Chapter 7
Lucina
Islide out from underneath Callan’s heavy arm and pull my sore and stiff legs from the blankets, groaning as I find my footing on the cold hardwood. I fumble my way into the bathroom, careful not to wake him, and gently shut the door behind me.
My nightmares are back. But instead of someone else’s memories, they’re my memories. Things I’ve actually lived. Mostly of the dark pit I fell into when the Ashvine was eating away at my insides, taking me close enough to death that I really thought that was it.
Except no god was waiting there for me. Not even Pyra. And I think I’d have preferred her presence over that of my father. Of the things he told me.
I woke up screaming, sometime in the middle of the night, and Callan came running in. It’s a new symptom of these nightmares, it seems, but the steady rise and fall of his chest against my back was the only thing that settled me long enough to drift back to sleep.
I didn’t dare tell Callan what the nightmare had been about. It would have come with too many questions, and the answers—the real answers—would ruin everything. Callan would never look at me the same. Nobody here would.
I rub my arms, the air in the bathroom chilly, and tiptoe my way across the tile.
Every part of me is as tired as it is sore.
My arms, my legs, my torso…even my organs ache, my insides begging for rest. But I brought this on myself when I asked to be an Ajax.
Albatross, I hope, was the tip of the iceberg.
But I still have initiation.
Even with the exhaustion wearing on my bones, my magic still demands more of me, and it’s too much, now, to be stomached.
It builds and builds throughout the day, multiplying while I sleep, becoming so intense that I’m forced awake from the pressure.
It swells against my skull and doesn’t stop until I set some of it free—something I was too afraid to do.
Until the tension started eating me alive.
Rolling out my shoulders, dive into the agony, focusing on its source. I coax forward only a fraction to the surface, releasing that small spark through my open palm.
A shimmering illusion of a hummingbird comes to life, and the relief is instant.
Enough to take the edge off the pressure, and I inhale a much-needed breath as I watch the little bird fly around the bathroom, fluttering up and down the small space.
The illusion is innocent enough that a smile cracks through my exhaustion.
It tangles through the shower curtain hooks, golden wings beating too fast for the naked eye as it zips over to me, hovering just inches from my face.
It’s my magic—my illusion—but something about the way the bird looks back at me gives it some kind of sentience.
It’s the first time I’ve looked at something I’ve created and recognized it.
It’s the first time I’ve looked straight into the eyes of the beast that lives inside of me.
Its golden wings beat too fast for the naked eye as it tangles through the shower curtain hooks and zips over to me. I stand straight, tilting my head as it hovers just inches away from my face. Reaching up to touch it, my fingertips barely graze the illusion and its golden wings fade to grey.
Then brown.
Then black.
Its eyes turn beady, and its long beak sticks out like a charred needle. Wings still beating faster and faster, the black bird becomes a blur of motion that with the close of my fist—
Vanishes entirely.
The illusion turns to mist, and its ashes fall to the tiled floor.
I’m no longer smiling when I turn from the mirror, silently using the restroom before deciding that that’s enough for today.
I assumed controlling what I inherited from my father would be similar to learning my mother’s magic, and with what little progress I’ve made, I think I’m right. At first, I thought I’d ignore it altogether. I figured if I pretended it wasn’t there, then surely it would go away. But then…
If you hide from it, it will consume you.
I’m not sure how I feel about my father, but I don’t believe he’d lie to me.
The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. If Rogue magic is anything like the Sol, my father’s power won’t fully belong to me until I can tame it. It will remain reckless and impulsive—something I can’t control.
Control or be controlled.
He’d said it with such certainty. As if it had happened to him.
I might not want his power to belong to me, but it can’t have a mind of its own either. It’s too risky.
My eyes roam Callan’s sleeping form, one long arm sprawled across the bed and the other tucked under the pillow I’d been lying on.
If I weren’t so helplessly drawn to him, I might have the strength to walk away. But I can’t. Instead, I’ve fallen into something far more dangerous—hope that he means it when he says he’d do anything for me. Hope that he’ll always believe that I’m capable, and worthy, and…important.
I don’t care whose daughter you are.
But he didn’t know who my father was when he said that.
It’s selfish, I know, keeping the truth from him.
A secret that might forever change the way he looks at me.
