Chapter 5
Elio
I’D SPENT YEARS PERFECTING THE art of provocation and knew exactly which words landed like daggers and which silences cut deeper than insults. Attack, counterattack, riposte—a carefully choreographed dance where I always led.
Now I was waiting for curtain call on a performance I hadn’t scripted.
Not metaphorically. Actually waiting because my parents were out there somewhere, working with the master, and eventually they’d make their move. The question wasn’t if. It was when and how badly it would hurt everyone I cared about.
I was alone in the common room. The fire flickered at the grate as I leaned back on the velvet settee.
Only the tips of Echo’s scales shimmered yellow—like a tremor running along the edges of her skin. But the colors never reached her core. My chameleon familiar had never been good at hiding my real emotions, which was ironic considering I’d spent years perfecting that particular skill myself.
Only truth now, I muttered, studying the intelligence report in front of me.
Even when the truth was terrifying.
The report had come through Keane’s portal network an hour ago, containing confirmed sightings of my parents in three different countries over the past week. Prague, Vienna, Cairo—all cities with ancient wellsprings and extensive magical archives.
But the sightings were just the latest piece. Over our extended break, while Marigold was in Albany, I’d gone home. Not to see my parents—they were already in hiding by then—but to go through what they’d left behind.
Files. Research notes. Correspondence. Decades of intelligence-gathering hidden in false-bottom drawers and behind warded portraits.
Everything they’d compiled while working with the master.
The paper trail of betrayal, catalogued in elegant handwriting and perfect ink, like a final act staged without me.
I’d spent three weeks cataloguing it all, trying to understand exactly what they’d been planning.
The report only confirmed what I’d already pieced together. My parents weren’t just collaborators. They were the master’s primary intelligence network, and they were looking for one thing—not Marigold herself but what she could do.
My fingers found the rings I wore—five of them today, silver and onyx, gifts from people who didn’t know me anymore. I twisted them compulsively, a nervous habit I’d never quite managed to break.
Old instinct screamed at me to bury this information. Hide it where Marigold would never see it. She had enough stress already. Why add more to her plate?
Except I knew exactly why. Because hiding things for her own good was what had broken her trust in the first place. Because love wasn’t protecting someone from hard truths. It was standing beside them while they faced those truths head-on.
Because I’d promised. No more masks. No more performances. Just honesty, even when it hurt.
Especially when it hurt.
A single line of bold crimson split down Echo’s spine, stark against her silver-green shimmer—a declaration more than a mood.
I stood. Come on. Let’s go ruin her evening.
Outside Marigold’s door, I knocked and waited. The door wouldn’t open unless she willed it.
When it did, I entered, and she looked up, her dark brown eyes immediately wary. Elio? Everything okay?
I held back my reflex to joke and went with the truth. I learned something. About my parents. It’s bad.
I watched her tense and saw the calculation behind her eyes. Was I about to hide something again? Dress up the truth in pretty words and careful omissions?
Echo shifted to honest blues on my shoulder—please believe me, please trust me—while my fingers twisted my rings compulsively.
They’ve been sighted, I continued, pulling out the intelligence reports to show her what I meant. I paused before making myself say the rest. They’re researching necromancy. Wellspring interactions with death magic. Historical records of heirs whose powers synergized.
They’re trying to understand why we work together, she said slowly, processing. Why our magic is stronger combined.
The timing had kept me awake three nights running.
My parents hadn’t started this research months ago, when Marigold first arrived at Wickem.
They’d started it the week after we cleansed the wellspring.
The week the master watched four heirs in magical harmony undo decades of his work in a single night.
He wasn’t researching us out of curiosity. He was researching us because we’d scared him. Because he had seventeen wellsprings in that network, and if we could do to one what we did to Wickem’s, we could do it to all of them, and he knew it before we did.
Yes, I said. And specifically…
Yes. And specifically… I swallowed hard. Why your necromancy seems to counter the corruption. They’re working directly with the master, which means whatever they learn, he learns.
