Chapter 16
Only one place to start, she thought, with her wand secure in her hand and the spell laid out on the table.
She traced the instructions once, then again, committing the order to memory.
First, she had to name the question she wanted the magic to answer.
Then she chose no specific person; she held the people she was weighing in her mind and let the divination decide which connection mattered most. The final step required her to speak the incantation while pressing the tip of her wand to the center sigil and fixing her intent on the question.
Who can I trust?
Ellisar. Tanyl. Kiran.
Each name carried a distinct risk, a different truth waiting. Who would she find in the vision?
Imani repeated the sequence silently until she could perform it without looking at the page. She lifted her wand, touched the carved tip to the inked sigil, and began the incantation. With each repetition, she held the three names in her mind while forcing the question beneath them.
The magic took hold like a whip to her back, making her gasp.
The room wobbled instead of disappearing entirely.
Its edges blurred as another dimension seeped in, overlaying the current space.
Light distorted, and sounds both muted and intensified at once, creating the sensation of two realities vying for the same breath.
She was compelled to view through a shaky, unfamiliar lens instead of passing smoothly through the doorway.
There was no clear boundary, only a bleeding overlap where neither world fully gave way.
The magic concentrated on her intent, homing in on the most crucial question.
Who can I trust?
Despite various forces acting from different angles, only one initially demanded her understanding. A constriction in her chest made her free hand fly to her sternum.
It stabilized as the connection formed, and a dark stone chamber encased her.
Narrow iron sconces cast a soft, steady glow that lit a long, scarred table unevenly.
Tall windows in the far wall showed only darkness—no stars, just the hint of a cold, dizzying height.
The air was thick, heavy, and suffocating.
It seemed built for private conversations that shouldn’t be overheard.
She didn’t recognize the room, but it carried the unmistakable architecture of the Niflheim palace.
Then she saw him, and her heart beat wildly.
Kiran stood half-turned, one hand braced against the table’s edge.
The restless, unhinged energy she had seen the night before was still there, but he wasn’t pacing, twitching, or idly fidgeting.
Instead, all she saw were the frantic glances of his eyes as he studied the window, then the papers strewn across the table.
Zadie tapped her fingers on the table, impatient.
Was this a chance meeting? Or did the witch in the library want her to see this? It took only a breath for Imani to realize she had arrived late. The conversation was already underway, the tension set. With no clear anchor, she had to piece together the fragments as they spoke.
“You’re distracted,” Niflheim’s First Witch said, putting down the paper she’d been reading.
“I’m exactly where I need to be,” Kiran replied. He didn’t look at her as he stripped off his jacket and loosened his collar. “The question is whether you are.”
A pause. Zadie’s gaze narrowed, but she didn’t rise to the bait. “You made an agreement we didn’t discuss.”
“I made a window,” he corrected.
Her brow lifted slightly. “That’s not how Tanyl sees it.”
Kiran gave a short, dismissive laugh. “I don’t particularly care how Tanyl sees it.” He turned to face her, eyes devoid of heat or temper. “He needed numbers. Support. The appearance of alignment.” A faint, humorless exhale. “So I gave him enough to move.”
“And now?”
“Now he’s moved.”
The words seemed like a vise around Zadie’s throat as she took a slow step forward, her expression tightening just enough to draw a line in the sand. “You’re assuming he doesn’t expect this.”
“I’m counting on it.”
“You’re counting on him underestimating you?”
“I’m counting on him believing what he wants to believe,” Kiran replied. “That I’m still operating on instinct. That I’ll follow through because it’s easier than breaking away.”
Zadie tilted her head, studying him. “Support for him is already unstable. If you push too soon, you’ll fracture it completely.”
“And if I wait?” Kiran countered. “While he consolidates power? Turns whatever he’s built into something harder to break?”
Imani had no idea what they were talking about specifically, but it had the trappings of war. Zadie’s lips formed a hard line.
“He’s already stretched,” Kiran went on. “Essenheim can’t hold that position indefinitely. Not with the pressure he’s applying.”
“And you think striking soon gives you an advantage.”
“I know it does.” There was no hesitation.
Zadie circled him, arms crossed. “And where does that leave you, hmm?”
Imani held perfectly still, letting the conversation flow around her. The room had the heavy texture of reality—the flickering light, the worn stone—but she had no way to know whether this was the present or the echo of a past moment. She cradled that uncertainty carefully, like delicate glass.