I might be more afraid of that reality than I am of the black void at the base of my spine, lurking beneath the bright swirl of Sol magic.
At least I can keep it in check. But my feelings for Callan?
There’s no controlling what’s already spiraled.
A wave of guilt tightens in my gut, making me nauseous. Instead of getting back in bed, I slip into the hall, grabbing one of his sweaters on my way out. The cabin is quiet, the sky outside the windows an early morning grey as I pad across the hardwoods.
I crack open the door to the office, mindful of the quiet creak in the hinges. Crossing the room, I gently tug back the curtains until the soft grey light filters in, the beginning of dawn casting shadows over the mess of papers and split-open books that Callan poured over late into the night.
An amber lantern flicks on as I move around the table and sink into Callan’s chair, tucking my legs up between the leather armrests. I begin rifling through the mess until I find the book I’m looking for.
The one about Wards.
Last night during the meeting, I had an idea. But I need to work it out in private, and I need to wait until Initiation is done to share any findings.
Callan said I can’t leave Pirn until then.
Being an Ajax would also grant me clearance through the Banyan, and there’s no way in hell I’d risk outing my father’s identity without access to an escape should things go wrong.
Like, for example, my secret coming to light, and the Dame choosing to hack off my head or hang me from the Banyan.
Maybe Pirn will riot me with pitchforks or try to exorcise the demon out of me.
I flip to the first page in my book, squinting to read the small print, and my eyes snap up when the door hinges creak.
“No,” Callan says with a firm shake of his head. His dark brown hair is all out of sorts, and there’s a soft, sleepy look to his face that is so at odds with his tone. “Come back to bed,” he all but orders, gesturing to the books sprawled out around me. “It’s too early for this.”
I take in the sight of him in the doorway—which he manages to make look a lot smaller than it is. He didn’t bother with a shirt, his inked river of Sol Marks on full display, and I’m jealous of how well he’s holding onto his tan.
My gaze lingers on the massive tattoo.
I’ve learned every Mark. I trace my fingers across the inked lines whenever I get the chance, loving how the raised skin feels beneath my own and loving the way his body responds to the touch. I think he might enjoy it more than I do.
Then, my stare drifts to the loose pants hanging off his hips, the linen much too thin to leave anything to the imagination.
Realizing how long I’ve been staring, I quickly avert my attention back to the book in my lap. “Is that an order?” I ask.
“It can be.”
I huff a laugh, the leather creaking as I lean back in the chair, tugging my legs and the book closer to my chest. “I’m not tired.”
“We don’t have to sleep.”
I roll my eyes up to him, and he smirks.
Despite the sudden rush of adrenaline and how achingly handsome he looks even with what little sleep he got, the memory of my nightmare is too fresh to go back to that room.
Callan exhales when I stay seated, his grin fading into patient understanding.
“Fine.” He uncrosses his arms, pushes off the door frame, and disappears down the hall.
He rounds the corner a heartbeat later with a blanket tucked under his arm, crossing the room in a few long strides until he’s towering over my chair—his chair.
He flicks his chin for me to get up, and I oblige him.
The second I’m standing, he slips onto the worn leather cushion and pulls me into his lap.
I fold my bare legs over his, and he drapes the blanket across us.
I’m not even sure I need it with how warm his body is, but once I’m settled, he takes a deep breath, exhaling like he’s relieved.
I smile, pulling the book back into my lap. “Is this your way of bringing the bed to me?”
His laugh is low and raspy as one hand comes down to rest on my thigh and the other drapes across the armrest behind me. “I guess so.” Callan moves my hair over my shoulder so he can get a better look at the book. “What are we reading? Wards?” he asks, catching a glimpse of the title.
“Mhm,” I nod, turning the page. “Phoenix gave me an idea.”
“That’s a terrifying thought.”
I shrug. “Sometimes it’s the crazy ones. They have such a unique perspective on things. Fresh eyes and all that.” Callan snorts, but I ignore his skepticism. “What he said was morbid, but it had me thinking—how much Rogue blood would it take to trick the ward? There has to be a threshold.”
“A threshold?” Callan prompts, fingers freezing where they’d been aimlessly tracing circles over my thigh. “Easton said Nix's plan wouldn’t work.”