Chapter Twenty-Four
On the list of things I never expected to be doing in midlife, “cramming for an apocalyptic circle exam in a secret book dungeon” ranked fairly high.
The books down there didn’t just whisper. They wailed. Every time I cracked a spine, it felt like the text was screaming its secrets straight into my bones. Whether it was old circle magic, hunger path diagrams, or the kind of curse theory that really should come with a therapist and three cookies.
For three days, I lived on tea, Keegan’s determined cooking, and the Academy’s cranky books. We mapped sigils until my fingers cramped. Nova argued with diagrams. My dad practiced breath exercises while his wolf twitched under his skin. Gideon remained eerily, aggressively silent.
No dreams.
No communication.
And Grandma Elira, in her new half-ghost, half-Ward form, hovered at the edges of my awareness, rooted in the cottage anchor and Stone Ward, unable to come walking into the Academy and shake me by the shoulders the way I knew she wanted to.
By the time the eve of the circle arrived, my head felt like one of Twobble’s snack drawers, overstuffed and questionably organized.
We’d done everything we could on paper. Charms were woven, roles assigned, contingencies sketched out.
As confident as you can be about a magical procedure that had never been successfully completed in living memory, with a morally ambiguous antihero as one of your cornerstones and my grandmother in Shadowick watching from the wings.
So, naturally, my brain chose that moment to start imagining every possible way it could go wrong.
If we misdrew a line, would it backlash and bind the wrong thing?
If Gideon hesitated, could the circle implode?
If we succeeded—if—would it mute the high priestess… or just make her angrier?
Everyone else moved through their preparations with a kind of taut, practical focus. Nova checked the Wards until her eyes went distant. The Flame Ward, Maple Ward, Stone Ward, and Butterfly Ward were all carrying a strength that hadn’t been seen in decades.
Keegan wore his worry in the set of his shoulders but didn’t say much, as if speaking his fears aloud would give them more weight. My mom and dad anchored the cottage with Elira, weaving extra protections for Celeste’s impending arrival. Stella brewed enough tea to drown an army.
And me?
When my mind gets too loud, there’s only one place that quiets it.
I waited until the corridor outside my room was empty and the Academy’s evening light had slanted into that soft, pearly dimness it got when the sprites hummed themselves toward sleep.
The hallway outside my bedroom looked like any other, with stone walls, intricate sconces shaped like unfurling leaves, and a runner rug that occasionally changed patterns when it was bored. Most people walked past it and never felt a thing.
I paused by the slightly crooked portrait two doors down, an old headmistress with a bun so tight it could probably deflect arrows, and touched the frame. My butterfly mark gave a little answering tingle, like recognition.
“Okay,” I whispered. “I’m here. And I brought anxiety.”
Something rustled. Not in the portrait, in the air, a faint fluttering, like paper wings.
I walked a little further down the corridor and stopped.
The key arrived a heartbeat later.
It darted out from behind the frame, a sliver of gold no bigger than my thumb, with filigree designs that flexed like feathers. Little hinged wings beat the air, scattering pinpricks of light. It circled my head once in admonishment, then hovered in front of my nose.
“Hi,” I said. “You’re looking luminous.”
The key bobbed, as if flattered. Then it zipped down the hallway, expecting me to follow.
“To be clear,” I murmured, “we are only doing mildly reckless things tonight. No full disasters.” The key did not dignify that with a response.
It led me past my bedroom door to the end of the corridor, where an unremarkable stretch of wall waited.
But the familiarity coated me like a warm cup of tea on a fall day.
Now, the stones shimmered faintly in my peripheral vision, like heat haze.
The key spun in a tight circle, then dove straight toward a particular mortar line. I pressed my hand over the spot it indicated.
“Owl and ember,” I whispered, then added, “and maybe a little mercy.”
The stones warmed under my palm. Lines of light traced outwards in a circle, forming the outline of a door that hadn’t been there a moment before. An ancient latch materialized, cool metal kissing my fingers.
The key slid into its keyhole with a satisfied little sigh.
“You’re a show-off,” I told it fondly, and turned.
The hidden door swung inward soundlessly, revealing the narrow passage beyond, lit by that impossible, pearlescent glow that belonged only to this wing.
I slipped inside the den, pulling the door almost closed behind me. The hum of the Academy’s normal life with distant voices, moving portraits, and the occasional disgruntled kettle, faded into a thick, reverent quiet.