“Exactly where I intended to be,” Kiran said.
“Independent of any allies?”
“Uncontrolled.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“It’s close enough.”
Zadie stopped in front of him, her eyes narrowing to a pinpoint. “You’re removing yourself from his plan, which creates a gap.”
“Good.”
“Gaps get filled.”
“Then I’ll fill it,” he sneered.
“With what?”
Kiran’s expression morphed into pure disdain as he deliberated paths that hadn’t fully resolved. “With position,” he said finally. “With timing. With whatever remains when the rest of them overextend.”
Zadie’s attention broke to the window as an owl hooted outside. “And her?”
Kiran put his fingers to his mouth, thinking.
“That’s not part of this,” he said, finally.
“It’s already part of it,” Zadie pressed. A muscle in his jaw jumped—the first visible crack in his control. “She complicates the plan. Whether you account for that or not doesn’t change it.”
“I am accounting for it,” Kiran said, a muscle in his jaw flexing slightly.
“By ignoring it?”
“By not letting it dictate the move.”
Imani didn’t think he was lying. She knew Kiran well enough by now to spot his tells.
But his honesty only made his resolve terrifyingly predictable to Imani.
Cunning did not veil the threat because belief and peril walked the same path.
The bare truth was that Kiran scared Imani.
Whatever he had planned would ripple outward, reshaping Essenheim and pulling her into the wreckage, whether she stood with him or against him.
Her fists clenched, and she leaned closer without realizing it.
Zadie exhaled slowly. “You’re balancing too many variables.”
“No,” Kiran said. “I’m removing the ones I don’t need.”
“And if you’re wrong?”
Kiran shrugged. “Then I adjust.” The words were delivered with chilling, absolute certainty.
Zadie held his stare, then gave an imperceptible nod. “You’ll only get one clean strike.”
“That’s all I need.”
“And if Tanyl sees it coming?”
Kiran’s mouth curled into a faint, cruel smirk. “Then he won’t be the only one prepared.”
Instability struck without warning. The chamber’s edges warped, the steady lines of stone melting out of focus. Voices stretched and thinned, words catching and distorting. The vision unraveled, detail by detail, fragmenting the spell into something Imani could no longer latch onto.
Kiran’s voice cut through the static—
“… not part of this…” then, harsher, “… she changes the balance…”
Another line followed, stretched by the failing connection— “… not letting her…”
And then nothing. The vision collapsed, and Imani jolted back.
The dim chamber shattered, and the weight of her own suite crashed over her—solid and undeniable. The crackle of her hearth fire replaced the layered echoes of Niflheim, and a sudden silence filled her ears.
She didn’t move, her hand still braced against the table. Had it been real? Could she trust Kiran?
Divination never handed over easy certainty. It only offered pieces. Kiran had hidden nothing, which made the answer impossible. He could be entirely truthful and still be the very threat that burned everything down. A choice she’d have to make in the dark.
Frustration burned her insides. The urge to cast it again—to dig for a simpler truth—tugged at her. It was a tempting but dangerous promise. If she let the spell decide for her, she wasn’t deciding at all.
Her eyes fell to the parchment.
She no longer needed it. The instructions had been simple enough once she understood them, and she had repeated the sequence until every step was fixed in her memory. If she chose to cast the spell again, she could reconstruct it without the page.
Leaving the original intact risked someone else casting it.
A spell capable of exposing the relationships someone trusted most was dangerous in anyone’s hands, especially in a palace full of people already calculating alliances around her.
She had no intention of letting a servant find it, a courtier steal it, or another divination witch decide to turn the same question against her.
The knowledge could stay with Imani, but the parchment could not.
Before she could change her mind, Imani picked up the parchment and flicked it into the fire.
The paper caught fire instantly, its edges folding in on themselves as the ink turned to ash. Regret flashed through her mind, but she pushed it aside. Knowledge mattered, but it had to be wielded, not blindly relied on.
A loud knock boomed through the room. Her focus snapped to the door. She opened it to find an attendant standing in practiced neutrality. He inclined his head with precise formality.
“The High Sentinel requests your presence,” he said.
His tone left no room for interpretation. She knew it was a command, not a request, because the timing was too perfect.
As she prepared to meet him, Imani shoved down her insecurities. She didn’t have the answers yet, not even close. But Ellisar was about to ask the questions, and she needed to be ready.