Chapter 33 #2
Because he stayed. The way he refused to give up. The way he waited, even when she kept pulling away. The way he looked at
her like her existence, right here, was enough.
Her eyes found his. The space between them seemed to narrow as the stage lights blurred.
And the auditorium blinked away.
A weightless, blinding white bled at the edges of her vision, swallowing sound, gravity, time. A void, both familiar and unearthly.
She stood suspended in a place she had visited only once before: a space beyond logic, shaped not by matter but by magic.
She looked down.
The thread. Red. Frayed. Quivering.
“It’s working,” she breathed. But then the thread jerked violently—and suddenly he was there, too.
Kian, standing across from her, eyes wide.
“Riya?” he whispered. “Where are we? What is this?”
She tried to steady her breath. “It’s the curse,” she said. “I think—I think it’s breaking.”
His gaze dropped. The thread glowed faintly between them.
Then his expression shifted. Terror.
“No—” His voice broke. “No, no. I don’t want to forget.” The ache in his voice cut through her like a blade.
Another thread snapped—sharper this time, like glass fracturing in silence. He reached for the thread, gripping it like it
might dissolve without him.
“Riya. Tell the magic to stop.”
“But this needs to happen,” she said. “The magic is trying to reset back to the status quo. It’s restoring the imbalance.”
“I don’t care what the rules are.” His voice rose. “Why does it get to choose what we forget? That’s not restoring balance—not
if it’s erasing parts of me.”
“Because magic has rules—”
“Then we break them.”
A jolt of magic surged between them, rattling her bones, and another thread snapped. Riya flinched at the sound, the force
of it vibrating through her hand.
“I don’t know what would happen if we fought it,” she said. “It could destroy us, Kian. That’s not just metaphor. You could
be—hurt.”
“Then I get hurt.” He stepped closer. “But at least I’d know I tried. I’m not letting this go just because the universe wants
balance.”
He was trembling. But so was she.
She looked down again. The thread was unraveling faster now.
“Don’t we feel the same?” he asked suddenly.
Riya’s body went still. “I . . .”
It was such a childish question. Such a Kian question. It was the kind of question asked by foolhardy protagonists in the
books Mel read, the ones who would throw all caution to the wind in the name of love.
Riya looked away. “Obviously, you troglodyte.”
Kian’s laugh was shaky, almost startled. Relief washed over his face, softening the sharp edges.
“Then it’s worth it.”
The thread shimmered. Something shifted in the air. The pressure that had been building didn’t break—it transformed. And the
magic, sensing the change, seemed to hesitate. To listen.
Riya stepped forward. “Don’t let go.”
His eyes softened, the fire in them dimming to something gentler. “I won’t.”
The thread pulsed with light, steady as a heartbeat.
Riya reached for it. Not with control. Not to undo it. But to reshape it.
The moment her fingers brushed it, the magic surged—a door swinging open. Light flared between them, vast and soundless. She
caught a last glimpse of the thread knitting itself back together, strong and firm and steady and—
Gold.
When she came to again, the stage lights flickered back into focus.
Kian remained on the stage, his hand still outstretched toward her, a faint glow fading from his chest.
Then, like a tidal wave, the applause came crashing down.
But for Riya, the sound was distant, almost muted. All she could focus on was Kian—how he looked at her, how his presence
filled the room even as the magic slipped away.
“You all right?” Quin asked softly.
Riya quickly wiped her eyes and nodded. “Yes,” she said. “I am.”
But when she looked at Kian again, something was wrong. His hands trembled above the keys. For one breathless moment, he remained
sitting at the piano—eyes unfocused, breath shallow.
And then Kian slumped to the ground.
“Kian!” Riya’s voice cut through the auditorium, high and sharp with panic.
The applause faltered. Gasps broke the surface like bubbles from a burst spell.
She was already moving.
The stage blurred beneath her as she reached his side, dropping to her knees where Kian had fallen by the piano bench.
His skin was pale. His breath—shallow, but steady.
“Kian,” she whispered. “Please—”
She turned toward the crowd, found the nearest adult. “Call 911!”
Footsteps pounded across the stage. Quin dropped beside her, eyes wide. “What happened?”
“I don’t—” But she stopped herself. She did know. He’d fought the magic. He’d held on, even when it tried to tear itself apart.
And she’d helped.
This wasn’t some wild, inexplicable thing. This was the cost. This was what it meant to fight the balance, to reshape magic
into something it was never meant to be. Magic always took something back.
Quin’s hand rested lightly on her arm. “He’s going to be okay. He probably just . . . burned himself out.”
There was something knowing in their voice. Like they’d seen this before.
Riya didn’t answer. She reached out, brushing the hair from Kian’s forehead. His skin was cool, but his breathing remained
steady, like something fragile still holding on.
More footsteps. Mr. Kho knelt beside them, his tie half loosened, his eyes wide with fear.
“Kian . . .” He reached out but didn’t touch, his hand hovering just above his son’s shoulder. “Riya, what happened? Is he—?”
“He . . . fainted,” she whispered, the words catching on the edge of her breath.
She couldn’t look at Mr. Kho. Not yet.
Mr. Kho’s jaw tightened, grief and fear flickering in his expression like lightning behind clouds. But after a beat, he straightened.
“He’s breathing. That’s good. That’s really good.” He exhaled like he hadn’t taken a full breath since stepping onstage. “We
just need to wait for the medics.”
His voice held steady, but it quivered underneath.
“You’ve done enough, Riya,” he added more gently. “Let them take it from here.”
She nodded, barely. She wrapped her arms around herself—not for warmth but because if she didn’t, she might come apart.
She didn’t move when the paramedics arrived. Not when they lifted Kian’s body onto the stretcher. Not when Mr. Kho bent over
his son and whispered something only the two of them could hear.
Her feet stayed rooted, her gaze locked on the space where Kian had fallen.
Then Riya looked up.
Sirah khala stood at the edge of the stage, her face unreadable, but her eyes shining like flares. Behind her, Riya’s parents
and sisters filled the wings like a row of pillars. No one spoke. They didn’t need to.
Riya’s eyes drifted back to Kian as they wheeled him offstage, his hand curled loosely at his side.
Still reaching, even now.