Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
Lena
There’s a stillness that settles within me when my hands are busy working the rich soil, tending to my plot in Gardening and Herbology.
It’s my third week here at the institute, and this week has so far gone the same as the last two—a test in patience and emotional durability.
This garden is the one place where I have truly found relief.
It’s the kind of peacefulness I know would easily accompany the rest of my time at the institute if it weren’t for my rejective peers and all the incessant questions constantly buzzing around in my head like annoying little gnats.
Bzzzz…bzzz…bzzz. What’s with all the family secrets? Bzzzz…bzzz. Where the hell’s my magic?
I swat the thoughts away and dig my fingers deeper into the cold earth.
Thanks in large part to Professor Greenwood’s guidance and growing potions, I’ve managed to cultivate my own little fall garden that I’m intensely proud of.
Medicinal herbs like echinacea, mullein, and bee balm mingle with ornamental toad lilies and asters and some hardy vegetables like kale and radishes.
I have no natural green thumb, nor magical ability like Callum.
But I’ve found a sort of solace and a sense of accomplishment here.
The class is quiet. Everyone is intently focusing on their own plots.
I glance sideways at Callum as they use magic to guide a radiant blue morning glory to trellis up a gigantic golden sunflower at the center of their thriving plot, which is vibrant with their earth fae magic.
I stand, dusting the soil from my hands, and head over to Callum’s garden.
Every week, it grows more lush and lively.
It’s full of flowers I recognize, towering foxgloves and hollyhocks in every color, bright flaming snapdragons and orchids, and passionflowers with luminescent purple petals.
There are also plants I’ve never seen before, their colors so unique I’m not sure they have a place on the color wheel.
Many glow with an iridescent shine like beetle wings.
The sheer volume of hues and textures of their garden is breathtaking.
It seems to have no rhyme or reason. It’s not held to the laws of seasons or planting zones or even physics.
It could be overwhelming, but it somehow works.
Callum moves throughout their garden with their back to me. Plants twist and sway, reaching out toward them in offering or in veneration.
“Something catch your eye, darling?” Callum asks, without looking at me.
I smile, not the least bit embarrassed. They have to know how impressive their garden is. “This is something else, Cal.”
They turn to face me, shrugging. “Looks like you’re getting the hang of things over there.” They tip their head in the direction of my plot.
“I’m working on it.” I grin. “Your playlist has been some solid motivation.”
“Yeah?” Their emerald eyes light up.
“I’ve particularly enjoyed the alternative fae folk bands.” I dip my head, sniffing a potently sweet pink rose. “I’m officially obsessed with Thistlekin.”
They pull out a pair of gardening shears and clip the stem of the rose. “What’s your favorite song? Wait, let me guess.” They tilt their head, studying me as they use one side of the shears to remove the rose’s thorns. “‘Glimmerroot’ or ‘Glass Teeth’?”
“You’re good!” I confirm excitedly.
“I am,” they hum, stepping closer to me.
“They’ve been my studying jams while I cram for Devorare Studies…
” I trail off as Cal reaches out, brushing my hair behind my ear and carefully nestling the rose there.
It’s impossible to talk about my upcoming exam when their fingers are sweeping along the curve of my ear, trailing down my neck and over my shoulder, causing little bumps to rise in their wake.
“I took that class last year. I can quiz you, if you like?” They hold up a finger, telling me to wait a moment as they dig around in a satchel hanging at their waist. “While you plant these.” They pull out a handful of tiny orange-brown seeds.
“Siberian wallflowers. I thought you might like them for your garden.” The warm blush on their sun-kissed cheekbones glows in the golden-hour light, and my heart skips a beat, like a pebble on a pond.
And I don’t know if I can form words around these feelings growing inside me. Can small seeds make you ache?
I offer up a nod of acceptance and lead Callum to my garden, where we kneel together, shoulder to shoulder, planting little ochre seeds.
“We’ll start easy. The four insignia?” Their honey-smooth voice is quiet.
“Vampires, of course, sirens, then succubi, and finally banshees.” Our hands work the soil together.
“What type of magic do magicae from this kingdom possess?” Their pinky brushes mine, and my breath catches.
“Magic of the mind. Banshees and the like control nightmares and fear manipulation. Sirens, telekinesis and telepathy.” I list off what I know of the Devorare Insignia.
“Vampires have varying abilities, including mental manipulation, compulsion, and hypnosis. While succubi control pleasure, entrapment, emotional manipulation, and dream walking.”
“Good. How about… How do succubi feed?” they ask, taking one of my hands and gently placing a few seeds in my palm before they close my fingers around the tiny pips.
“Through giving and receiving sexual pleasure.” I blush, tingling with a coquettish shyness that seems to be spurred solely by Callum’s presence.
We spend the next hour much the same, working on my garden while Cal tests my Devorare historical and cultural knowledge. All the while, the tension between us is a gentle thrum, vibrating through the soil like the magic that thrives here.
I pace my room, fisting my hands in frustration, my nails cutting into my abused palms. Growling, I throw myself face-first on my bed. I’ve been at this for three hours, sweating and panting from trying to access my magic and my wings with no success.
Reviewing the notes I took from Komarov’s book on Convalescere magic, I read the paragraph on seraphim light magic I copied from the text.
Seraphim light magic takes the form of righteous celestial fire, forming at a seraphim’s core and carried on solar winds.
It burns with intention, not chaos—it does not crackle aimlessly; it strikes.
Their flame is starlight weaponized, a focused surge of astral judgment that splits the sky, leaving clarity in its wake.
It is not destruction, but purification—cleansing what has been corrupted, revealing truth.
Born of something older than gods, and contrary to human imaginings, seraphim are not servants of any one religion, but instruments of cosmic justice, their magic pulsing with the order and wrath of the Stars.
Well, that’s about as helpful as IKEA assembly directions—all imagery and no practical advice.
As a Seraphim Insignis, I’m supposed to be able to look inside myself for shining light, but I feel nothing.
I’m utterly empty—hollow. I wonder what it would be like if I grew up in this world.
If I came into magic as a teenager, and my parents sat down with me and taught me to use it.
I’ve come to the sickening realization that Dmitri had to have known that we were seraphim.
Why didn’t he teach me to wield my flame?
Thoughts of my family have me nervously turning the page to the scribbled notes I hurriedly copied from Komarov’s book on the fallen.
The fallen’s stygian magic is that of balance.
It is not simply darkness, but a living presence: coiling tendrils that slither and stretch, cast by fire and sun, giving shape through contrast. Stygian magic is a necessary counterweight to seraphim flame.
It moves with quiet precision, wrapping around forms, softening edges, and pulling power from stillness.
It is a force of equilibrium—without darkness, the stars do not burn. Kill the sun by the night.
I recall seeing Kian’s stygian wisps for the first time as they delicately curled around his fingers. I sit up on my bed, crossing my legs, and stare at my own hands, closing and then unclenching my fists. I want it—to feel power moving under my skin.
Shutting my eyes, I breathe in and out slowly and deeply.
I reach into myself, wade through the darkness in my center.
“Please let there be light, please be light,” I chant.
But it’s just a black cavernous drop into nothing—like light has never existed in me at all.
Maybe at one point it did. Maybe my light was snuffed into shadow by years of disuse.
Or maybe it died with Dmitri, sputtered out with his fall down that mining ravine.