Chapter 29
Lochlan
“I ACCIDENTALLY MARRIED A WOOD DEVIL—AND NOW I’M CURSED. WHAT DO I DO?” —MESSY_IVY
Lochlan stepped into Becket’s office just as a flurry of tarot cards flew past his head, smacking into the wall beside the door.
“Foul cards!” Becket cursed, throwing his hands up dramatically.
“You know, Beck,” Lochlan said dryly, using Nia’s shadow magic to gather the scattered deck. “The cards are just a conduit. It’s not actually their fault.”
Becket shot him a glare. “Don’t start with me, you… you…” He trailed off, scanning Lochlan as if searching for the perfect insult, then pointed an accusatory finger. “You’re getting some, you smug bastard!”
Lochlan froze. Heat crept up his neck as his memories betrayed him—Nia’s breath against his skin, the way she’d looked at him, let him in. His stomach tightened, not just with want, but with something he wasn’t ready to name. Something that felt too close. Too risky. Too easy to lose.
Becket’s grin widened. “Oh, you are.”
Lochlan rubbed a hand over his face, trying to will away the flush creeping across his skin. “Beck.”
“No, no—don’t Beck me.” Becket leaned forward, all keen eyes and mischief. “You’re blushing. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you blush over a girl. This is fantastic.”
Lochlan shook his head. “You need better hobbies.”
“I disagree. This is exactly how I want to spend my afternoon.”
Lochlan rolled his eyes, but the warmth lingered. It was too soon to examine or untangle everything that last night had shifted inside him—too soon to admit how deeply it was sinking in.
Which meant he needed to stop thinking about it. Now.
“Have you warded since the attack?” Lochlan asked, tapping his temple to indicate what he meant: The Sword invading Becket’s mind. He wasn’t ready for his father-in-law to hear about where he might be going.
Becket muttered something under his breath as he stood and headed for a shelf crowded with herbs and crystals.
He grabbed what he needed and returned to his desk, creating a quick circle around it with deft, practiced movements.
His words were low and steady as he threaded the spell together with ease.
Lochlan watched, a faint but familiar discontent settling over him. This kind of spell magic—fast and intuitive—was second nature to people like Becket and Nia. They’d grown up with it, woven it into the fabric of their lives without hesitation.
He hadn’t.
His magic had always been slow, methodical: a tool for coaxing plants to thrive, for breathing life into paper worn thin with age.
Even his work for the Videt relied on that care and patience—restoration spells, delicate repairs, unweaving damage without unraveling the past. But Nia’s shadows came to him as naturally as breathing.
It was as though something deep inside him had been waiting for the chance to bloom, and now emerged with startling speed.
Still, it wasn’t like Becket or Nia, who seemed to wield their magic with intuition and ease—whether shadows, or seeing, or spell work.
Lochlan didn’t feel it in his bones. At least, not usually.
Only when it mattered, he realized. Like that night in the Videt ballroom, surrounded by chaos: he’d acted quickly, intuitively and confidently—to help Nia.
His thoughts turned to his mother and sister. They had never made him feel that way, never needed his help, or helped him when he was in need. They’d cast him aside and made his life hell.
He thought of the day he was crowned prince.
His acknowledgment—that was the phrase they had used, as if he hadn’t existed before they’d chosen to take notice.
The ceremony had been held in a grand hall before diplomats and carefully selected members of the public on his fourteenth birthday.
His mother had placed the crown on his head, her hands stiff, her expression formal and unreadable.
Not once had she wished him a happy birthday.
Thane had been there, at least. His older brother had returned from a mission just for him, guiding him through what to expect, telling him he’d be there the whole time.
And he was—until he wasn’t. The moment the formalities had ended, he’d slipped away for another mission before the night was over.
That had left Lochlan alone in the ballroom, seated at the far end of the main table where, ironically, no one acknowledged him.
No congratulations, no conversation, just the clatter of silverware and the low hum of voices speaking over or around him.
His sister, Drusilla, had barely spared him a glance—until she got up to dance.
As she passed, she’d bumped his chair hard enough to send his cup tipping forward, spilling juice down the stiff, uncomfortable suit he’d been forced into.
Minutes later, a palace worker had leaned down to whisper in his ear.
“The queen has dismissed you. I will escort you back to your room.”
Dismissed.
