Chapter 4 Iris
Iris
The inn is warmer than I expected, and significantly more crowded.
I pause in the doorway, taking in the scene.
The main room has been rearranged since I last stepped foot in here eight years ago, the tables pushed together to form a rough circle, chairs filled with people who all seem to know each other.
A fire crackles in the hearth. The smell of mulled cider hangs in the air, mixed with woodsmoke and magic.
Cadeon is a solid presence behind me, close enough that I can feel the cold radiating off him. He insisted on coming. Well, no, he didn't insist. He simply appeared by the door when I was putting on my coat, dressed in dark clothing, and said, "I will accompany you."
I didn't argue. The thought of walking into a room full of powerful mages alone made my stomach twist.
"Iris!" Thea waves from across the room, her smile bright and genuine. "Come sit!"
I weave through the tables toward her, hyper-aware of the way conversations pause as I pass. Eyes follow me. Assessing. Judging. Comparing me to the legend I'll never live up to.
Cadeon follows like a shadow. Silent. Watchful.
"I'm so glad you came," Thea says, pulling out a chair beside her. "Everyone, this is Iris Ashwood. Elspeth's granddaughter."
"We know who she is," says a man at the far end of the table. He's older, maybe seventy, with iron-gray hair and the kind of face that suggests he's never smiled in his life. "The question is whether she belongs here."
"Magnus," Thea says sharply. "She was invited."
"By you. Not by the council." Magnus leans back in his chair, studying me like I'm a particularly disappointing specimen. "Your grandmother was a founding member of this gathering. A war mage of considerable power. You are... what, exactly? An apothecary's assistant?"
My face goes hot. "I work in an apothecary, yes. I specialize in..."
"Kitchen magic." He finishes, saying it like it's a disease. "Herb sachets and love potions. Tell me, girl, can you even maintain your familiar bond? Or has it already begun to slip?"
Behind me, Cadeon freezes. Which is saying something since the man is definitely not a fidgeter.
It's not that he moves or makes a sound. It's that the temperature in the room drops about ten degrees, and the sense of danger that suddenly radiates from him is palpable.
Through the bond, that gossamer-thin thread I can barely feel most of the time, I feel it. Cold fury. Protective rage. The first strong emotion I've felt from him since the bond activated.
"My bond is fine," I lie, because what else can I say? "And I'd be happy to help research what's happening to the bonds. Grandmother had an extensive library. If there are historical records..."
"Your grandmother," Magnus interrupts, "would have solved this already. She had discipline. Control. The kind of will necessary to maintain a proper bond." His gaze slides to Cadeon, dismissive. "I suppose we'll see if the vampire goes feral when yours inevitably breaks."
The fury through the bond spikes so sharply I actually gasp.
"That's enough, Magnus." A new voice, crisp and authoritative.
A woman in her forties with clever eyes and ink-stained fingers stands from her seat.
"Iris has agreed to help. That's more than some have offered.
" She extends her hand across the table.
"Petra Blackwood. I run the bookshop in the village.
I've been coordinating our research efforts. "
I shake her hand gratefully. "Nice to meet you."
"Your grandmother had impeccable taste in reference materials," Petra continues, settling back into her seat. "I'd love to compare notes on bond theory. Have you found Elspeth’s personal journals yet, it might also help pinpoint a timeframe on her end as well."
"Some of them, yes." I'm acutely aware of Cadeon standing behind my chair, radiating menace like a particularly murderous statue. "I haven't read through everything yet."
"No rush. Though time is a factor." Petra pulls out a leather-bound notebook. "Let me catch you up on what we know so far."
The meeting lasts two hours, and by the end, my head is spinning.
The facts, as far as anyone can tell: bonds across the region started weakening about two months ago.
The effect is gradual but accelerating. Mages report losing the ability to sense their familiars' emotional states or locations.
Commands take longer to "stick." Some familiars describe feeling "untethered," like they're floating.
No one has died yet. No familiars have gone feral. It's unsettling rather than dangerous.
But no one knows why it's happening.
