Chapter 33
I spent the entire walk back to my room muttering increasingly creative insults about Rhaevan under my breath.
By the time I reached my room, I had already decided that today had been productive enough. Anything further involving effort, thinking, or personal growth could very reasonably wait until tomorrow.
Unfortunately, the book was still in my hand.
I looked at it.
Then I placed it on the table with deliberate firmness, turned away, and sat on the bed like someone who had successfully handled a problem.
It did not work.
Within seconds, I found myself looking at the book again.
Ignoring things had never once worked in my favor, and yet I remained oddly committed to trying.
"This is unnecessary," I muttered. "I have survived perfectly well without this."
I considered that statement for a moment.
"...Mostly."
I sighed, pushed myself off the bed, and picked the book up again because curiosity and poor decision-making had apparently joined forces against me.
I opened it carefully, like it might react.
Given recent events, that felt like a reasonable precaution.
The first few pages contained diagrams and explanations that looked far too complicated for something I had only discovered was apparently a permanent feature of my life yesterday.
I skimmed through them until a paragraph near the middle caught my attention.
?Innate magic is directly connected to the user's emotional state and frequently manifests in unpredictable ways.?
I frowned.
That sounded uncomfortably familiar.
I kept reading.
?Unintended destruction, reactive defense, and erratic manifestations are considered common characteristics of unregulated innate magic.?
Oh boy, apparently, my magic wasn't broken.
It was simply committed to chaos.
That was somehow worse.
Another paragraph caught my attention.
?Many users mistake these manifestations for failure and spend years attempting to suppress them.?
I blinked.
Well. That felt strangely personal.
I continued reading.
?Suppression does not weaken innate magic. It builds pressure.?
I read the sentence again.
Then a third time.
My shoulders sank.
That seemed like information I would have appreciated considerably earlier.
Because if this book was right, then all the avoiding, all the pretending, and all the carefully not thinking about my magic had accomplished absolutely nothing.
I hadn't been controlling it.
I had merely been postponing it.
Apparently, my magic was waiting patiently for me to acknowledge its existence.
I kept reading.
Another section had been marked with a small note in the margin.
?Fear, anger, and emotional distress are the most common triggers of unstable manifestations.?
I let out a short laugh.
"Well," I said to the empty room, "that narrows it down to almost every significant event of my life."
I turned another page.
?The goal is not to eliminate emotion, but to recognize it before it escalates.?
I paused.
I read that line again.
Then once more.
"So I don't have to stop feeling things," I murmured. "I simply have to notice them before they ruin my day."
That sounded ridiculously reasonable.
Which meant it was probably much more difficult than it appeared.
The next section described a simple exercise.
A very simple exercise. It seemed intriguing.
I glanced around the room and settled on the cup sitting on my table.
It looked harmless.
I sat up straighter.
"Alright," I said. "We try this once. Calmly. Responsibly. Like a functional individual."
I followed the instructions, took a deep breath, and raised my hand.
Nothing happened.
I frowned and tried again.
The cup trembled.
I paused.
"...Interesting."
I focused a little more carefully.
The cup lifted slightly.
Feeling encouraged, I continued.
The cup hovered.
"Oh," I whispered. "That's actually-"
Then, the cup began to shake violently.
"Oh no."
A second later, it launched itself directly into the wall, cracked in half, and fell to the floor in several pieces.
Silence followed.
I stared at the remains.
"...That counts," I said eventually.
Because technically, it had moved.
I looked down at my hand.
Then at the shattered cup.
Maybe I wasn't bad at magic.
Maybe my magic was also bad at magic.
I sat there for another moment.
Then I sighed.
"Alright," I said. "One more attempt."
I held out my hand again.
The broken pieces trembled.
One lifted.
Then another.
For one glorious second, I thought it was working.
Then every single piece shot towards the open window.
I watched them sail outside.
One shard actually bounced against the frame as if eager to escape.
Silence settled over the room once more.
I slowly lowered my hand.
"...They left."
I walked to the window and looked down.
The pieces had scattered across the garden below.
I stared at them for a long moment.
"I don't think they trust me anymore."
I leaned against the window frame and looked at my hand again.
The book had been right.
The chaos wasn't a mistake.
It wasn't a failure.
It was simply the nature of my magic.
I had spent years waiting for it to become normal.
Apparently, this was normal.
I let out a long sigh.
"Well," I said to the empty room, "that is incredibly disappointing."
I returned to the bed and sat down, the book still resting in my lap.
This wasn't about becoming powerful.
This wasn't even about control.
This was about learning to live with something that apparently had a personality and a deeply questionable sense of judgment.
I laid back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.
"I hate that explanation," I informed the room.
The room, as usual, offered no alternatives.
To be honest, Theo was right.
I was afraid of my magic.
In the original story, it was this very magic that had spiraled out of control and dragged Cassiane toward her death. It had isolated her, terrified everyone around her, and eventually led her to the execution platform.
And now, despite all my efforts to avoid it, I had been dragged right back into it.
What if I lost control?
What if I hurt someone?
What if this was only the beginning?
And, more importantly, what if I ended up getting beheaded again?
Frankly, I had no desire whatsoever to experience decapitation.
God help me.