The rest of Lochlan’s time in the castle had been just the same. His mother never spoke to him. Thane was never there. Drusilla was always cruel.
Yet here he was, considering going back.
Becket dropped into his chair, spinning it slightly before settling in. “Spill.”
Lochlan leaned against the edge of the desk, arms crossed. “I don’t know where to start.”
Becket arched an eyebrow. “Oh, I don’t know.
Maybe start with how I had to hear about the catastrophe at the full moon celebration from the Stella Rune Gazette?
The Gazette, Lochlan! They say you and Nia don’t seem to work—terrible match, doomed for disaster.
How your bad influence is why she couldn’t do the spell.
” He smirked. “Yet, here you are, strolling into my office like you just bedded a goddess.”
Lochlan had basically bedded a goddess.
The media’s take didn’t faze him—he was used to being picked apart, to them getting things wrong. Still, the idea that he’d been the reason Nia struggled with the spell sent a flicker of irritation through him.
“Nia and I have an… agreement.” He cleared his throat. “But that’s not why I’m here.”
Becket leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “The plot thickens. And I’m guessing that’s not the only thing that’s been thickening.”
Lochlan let out a reluctant chuckle, shaking his head. He exhaled, his humor fading as he met Becket’s gaze. “Thane came to visit.”
The smirk vanished from Becket’s face. He cursed softly, leaning dangerously far back in his chair, the legs creaking under his weight.
“He asked me to come home,” Lochlan said, his voice carefully even, masking the conflict swirling inside him.
Becket’s jaw tightened, his usual teasing tone taking on a harsh edge. “That place is no home.”
Becket had always been protective when it came to this topic. He’d been there during those early years of freedom, the drunken nights when Lochlan had finally let pieces of the truth slip out, the details of why he’d left, why he’d never looked back.
“Maybe things have changed,” he said quietly, though the words felt hollow. “It’s been eight years.”
Becket didn’t say anything. Lochlan could feel the weight of his gaze, but looked away.
His own thoughts were enough to handle without trying to guess what Becket was thinking.
The truth was, this wasn’t the first time he’d let the idea of returning to Dover creep in.
Watching Becket’s family—loud, chaotic, full of love—had planted a seed.
Lochlan’s own father had been incredible but it had always been just the two of them.
After he died, that sense of belonging had disappeared.
He hadn’t realized just how deeply and fiercely he’d longed for family, community, people who were his, until he spent those school breaks surrounded by everything he’d never had. And now, the possibility dangled in front of him. If he didn’t go back, he’d never know. If he did…
“Have you talked to Nia about this?” Becket asked, leaning forward in his chair.
“I told her some of the history,” Lochlan replied. “And my brother’s request.”
“And the possibility of leaving?”
Lochlan looked away. He hadn’t. He couldn’t. The thought of telling her made his chest tighten.
Unless she’d go with him.
Becket sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose as if he’d heard Lochlan’s thought. “Magic has to be hidden there,” he said, his tone wary.
“Magic is hidden here,” Lochlan shot back.
“Not like that.” Becket’s gaze hardened. “It’s shunned there, Lochlan. Forbidden. It’s thought of as dangerous and wrong. Here, we can use it. We’ve got places where we can actually be free. And you—” He hesitated. “You’re finally using it. I’ve seen it.”
Lochlan’s gaze dropped to his lap. His fingers brushed against the ring Nia had given him, the token that was meant to ground and protect him, protect his life with her. Here.
“I don’t want you to go,” Becket said, quietly. “But maybe it’s a good idea to get closure.”
“Maybe,” Lochlan murmured, though his voice lacked conviction and unease coiled in his stomach.
What would Nia say?
* * *
Wulfric’s elderly assistant offered Lochlan a drink as he stepped into The Sword’s office. He declined with a polite shake of his head.
Wulfric peered at him over his glasses, seated behind the imposing desk that dominated the room. A single sheet of paper was in his hand, its crisp edges catching the light as he glanced between it and Lochlan. His expression was unreadable. Silence stretched between them, tense and uncomfortable.
It was the opposite of how Lochlan had felt when they’d first met.
One of the older herbalists at the castle had told Lochlan about Stella Rune: a town where magic was everywhere but glamoured from humans. His father had spoken of it once, wistfully, as a place he’d always wanted to see.