"The timing suggests a connection to the solstice," Petra says, making notes. "The weakening accelerated as we approached Midwinter. There are historical precedents for magical fluctuations during solstice periods, but nothing quite like this."
"Could it be intentional?" asks a younger mage I haven't been introduced to. "Someone breaking bonds deliberately?"
"To what end?" Thea's familiar, Ash, a quiet man with silver in his dark hair, speaks for the first time. "If someone wanted to free familiars, there are less... gradual methods."
The conversation spirals into theories. Magical interference. Environmental factors. Ancient wards failing. Everyone has an opinion. No one has answers.
I mostly stay quiet, taking mental notes, trying not to feel like an imposter.
Magnus doesn't speak to me again, but I can feel his disapproval like a weighted blanket.
When the meeting finally winds down, Thea catches my arm. "Don't let Magnus get to you. He's like that with everyone."
"He's not wrong though," I say quietly. "I'm not my grandmother. My magic is different. Weaker."
"Different isn't weaker." Thea squeezes my arm. "We need healers as much as we need warriors. Maybe more."
I want to believe her. I don't.
The walk back to the cottage is cold and silent.
Snow crunches under our feet. The moon is bright enough that the forest feels almost magical, all silver light and dark shadows. Under other circumstances, it would be beautiful.
"You didn't have to do that," I say finally.
"Do what?" Cadeon's voice is carefully neutral, but I can still feel the remnants of his anger through the bond.
"Get angry. When Magnus was being an ass."
"He insulted you."
"He's not wrong. I'm not her. I'm not powerful like my grandmother."
"He insulted you," Cadeon repeats, and there's something in his voice now. Something sharp. "You are my... you are the Ashwood mage. I will not tolerate disrespect."
I stop walking and turn to look at him. He stops too, meeting my gaze with those pale gray eyes.
"Is that the bond?" I ask. "Making you defend me? Or do you actually care?"
For a long moment, he just stares at me. Then: "I don't know."
The honesty of it catches me off-guard.
"Two hundred years of being told what to feel," he continues quietly. "What to want. What to care about. I don't know what's real anymore."
"That's the saddest thing I've ever heard."
"It's the truth."
We stand there in the snow, looking at each other, and I make a decision.
"I'm going to bake something when we get home," I announce. "Something complicated and unnecessarily labor-intensive. And you're going to sit in the kitchen and keep me company while I stress-bake my way through this entire disaster of an evening."
He blinks. "I don't..."
"Not a command. An invitation. You can say no."
Another pause. Then, so quietly: "I'd like that."
By the time we reach the cottage, I've worked myself into a proper state.
"Kitchen magic," I mutter, pulling ingredients from the pantry with more force than strictly necessary.
"Like it's somehow less valid than throwing fireballs at people.
You know what kitchen magic does? It feeds people.
It comforts them. It heals them from the inside out.
But sure, let's all bow down to the war mages who can level buildings. "
I slam a bag of flour onto the counter. A small poof of white erupts from the top.
"I'm making bread," I announce to the kitchen at large.
"My great-grandmother's recipe. The one she used to make before she decided to turn our family into a war machine.
It takes four hours and requires three separate rises and I'm going to put so much angry magic into it that it'll probably come out tasting like spite. "
"That sounds..." Cadeon stands rigid in the doorway. "Unpleasant to eat."
"It's going to be delicious and you know it."
"I don't actually need to eat."
"But you can taste. So you're going to taste this bread and tell me if my magic is less valid than setting things on fire."
He doesn't argue. Just moves to sit at the kitchen table, watching me with something that might be amusement. Yes, definitely saw a crinkle around his eyes.
I start measuring ingredients. Flour. Salt. Yeast. My hands move through the familiar motions while my mind spins.
"I shouldn't have gone tonight," I say, dumping flour into a bowl with unnecessary violence. "I don't belong with them. I don't have the right kind of magic. The right kind of power. I'm just going to disappoint everyone the same way I disappointed her."
"You're making a mess."
I look down. There's flour everywhere. On the counter. On my hands. Somehow in my hair.
