Chapter 7
I haven’t seen Lowan in days. Not that I care. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself, but every time footsteps echo down the hallways of the estate, my head lifts. My heart beats faster. And every time it’s not him, I pretend I wasn’t looking for him.
The estate itself hums with preparation for the upcoming holiday.
The Fated Night, or Feyrnacht, as Sirona calls it.
She tells me it marks the longest night of the year, when the Loom of Fate itself pauses—every life’s Thread held in perfect balance until the sun returns.
Only then does the Weaving begin again, fresh destinies unfurling with the light.
Some say that if you stay awake through the whole solstice night, you might glimpse that pattern in your dreams, a vision of the year ahead when dawn finally breaks.
Her excitement is infectious, especially as I watch the estate staff drape garlands and string festive decorations across every surface.
And yet—sadness prickles at the edges. Is this their version of New Year’s?
Back home, are my friends going out, counting down the hours together?
Where is my mother? Do they miss me as I miss them?
The only place I feel steady is outside, in the circle carved into the woods.
That place is mine now, as much as his. I spend hours there, moving with the dagger like I’ve wielded blades all my life.
I spin it across my fingers, drive it into tree trunks, pull it free again, throw it until my arm burns.
The first time the blade sank true, clean into the wood, I laughed out loud.
My only audience: a raven watching from a branch overhead, cocking its head as if it approved.
After hours in the training circle with only my dagger for company, I decide to take the long way back to the estate.
The grounds here really are beautiful—rolling enchanted gardens with every kind of plant imaginable, a glassy greenhouse tucked to the side, and stone paths that wind through wilder groves of flowering trees. I’ve hardly explored it all.
Today, I follow a shaded path until voices drift through the branches ahead. The clash of metal follows—steel on steel. My pulse quickens. Swords. I push through the tangle of the garden and freeze. Lowan.
He’s in the sparring ring with one of the estate guards, a circle of others gathered around to watch.
His shirt is gone, his body gleaming with sweat.
Every muscle flexes and coils as he moves—fluid, precise, devastating.
Swordplay looks like a dance in his hands.
His powerful thighs shift as he lunges, his pants pulling taut with each movement.
He spins, deflects, strikes again, all silver eyes and deadly grace.
My mouth goes dry. I can’t look away. I’m grateful for the screen of leaves, but then—his gaze flicks to mine. Caught. Heat scalds my cheeks as his attention snaps back to his opponent. One heartbeat later, the now disarmed guard’s blade is spinning uselessly into the dust.
I bolt back into the garden, branches snagging at my sleeves as I flee, desperate to put space between myself and Lowan Veynar—shirtless, gleaming, and far too dangerous for my sanity. He doesn’t follow, and I tell myself I’m glad.
Magic is harder, especially when I’m left to figure it out on my own.
I kneel in the moss, palms spread, trying to coax it forward.
I can feel it inside me now, humming in a way it never has before, but shaping it?
Guiding it? It slips away the moment I try.
Still, I feel closer to it—as though power waits, patient but restless, for me to stop fumbling and call it by name.
And through it all, Lowan’s voice loops in my head, low and steady: You’re in control.
The words stir emotions I’m not ready to face, not when my magic already burns too close to the surface.
When I’m not practicing, I sit with Sirona. She chatters endlessly, and sometimes I almost forget we aren’t old friends. Alva is kind and frets over me, but she also watches me with an intensity that makes me feel like one of her experiments.
“I knew there was something different about your magic,” she says one afternoon, setting aside a stack of worn books. “But I’ve looked through every scrap of record, and nothing like this exists. Nothing is written about an exchange of power. Nothing.”
I glance at the pages in front of her. My eyes snag on the letters—jagged and curling, familiar—words only my mother ever wrote for me.
My throat goes dry. With everything else going on, I’d forgotten about the lost language we share. “What is this?”
Alva looks up sharply. “What do you mean?”
“These letters. My mother taught me, so I know what they say.”
Her brow furrows. Sirona leans forward, her eyes puzzled. “You’ve asked about this before. When you first woke up.”
“Yes, I did,” I snap. “And no one gave me any answers then either.”
Alva studies me the way someone studies a map, trying to match landmarks that don’t quite line up. She doesn’t press further, but the way she stores the detail—like tucking it into some hidden drawer of her mind—sends a chill down my spine. Why isn’t anyone answering me?
