Chapter 27
SABLE
The first time it happens in front of me, there’s no ritual, no warning, no dramatic flare of power.
Just wood.
Just a blade.
Just a mistake.
Corin stands in the yard near the split log pile, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back again with that same strip of black cloth that’s beginning to look like a permanent fixture.
The morning air smells like damp bark and cold iron, sharp enough to sting when I breathe too deeply.
The ground is still uneven from everything we did weeks ago, though grass has begun reclaiming the edges like it’s stubborn enough to forgive us.
He brings the blade down too fast.
Not sloppy.
Too fast.
The edge bites through the wood cleanly—then skids, just slightly, because the grain shifts at the last second. The motion carries through, and before he can correct—
The blade kisses his palm.
It’s not deep.
It’s not catastrophic.
It’s enough.
Blood spills instantly, bright against pale skin, running along the curve of his hand and dripping onto the log beneath. The smell hits me sharp and metallic, cutting through the morning air like a warning bell.
“Damn it,” Corin mutters.
I’m already moving.
“Hold still,” I snap, grabbing his wrist before he can even think about brushing it off.
He blinks at me. “It’s a scratch.”
“It’s bleeding.”
“It’s always bleeding when cut, Sable, that’s the general expectation—”
The blood stops.
Not slows.
Stops.
Right in front of me.
The wound closes like it’s being pulled together from the inside, skin knitting cleanly without scar, without hesitation, without any of the fragile, human delay I know too well.
I tighten my grip on his wrist.
“Don’t move.”
“I wasn’t—”
“Corin.”
He stills.
Good.
I turn his hand under the light, examining the place where the blade cut him. There’s nothing left. Not even a mark to pretend it happened. Just smooth skin, faintly flushed where the injury used to be.
My stomach drops.
“Okay,” I say slowly. “Explain that.”
Corin glances at his palm, then back at me. “Excellent nutrition.”
I lift my eyes to his face.
“Try again.”
He smiles.
Too quickly.
“I’ve been telling you. Porridge.”
I don’t let go.
“Corin.”
“Sable.”
“Don’t.”
He exhales, softer this time, something real slipping under the practiced deflection. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. You just healed in seconds.”
“I’ve always healed quickly.”
“No,” I say, tightening my grip just enough to make the point land. “You haven’t.”
His expression flickers.
There.
A crack.
He looks away first, which is new.
“People change,” he says.
“Not like that.”
He shrugs, but it’s not as careless as he wants it to be. “Maybe I’m improving.”
“From human to what?”
His mouth opens—
Closes.
For a fraction of a second, his eyes flash gold.
I freeze.
It’s faint. Quick. Gone almost before I can process it, but I know what I saw. Not reflection. Not light. Not imagination.
Gold.
The same hue that threads through Rhazek’s infernal fire.
The same color that flickers in the bond when power aligns just right.
“Did you see that?” I ask quietly.
“See what?”
“That.”
He frowns. “You’re going to have to be less cryptic.”
“Your eyes.”
“My eyes are perfectly functional, thank you.”
“They just—” I stop, recalibrate, try again. “They changed.”
He stares at me.
Then laughs.
Not the sharp, deflective laugh he uses when dodging something dangerous.
This one is lighter.
Too light.
“I assure you, if my eyes were doing anything dramatic, I’d be the first to notice.”
“I noticed.”
“You also think I’m secretly a culinary miracle because of porridge.”
“That’s not—” I exhale sharply. “Corin.”
“Sable.”
I step closer, narrowing the distance until there’s no space for easy escape. “Something is happening.”
“Something is always happening.”
“Not like this.”
He tilts his head, studying me now instead of dodging. “You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
His expression shifts again, softer this time, more thoughtful. Then he glances down at his hand, flexes his fingers once as if testing something invisible.
“I didn’t feel anything,” he says.
“That doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”
“It usually does.”
“Not with this.”
He looks back at me, and for a moment, the humor fades completely. “You think I’m… what? Infected? Changed? Secretly turning into something with terrible manners?”
“I think you just healed like Rhazek.”
That lands.
Hard.
Corin’s posture straightens slightly, not defensive, not aggressive—alert. “That’s a bold comparison.”
“It’s an accurate one.”
He considers that, gaze drifting briefly toward the house where Rhazek is undoubtedly aware of this conversation whether he’s physically present or not. Then his mouth curves again, softer now.
“Well,” he says, “if I’m becoming infernally enhanced, I do hope I get the wardrobe upgrade.”
I stare at him.
He sighs. “Too soon.”
“Yes.”
He lifts his hand, turning it under the light again. “It doesn’t feel different.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“It’s not alarming either.”
“It should be.”
He shrugs again, but there’s tension in it now. “I’ll keep an eye on it.”
“I will keep an eye on it,” I correct.
“That sounds ominous.”
“It’s meant to.”
Something flickers behind him.
I shift my gaze past his shoulder.
His shadow.
It moves.
Not dramatically. Not enough to scream danger. Just… slightly off. The edges ripple for a fraction of a second, like heat distortion over stone, then settle back into place.