The words came out flat and clinical, like I was reporting on strangers rather than the people who’d raised me. Maybe that’s what they were now, strangers who happened to share my blood, my pale blond hair, and my talent for deception.
Marigold took the reports, her honey-blonde hair falling forward as she read. I forced myself to stay quiet and let her process without filling the silence with charm or deflection.
If they figure out how my magic works against his corruption, she said finally, they’ll find ways to counter it.
Most likely. I swallowed hard. I don’t know why the master wants you specifically—just that he does.
Corrupting Raven to attack you, now researching necromancy’s interaction with wellsprings…
You’re important to whatever he’s planning.
Important enough that my parents are digging through centuries of magical archives to understand why.
She looked up then, and I braced for anger or fear or accusation.
Instead, her shoulders relaxed slightly. Relief.
Thank you, she said quietly. For telling me right away. For not trying to protect me from it.
Something tight in my chest eased. I wanted you to see it immediately.
Her hand found mine, a small gesture that meant everything. Trust rebuilding, one honest moment at a time.
This was what love looked like, I realized. Not grand gestures or perfect performances. Just showing up with the truth, even when the truth was ugly.
An hour later, all four of us gathered in the common room Keane had commandeered as our makeshift war room.
Cyrus leaned against the hearth, his arms crossed and posture deceptively relaxed but eyes sharp on the rest of us.
Marigold sat at the table beside me, her fingers still curled around a mug gone cold, while Keane paced just behind her, scanning the intel like he was memorizing every word.
I squared my shoulders. Echo’s scales shifted to burnished bronze.
Then I laid it out: my parents’ research, cross-referenced with intel from Keane’s surveillance, Parker’s vampire contacts, and the emergency council’s reports.
The master doesn’t corrupt randomly, I said, pointing to the patterns. Raven wasn’t targeted for her ambition or politics. She was close to Marigold, magically compatible, and emotionally vulnerable. You were busy with heir drama and council conspiracies. She was alone.
Bait, Keane said quietly.
Yes. A delivery system. An emotional weapon. I pulled more profiles. And she’s not the only one. My parents identified witches with the same pattern—isolated, sensitive, close to someone the master wants.
I should have noticed, Marigold said quietly, staring at the data. She was pulling away and I was too busy with… She gestured vaguely at the three of us. Everything else.
That’s what made her vulnerable, I said, keeping it professional. He targets witches who are emotionally isolated. Then he gives them exactly what they’re missing.
My parents’ research shows he’s been doing this for decades, offering lonely witches connection, purpose, and a sense of mattering.
I pointed to examples. A widow pushed out of her coven. A dismissed researcher. A student whose friends moved on.
Once they’re corrupted, I added, he turns them into weapons. Not because their targets are powerful but because the emotional leverage works.
Cyrus had been silent, leaning against the wall near Marigold but not quite beside her. Watching. Listening.
So how do we stop him from corrupting more people? Cyrus asked finally.
We can’t prevent isolation, I said. People lose friends, get busy, drift apart. That’s human. But we can watch for the signs—sudden behavioral changes, magical signature shifts, social withdrawal combined with newfound confidence.
And we protect the people around Marigold, Keane added quietly. Lucas—once he’s recovered. Aurora. Other students she’s close to.
Aurora’s with family right now, Cyrus said. Safer there than on campus where the master’s already struck.
Smart, I said. The more people we shield or distance, the harder we make his targeting.
Exactly.
Being useful felt different than being charming. Pattern recognition, intelligence-gathering—these weren’t just tricks. They were ways to keep her safe.
Later, after the others had left, Marigold caught my arm in the corridor.
You’ve been sharing everything, she said—an observation, not a question. All your parents’ research. Every piece of intelligence.
That’s the deal, I said. No more hiding things because I think I know better.
It’s working.
Her fingers squeezed my arm briefly before she headed back toward Keane’s suite. Small gesture. Huge meaning.
I was earning my place here—not through charm or manipulation but through showing up with truth.
And maybe…just maybe…that version of me was worth keeping around.