"I'm stress-baking. Mess is implied."
"I see." He's definitely amused now. I can hear it in his voice, even if his face hasn't changed. "And the bread will be edible despite the... violence?"
"The bread will be perfect. Anger makes excellent bread. It's the kneading." I start combining ingredients with more care now, feeling my magic hum to life. "You have to really work the dough. Channel all that frustration into gluten development."
"Gluten development."
"It's very important."
"I'm sure it is."
I pause, looking at him. He's sitting very properly at the table, hands folded, expression perfectly neutral. But there's something in his eyes. Something that might be humor.
"Are you making fun of me?"
"I wouldn't dare."
"You are. You're making fun of me."
"I'm simply observing that you appear to be at war with your ingredients."
"This is how you make bread!"
"If you say so, Mistress Ashwood."
"It's Iris. And stop being amused. You're supposed to be terrifying and traumatized, not... not whatever this is."
The corner of his mouth twitches. Barely. But I see it.
"Oh my god," I blurt, staring at him. "You have a sense of humor."
"I assure you, I don't."
"You absolutely do. It's just incredibly dry. Like mine." I point my spoon at him. "You're funny."
"I am a centuries-old vampire with an extensive history of violence. I am not funny."
"You're hilarious. In a deadpan way. I bet Grandmother never noticed."
Something shifts in his expression. The almost-smile fades. "She didn't encourage conversation."
Right. Because she treated him like a weapon.
I turn back to my dough, kneading it with renewed purpose. "Well, I'm not her. And I like talking to you. Even if you are secretly mocking my baking techniques."
"I'm not mocking. I'm... observing."
"Uh huh."
Silence falls, but it's different now. Comfortable. I knead the dough, feeling the rhythm of it, the way my magic seeps into the flour and yeast and water. *Comfort. Warmth. Home.*
"You were good tonight," Cadeon says suddenly. "At the meeting. You listened. Asked intelligent questions. Offered to help without seeking credit."
"I barely said anything."
"You said enough. More importantly, you didn't posture. Didn't try to dominate the conversation or prove yourself." He pauses. "She would have."
I look at him, surprised.
"Your grandmother was brilliant," he continues, his voice carefully neutral. "Powerful. Disciplined. But she was also... harsh. She needed everyone to know she was the strongest person in the room."
"And I'm not."
"No." He meets my eyes. "You're not. You're something else."
"What?"
He considers for a long moment. "She was winter. Cold. Sharp. Unforgiving. You're..." Another pause. "Spring."
I don't know what to say to that. Don't know if it's a compliment or just an observation. But something in my chest loosens anyway.
"Spring," I repeat. "The season of new growth and allergies."
"And renewal. Hope. Things that have been frozen learning to thaw."
Oh.
Oh.
We look at each other across the kitchen, and something passes between us. Not through the bond. Just... between us. Two people who are maybe, possibly, starting to understand each other.
"The dough needs to rise," I say, my voice coming out softer than I intended. "First rise takes an hour. Are you going to stay?"
He doesn't hesitate. "Yes."
"Even though it'll be boring? Just sitting here while dough rises?"
"I've spent two centuries waiting for orders," he says quietly. "Sitting here while you create something is the opposite of boring."
And he does. He stays.
He sits at the kitchen table while the dough rises. While I punch it down and shape it and set it to rise again. While the cottage fills with the smell of yeast and warmth.
We don't talk much. We don't need to.
But he's there. Present. Choosing to be in this space with me.
And when the bread finally comes out of the oven: golden and perfect and absolutely delicious, I cut him a slice and watch him taste it.
He closes his eyes. Takes a careful bite. Chews slowly.
"Well?" I ask.
He opens his eyes, and there's something in them I haven't seen before. Not quite warmth. But not emptiness either.
"It tastes like home," he says quietly. "I'd forgotten what that felt like."
I smile. "Good. That's the magic."
"No." He looks at the bread, then at me. "That's you."
And for the first time since I arrived at this cottage, since I inherited this impossible situation, I think maybe, just maybe, I can do this after all.