The air changed.
Colder, a little, but not in the hungry, Shadowick way. This was the cool of deep caverns and untouched snow. It smelled faintly of old parchment and something metallic and clean—dragon-scent, weaved with magic older than the Wards themselves.
My anxiety, which had been a wild, tangled knot, eased as I walked.
The passage curved gently, tugging my thoughts with it, away from spiraling what-ifs and toward something steadier.
The corridor opened onto the dragon wing’s antechamber: a long, high-vaulted hall carved out of stone that glowed faintly from within, like starlight caught in crystal. The walls were lined with alcoves where dragons shifted in relief, moving slowly like murals in a dream.
At the far end stood the door.
The dragon chamber was many things at once.
It was a cavern, huge and domed, its ceiling lost in shadow, threaded with glints of scales and light and foliage.
It was a library of knowledge without shelves carved directly into the stone, holding not books but artifacts—crystals, bones, old talismans that hummed softly.
It was a nest, with raised platforms and ledges where bodies could coil or stretch.
And it was a sky.
Not literally, no open air, no actual stars, but the way magic gathered here, bright and endless, gave the same sense of dizzying space. My breath always caught for a second when I entered, the human part of me convinced I’d fall upward.
Tonight, the chamber felt… expectant.
Four dragons lay in their usual positions, each a different size, shape, and color, but all with that same uncanny, ageless presence.
A slender, opalescent one lounged along a high ledge, long whiskers drifting in an invisible breeze.
A stockier dragon with bronze and emerald scales curled protectively around a cluster of luminous eggs that weren’t quite eggs.
A dark, smoke-gray one rested near the center, eyes half-lidded, tendrils of mist curling from its nostrils.
The smallest—a compact, silver-blue creature with sharp, bright eyes—perched close to the ground on a stone outcropping, as if waiting for me. The babies were nowhere to be seen.
They all turned their heads and looked at me at once.
Being regarded by dragons is a bit like being examined by an X-ray, an MRI, and a very judgmental aunt all at the same time. They don’t look at your clothes or your hair. They look at your bones, your magic, the shape of your choices.
The little silver-blue one, my unofficial translator, tilted its head.
You are… frayed, it said, the words not spoken aloud so much as appearing directly in the space behind my eyes. Come sit.
I obeyed.
A flat rock that hadn’t been there a second ago eased itself up from the ground, forming a seat. I perched on the edge of it, suddenly very aware of how small and breakable I was.
“Hi,” I said, because my manners were hanging on by one frayed thread. “Sorry to drop in on the eve of a potentially world-altering event, but my brain is doing that thing where it thinks too much.”
It does that every day, the opalescent dragon noted lazily from above, its voice a cool ripple of thought. But you are right. It is louder today.
The smoke-gray dragon’s eyes slitted further in amusement. She is worried about the circle. And the wolf. And the knife-boy. And the shadow-queen. And the child.
I flinched. “Could we not call Gideon ‘knife-boy’?” I asked. “He’d be insufferably pleased.”
The silver-blue dragon’s tail flicked. He likes his edges.
“Yes, well. So do we.” I took a breath. The air tasted like metal and storm clouds.
“I came to ask for… advice. Or a stern lecture. Or both. We’re meeting Gideon tomorrow to close the circle and end the hunger path.
Or that’s the plan. And I don’t know if we’re walking into a victory or a very polite funeral. ”
The bronze-and-emerald dragon, who usually said little, rumbled deep in its chest. The sound vibrated my ribs. Circles, it said. Mortals love them.
“We like things with beginnings and endings,” I said. “Straight lines are too honest. Circles feel… hopeful.”
And dangerous, the opalescent dragon added. Once you step into one, you cannot pretend you are not part of the pattern.
I stared up at them. “You warned me before Malore,” I said. “You showed me flashes. Fire, teeth, sacrifice. I didn’t understand it at the time, not really. I thought…” My throat tightened. “I didn’t know it would be Elira.”
The chamber’s light softened, dimming around the edges.
The silver-blue dragon lowered its head until its muzzle was level with my chest. You knew, it said gently. You did not know the name, but you knew the shape of loss.
“You’re right. I knew something would be lost,” I whispered. “I just hoped it would be… smaller. Less permanent.”
And yet, the smoke-gray dragon said, its mist swirling faster, you went ahead with it, and she is not gone. Not entirely.