Chapter 14
Fourteen
I run my fingers over each of the four runes in the copper wheel: water, earth, air, fire. The brands drink in the warmth of my palm and give it back in a steady, glowing pulse that stirs an ancient ache deep in my chest. It hums beneath my skin and welcomes me with a slow build of heat.
I glance over my shoulder. Declan’s watching, arms crossed, gaze sharpened by caution and something else. Something protective. Like he’s ready to drag me out of danger again, whether I ask him to or not.
“When we first landed in this kingdom,” I say, voice quiet but steady, “you said I was scared.”
He glances down at his borrowed sandals. “I said a lot of things.”
“True. But you weren’t wrong about that one.” My pulse echoes in my ears, in my chest, in the pit of my stomach. “I’ve been scared this whole time.”
He lifts his chin, those dark eyes pouring fire into mine. “So have I.”
A crooked smile tugs at my mouth. “We don’t have to be afraid of this.”
His brows draw together, the smallest flicker of uncertainty flashing across his face. “What do you mean?”
I wish I could tell him. I’m not completely sure myself. But this feels right. For the first time in months—maybe years—I feel aligned. I’m no longer simply surviving. I’m beginning to find my place.
“You’ll see.” I turn back to the trunk. “We both will.”
I straighten my spine and press my hand flat against the symbol of fire.
The rune beneath my palm ignites in a soft flare of yellow light.
The wheel turns slowly, click, click, click, each quadrant shifting with the same mechanical beat from earlier.
The seam along the lid glows, a brilliant thread of fire racing around the edge.
I flinch as the heat kisses my wrist, but I don’t pull away.
Click.
The wheel unlocks. The trunk exhales. A warm rush of air spills out, brushing over my face like a memory scented with charred parchment, melted wax, and the faintest trace of cinnamon.
My hand falls away, fingers trembling as the lid creaks open.
Wood strains, copper groans, and then there’s light. Soft and smoldering, it slips from the trunk in ribbons of faint gold, candlelight filtered through smoke.
Inside, the trunk is packed with scrolls.
They’ve been clawed through, torn, rewritten, crossed out, reimagined.
The ink is blurred in places. Many are singed, smudged with charcoal, their edges blackened and fragile.
Wax-sealed fragments are strewn between the stacks like dried blood.
Burned scraps litter the pile, twitching as the cool air rushes to greet them.
I lean closer. The tug in my chest pulses. Fortune’s quiet yes ripples through my mind.
Carefully, I lift one. The parchment is brittle, flaking beneath my fingers. My gaze snags on a phrase slashed through so hard the page buckled:
Speak from the soul.
Below it, scrawled in darker ink:
Add fire burst on climactic line.
Another note:
Increase theatricality. Reduce pauses. No weeping!
I stare at the page, throat tight.
Declan crouches beside me, bracing one hand on his knee. He picks up another fragment, brows pinched. “Are these scripts?”
“Spells.” I hold up a half-burned page, the ink faded but legible. The parchment is soft in my hands. Ash clings to the edges. “It’s written in dual voices.”
“Like a duet?”
The tug in my chest sharpens. Say it. Fortune’s whisper presses in from all sides. Speak it out loud.
My lips part, and the moment the first syllable leaves my mouth, something inside me clicks into place.
By fire’s command, let falsehood turn to ash;
Speak not for praise, but that thy soul be seen.
Declan shifts closer, his warmth brushing against my side. Without hesitation, he picks up the next stanza.
Let silence break ’neath truths too long concealed,
Let shadowed bonds be burned where lies have been.
No spark for show, nor blaze for fleeting cheer,
But light the dark with that which thou dost fear.
The torch flames stretch taller, orange spines unraveling like ribbons against the ceiling.
Shadows convulse across the walls like startled birds.
Sweat slicks my forehead, and my breath hitches from the way his dark eyes flick to me between lines, like he’s binding himself to me as much as to the spell.
I continue the next verse, though my throat feels dry.
Now let the flame of candor be set free,
And purge the mask that pride would bid thee wear.
Declan’s gaze lingers on me as he answers, his lips curving around each word.
Seek not for love, nor fleeting vanity,
But bare thy soul, and speak what lieth there.
