they’ll be dead before they can shout.”
My breath stutters.
Ares steps closer, close enough that the space between us heavy.
“Relax,” he murmurs, reaching past me with one gloved hand.
A strand of my hair brushes his knuckles as he picks up the fallen potion bottle.
He turns it over in his hand, examining it as though it’s the most fascinating thing in the room.
“If I wanted you dead, Harper, you wouldn’t have heard me walk in. ”
He sets the bottle upright. His hand stays there for a moment longer than necessary, fingers tapping the glass, as though considering something darker.
My throat tightens. “You can’t keep appearing like this.”
“Can’t I?” His eyes flick up, catching mine. Blue. Bright. Heated. “…Tell me to leave, then.”
I open my mouth, but no sound comes out.
Because the truth is terrifying:
I don’t want him to.
Not yet.
Not when he has answers I need.
He sees the hesitation, the fault line in my resolve, and steps into it with surgical precision. “That’s what I thought,” he says softly.
Anger rushes through me, hot and sharp. “Ares, I swear, if you think you can intimidate-”
“I’m not trying to intimidate you.” His voice drops lower, rougher. “If I were, you wouldn’t be standing.”
His gaze slips down my body, slow enough to burn. Heat coils through me in a way I despise. “No,” he continues, “I came to ask if you’ve thought about my offer.”
“I haven’t,” I lie.
His smile says he knows it. “Harper… you’re a terrible liar.”
He steps close enough that the desk presses into my hip as I instinctively try to brace myself. His scent, smoke, cold air, something metallic, wraps around me, suffocating and seductive all at once.
“You want answers,” he whispers. “About your magic. Your father. What he made you forget. What he expects you to become. I’m the only one willing to tell you the truth.”
“Why?” I demand, voice thinning. “Why help me at all?”
His fingers brush a loose strand of hair from my cheek, barely a touch, but enough to freeze me in place. “Because I want something back,” he murmurs. “And you are the only person alive who can help me reclaim it.”
“What could I possibly give you?” My voice cracks on the last word.
His smile fades, not cruelly, but with a depth I haven’t seen from him before. “Something your father stole,” he says quietly. “Something that belonged to me.”
The room feels suddenly colder.
Smaller.
Like the walls are leaning in.
Ares steps back just enough to study my face, searching for understanding… or weakness.
“Let me help you, Harper,” he says. “Help me, and I’ll help you break your father’s chains for good.”
My hands curl into fists.
“And what if I say no?”
He leans in, lips near my ear, breath warm enough to send a shudder skittering down my spine.
“You won’t.”
I hate the way the words settle in my chest like a prophecy.
“How did you find me again?”
The question slips out harsher than I intend, but my nerves are already stretched thin. Twenty minutes rummaging through shelves and cabinets for something, anything, to force my mind quiet, and now he stands here like he has every right to occupy my oxygen.
Ares doesn’t bother to look at me. He drifts further into the classroom instead, studying the rows of desks as though Vireldan itself is a museum curated for his entertainment.
His fingertip trails along a line of etched runes in one of the tables, tracing them carelessly, as if the magic woven into them is beneath him.
“I’ve always wondered what this place looked like,” he says finally. “Its size caught me off guard on the way in.”
He still avoids my question.
Of course he does.
“You’ve never been here before?” I press, mostly to keep him talking so my pulse has a chance to slow.
He scoffs, a sound that slices through the dusty quiet of the room.
“I was a little preoccupied spending my formative years keeping your father and mother happy.” His hand lifts, gesturing lazily at our surroundings.
“Didn’t exactly have the luxury of strolling around their beloved academy while you got to grow up pretending your life was normal. ”
The words snag sharp inside my ribcage. I try not to react, reaching for the bottle I knocked over earlier, resetting it into place on the counter simply to give my hands something to do.
Ares watches the motion, head cocked.
“I’m assuming you’re wary of my deal?” he asks, arms crossing over his chest as though we’re discussing merchant prices.
“Well, considering you’ve been so forthcoming about who you actually are,” I say, mirroring his posture, “yes, the decision has been remarkably easy.”
His mouth twitches, annoyance or amusement, I can’t tell.
“Ask Liam.”
The name hits harder than it should.
“I tried,” I say quietly. “He won’t even look at me when I bring you up.”
Ares’s page-turning freezes. His grip on the potions book tightens ever so slightly. Then he lifts his gaze, anger simmering beneath the surface like something with fangs.
“Figures he’d be scared of the wrong person.”
He flips another page, snorts at whatever’s written there, and mutters something about “wasting education on useless brews.” The irritation pushes a reaction out of me, I pull my wand free, drag the book across the desk and toward me, putting it completely out of his reach.
Ares hums softly, like I’ve mildly amused him.
“Cute party trick.”
He stretches, arms reaching overhead. The hem of his black shirt lifts with the movement, revealing a flash of skin carved by old wounds, raised, uneven scars that look like someone gouged into him with purpose. Real pain.
“Did my father hurt you?”
The question escapes on its own.
For a heartbeat, something raw flickers across his eyes. Then he yanks the shirt back down as if he regrets letting the scars see daylight.
He moves before I can blink.
My back crashes into the potions rack, shelves rattling loudly as his hand fists the collar of my sweater. The other grips the hilt of a blade, and in a breath the cold edge is beneath my jaw, firm enough to command stillness, not yet enough to cut.
His face is inches from mine, breath warm, eyes bright with something twisted and controlled.
“Don’t assume you understand anything about what Andrew Shadeborne did to me.”
The knife drags just slightly, a warning, not a slice. My pulse stutters, but my magic… my magic surges upward in a hot, trembling wave. Not visible, not yet, but thick enough in the air that even he can feel it.
Ares’s expression shifts.
He leans in until the heat of him replaces the chill of the blade.
“There it is,” he murmurs, voice slipping low, nearly coaxing. “That spark you keep pretending doesn’t exist.”
Another pulse of magic cracks across my skin, uncontained, trembling with potential. The rack behind me vibrates again, bottles clinking against one another.
Ares doesn’t flinch.
He studies the way the energy ripples out of me, studies the way I fight it, fight him, fight myself. His head tilts, smile curling along one corner of his mouth. He looks hungry for something he refuses to name.