My grip tightens again.
“Don’t move,” I say.
He freezes. “I wasn’t planning to.”
“Your shadow.”
“My shadow has always been suspicious.”
“It just flickered.”
“That seems unlikely.”
“I just saw it.”
He glances back over his shoulder, then down at the ground where his shadow stretches long across the uneven yard. It looks normal now. Still. Obedient.
He turns back to me. “Lighting.”
“It’s not lighting.”
“Sable.”
“It’s not.”
We stand there for a moment, tension stretching thin between us.
Then Corin exhales and gently pulls his wrist from my grasp.
“I appreciate the concern,” he says, tone lighter again, carefully balanced. “Truly. But I’m not collapsing, not sprouting horns, and not currently possessed by anything that wants to redecorate the house.”
“That’s a very specific list.”
“I like to be thorough.”
“You’re deflecting.”
“I’m coping.”
That earns him a pause.
Fair.
I study him again, slower this time, looking past the easy charm, the practiced humor, the way he holds himself like nothing in the world can surprise him if he names it first.
Something is different.
Not loud.
Not obvious.
But there.
“Fine,” I say finally. “We’ll leave it alone.”
“For now?”
“For now.”
He nods once. “Reasonable.”
He picks up the blade again like nothing happened, adjusting his grip with that same careful precision. “Now, unless you intend to supervise my chopping technique indefinitely, I have wood to offend.”
“I might stay.”
“I feel judged.”
“You are.”
“Charming.”
I step back, giving him space, but I don’t leave.
Not yet.
I watch him.
Every movement. Every shift in posture. Every flicker of expression. The way his breathing stays steady. The way his stance has changed. The way the air around him feels just slightly… denser than it used to.
He notices.
Of course he does.
“You’re still watching,” he says without looking up.
“Yes.”
“Should I perform something impressive?”
“Just don’t bleed again.”
“No promises.”
He resumes chopping.
This time, the blade moves cleanly, controlled, precise. No slips. No mistakes. No more blood.
But I don’t miss the way his shadow lags a fraction behind one of his movements.
Barely.
Almost nothing.
Enough.
Later, I find Rhazek inside.
He’s in the study again, because of course he is, standing near the window with that same stillness that means he’s already aware of everything and is simply waiting for confirmation.
I close the door behind me.
“He healed,” I say.
Rhazek doesn’t turn immediately. “Yes.”
“You felt it.”
“Yes.”
I step closer. “It wasn’t normal.”
“No.”
“His eyes—” I stop, gather the memory. “They flashed gold.”
That gets his attention.
He turns slowly, expression controlled, but the bond tightens just slightly with his focus.
“Describe it.”
“Brief. Faint. Gone immediately.”
“And his shadow?”
I blink. “You knew about that too?”
“I am observing.”
I almost smile at that.
“It flickered,” I say. “Just once. Subtle.”
Rhazek’s gaze sharpens. “And he noticed?”
“No. Or he pretended not to.”
“Likely both.”
I cross my arms. “So?”
“So,” he says carefully, “something is changing.”
“In him.”
“Yes.”
I study his face. “You’re not surprised.”
“I am not unprepared.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“No.”
I step closer, lowering my voice. “Tell me what you think.”
He considers me for a moment, weighing something.
Then: “I think the merging did not occur in isolation.”
My pulse ticks up slightly. “Meaning?”
“Energy does not exist in vacuum,” he says. “The ritual, the bond, the destruction of Maltherion’s remnants… all of it created a field. Corin was present. He anchored. He stabilized. He absorbed stress that would have otherwise fractured the structure.”
“And now?”
“And now we are seeing the consequences.”
I exhale slowly. “You think he’s… what? Changing into something like you?”
“No.”
The answer comes immediately.
“Then what?”
“I do not know yet.”
I study him, searching for anything he’s not saying.
“You’re worried.”
“I am cautious.”
“You’re worried,” I repeat.
His mouth tightens slightly. “Yes.”
I nod once. “Good.”
He looks at me. “Good?”
“Yes. Because if you weren’t, I’d be concerned about your judgment.”
That almost earns a smile.
“I will investigate,” he says.
“Quietly.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re not going to go interrogate him like a terrifying infernal overlord.”
“I am always a terrifying infernal overlord.”
“Rhazek.”
“I will be subtle.”
“Define subtle.”
“I will not set anything on fire.”
“That’s a low bar.”
“It is an effective one.”
I huff a quiet breath, some of the tension easing. “He’s acting normal.”
“That does not mean he is.”
“I know.”
We stand there for a moment, the bond steady between us, the house quiet around us.
“He kept training,” I say. “Like nothing happened.”
Rhazek nods slowly. “He would.”
“I’m going to watch him.”
“I expect nothing less.”
I glance toward the door, toward the yard, toward the place where Corin is still moving through patterns with that too-fast precision.
“Something’s different,” I say.
“Yes.”
“And we’re going to figure out what.”
“Yes.”
I look back at Rhazek, meeting his gaze fully.
Because whatever this is—
It’s not over.
And this time, I’m not waiting for it to explode before I pay attention.