The room glows bright, every surface bathed in gold. The parchment in my hands curls, its edges smoking softly but holding. Ash coats my tongue. Magick thrums through the air, through us, and the sound of his voice beside me makes my chest ache.
Together, our voices blend into one.
When fire meets fire, the bond shall be revealed:
Two hearts made bare, in burning truth, are sealed.
The torches roar to life, flames flaring in unison. Light swells, its brilliance holding for a breathless moment before collapsing back into shadowy silence.
Heat stings my fingers, and I drop the parchment.
It flutters back into the trunk, edges glowing faintly.
My pulse is an uneven gallop in my chest. My breaths come too fast, too shallow.
Sweat slides down my temple, and I swipe it away with a shaking hand.
My whole body buzzes with heat and magick and the echo of his voice twined together with mine.
Declan cuts gently through the hush. “I wouldn’t call that weird.”
I look at him. My knees feel weak, the floor unsteady beneath me.
“No?” I breathe. He isn’t afraid. He isn’t dismissive. He isn’t running. He’s here, fully present, grounded, watching me like I’m not someone to control or fix, but someone to be in awe of. To follow. To believe in. “Then what would you call it?”
Declan’s gaze drags slowly across my face, catching on the shape of my mouth. “Powerful.”
My skin tingles with awareness. Heat coils low and hot, sending a pulse between my legs that makes my thighs clench.
“I don’t know where this is going.” I search his eyes. “What it will lead to.” The words are bigger than the spell. I’m not just speaking of magick, and we both know it.
“Amanda…” His fingers brush my temple, sliding through my hair with the softest touch before tucking it behind my ear. “I was ready to follow you into quicksand.”
I want to kiss him so badly it hurts. So badly it lives hot beneath my skin like a spark waiting to catch.
His gaze is searing, starving. He looks at me like he could devour me with nothing but his eyes, like if I lean in he’ll be on me—hands in my hair, mouth on my throat, burning me from the inside out.
And I’d let him.
Gladly.
Desperately.
I want his hands fisted in my dress, his tongue in my mouth. I want to taste the tension, swallow the groan I know he’s holding back. I want to grind against every hard inch of him until there’s nothing left between us but heat and skin and breathless want.
I can taste the kiss before it happens. I can feel it ghosting over my lips, making everything inside me clench and ache and beg.
I sway forward.
Just a little.
Just enough—
“I’m only saying”—Tarek’s voice comes from somewhere outside the room—“if I had a sword like that, I wouldn’t name it Marshmallow.”
Declan and I jolt apart like we’ve been struck by lightning.
A second voice responds, deeper and exasperated, unmistakably Dav. “I have not named my sword Marshmallow, Tarek. It’s Marrowshard. It is symbolic.”
“Huh, well,” Tarek says, footsteps drawing nearer. “It still sounds like something you’d toast over a fire.”
Declan drops his head on my shoulder and lets out a strangled groan.
My body feels fluttery, lips tingling, stomach flipping, heart swelling, and I slap a hand over my mouth to muffle the laugh that bubbles out.
In the distance, the drums start to pound, sounding the alarm for the nightly performances.
With a sigh, Declan straightens and drags both hands through his hair. “We need to move.”
I turn back to the trunk one last time and close the lid. The copper wheel spins once and locks with a soft, satisfied hiss.
“I still have to coat you in that bronzer the juggler gave us.”
His mouth twitches. “Don’t pretend like you’re not looking forward to it.”
I am. Maybe too much.
We wait until Dav and Tarek pass by this final row of tents on the edge of camp before slipping through the silk curtain.
Declan props what’s left of the shattered door back into its frame and pulls the silks into place until the tent looks like all the others lining the dunes.
Together, we step into the shimmer and heat of the Kingdom of Wands—our bodies still humming with magick, our lips still irritatingly, inconveniently unkissed, and another performance looming.
Amanda Ward, Story Witch. Declan Thorne, Brooding Assistant. Once more returning to the stage for another night of terrible acting, questionable scripts, and the ever-present hope we don’t get burned alive.
But something’s shifted. And I don’t know if it’s in the magick…
Or in me.