The next day, I return to the circle, dagger flashing in the fading light.
I lose myself in movement, in the rhythm of strike and release, until the trees themselves feel like they’re holding their breath.
On the path back to the estate, the air shifts.
My heart stumbles. That scent—dark, wild, utterly unmistakable—wraps around me. Lowan.
Excitement surges before I can smother it.
I quicken my pace, eager despite myself, when a shadow detaches from the trees.
I startle, hand tightening on the dagger hilt.
He stands before me, black cloak stirring in the wind, hair tousled, silver eyes glinting in the dim light.
The sword hilt peeks above his shoulder, boots planted like the earth itself won’t move him.
“Oh,” I breathe. “You startled me.”
His fingers twitch once—like memory, like touch—and then still. His expression is all frost. “Apologies.” His silver eyes flicker over me once before he says, voice smooth and cold, “I came to find you. You’re needed with my mother.”
My pulse jumps. “Oh?”
“Yes. She has some information.”
Finally. Something other than silence and guessing games. I nod, trying to sound casual when inside I’m all but crackling with eagerness. “All right then.”
We fall into step on the path back toward the estate. I try not to look like I’m grinning just because he’s here.
“So…” I say lightly, “where have you been?”
His gaze stays forward. “That’s none of your concern.”
Well, of course it isn’t. My jaw tightens. “Fine. Then maybe you’ll tell me more about this supposed power I’ve inherited from you?”
Nothing. Not even a flicker. I roll my eyes skyward. “Glad to see your frosty exterior hasn’t thawed in the days we’ve been apart.”
Again—silence. Not even the courtesy of a smirk. Gods, he’s infuriating. I let out a sharp breath and clamp my mouth shut. Let him be ice. I’ll brood in silence and pretend I don’t care.
But inside, I’m elated. He’s back.
By the time we step inside the estate, I’ve schooled my face back into neutrality. Lowan leads me into a sitting room where Alva waits, calm and collected in her chair, Sirona perched nearby with that irrepressible glint in her eyes. But it’s the third figure that makes me pause.
A woman of about my age stands before the fire, hands clasped behind her back.
Her hair falls in dark, edgy waves; her frame is firm and taut like a blade kept sharp.
Silver-gray eyes, the same as Lowan's but less intense, catch the firelight when she glances our way. She looks like someone who doesn’t bother with games.
Alva rises slightly. “Ah, there you are. Metra, I would like you to meet my other daughter, Zillah. Zillah, this is Metra.”
“Hello,” I say, voice polite but cautious.
Lowan crosses the room to stand beside her, arms folded across his chest, the picture of a guardian carved from stone. I roll my eyes at the theatrics. Sirona snorts into her sleeve, giggling, and even Alva’s mouth twitches with the tiniest smile before smoothing back into calm neutrality.
“Please take a seat,” Alva says.
I lower myself into the chair, unease mixing with curiosity.
Alva folds her hands in her lap. “Metra, I cannot say for certain that what I am about to share is accurate. My experience as a healer tells me some things, but I have never seen magic like yours before. We are… going in blind.” My stomach flips.
“When you and Lowan accidentally—” she pauses, emphasizing the word in a way that makes Sirona choke back another laugh—“touched, something happened. Based on what I observed, I believe your ability may be to absorb the power of another.”
“What?” The word bursts out before I can stop it.
“Yes,” she says gently. “That is my theory. I do not know the limits, nor whether you can absorb more than one power. But I know magic always demands balance. I cannot imagine you could go on taking more and more without consequence. That is why you must work to understand what you already carry. Focus on the power you’ve taken in. Let Lowan teach you how to wield it.”
My eyes flick toward him. Of course, he already knows. His face is carved in ice, as though none of this information shocks him in the least. They’ve talked about this, without me.
“And,” Alva continues, “I would also like you to work with Zillah.”
My gaze shifts. Zillah’s eyes lock on mine, daring me to object.
“Why?” I ask.
“Because Zillah’s gift is shielding,” Alva says. “Everyone can shield, but her ability amplifies it. And one thing you must learn—perhaps the most important—is how to shield yourself and others from your power. Zillah will teach you.”
Zillah gives me the smallest, sharpest smile. Not unkind, but not soft either. A warning. A challenge.