Raven Chapter 22 Theories and Harmonies 287
Raven
Once I’m no longer a boneless heap, I force myself upright and off the bed, dusting myself off like I just got in from a rigorous gardening session and not finger fucking myself into oblivion right in front of the most overall detached member of this emotionally stunted circus I call home.
Bright side? I’m pretty positive that obsession is shared after Kieran’s little show-and-tell session.
Focusing on that, I decide not to address the elephant in the room because I’ve been responsible enough for one day.
Instead, I start in on the questions that have been burning a hole in my head since stumbling into the supernatural world.
“How did you do that weird disappearing knife trick? Is MORDRED sentient? Because, let me tell you, the vibes are there. Also, if magic is disappearing like everyone always says, why do you guys have things like dental charms, room cleaning charms, and all that? How was I able to pull you into a dream with me when I have absolutely no idea how to control my power? Like, I’m pretty sure that classifies as a close-call.
I could have blown you up or something.” I take a breath before continuing, still at a rapid pace.
“Supes love to talk about this thing called the Severance, and I have no idea what it is really, just that planes got well… severed and stuff.”
I bite my lip for a minute, trying to leave it at that, but the silence is too heavy. I can still feel the weight of his stare like a physical touch. The elephant isn't just in the room; it's a six-foot-something elf with a jawline that could cut glass, and I simply can't just ignore it anymore.
“Also, I’m sorry about the whole… bed incident.
I should have asked first, but I was distracted, and you two are just…
a lot to process.” The more I go on, the more I’m positive he’s actually grossed out and wants nothing to do with me.
“You probably didn’t even want to see all that, and I just thrust it in your face. ”
My rule about emotional power dynamics is pounding on the door, trying to get my attention. But it's got no chance. Not with the way he's staring at me. Like he might be just as obsessed with me as I am with them.
Emerson doesn’t react to the apology at first, and I finally raise my eyes to look at him. He’s looking into the near distance, his eyes unfocused.
“In order,” he begins, his voice slipping into lecture mode.
“The ‘knife trick’ is a simple elven glamour. I use it exclusively to conceal my blades and my ears from both supernatural and human perception. MORDRED’s potential for sentience remains an active hypothesis.
The data is… compelling, but inconclusive. ”
He takes a slow breath before continuing.
“The assertion that magic is ‘disappearing’ is a gross oversimplification. The frequency of high-magnitude magical events has statistically collapsed since the Severance. What remains is largely innate, biological magic—shifter transformations, a vampire’s compulsion.
What you call ‘convenience charms’ are the economic foundation for modern spell-casters who lack the power for greater workings.
You were able to pull me into a dream-state because your power is not Common or Uncommon.
It is, by all observable metrics, Rare. Proximity was the only catalyst required. ”
He finally meets my eyes, the intensity in them shifting from academic to something real and raw.
"And the Severance was a cosmological cataclysm three centuries ago that severed the divine plane from our own.
The backlash killed half our strongest magic-weilders outright.
The rest of us have been living with the consequences ever since—just slower.
The long-lived species are only now feeling the decline.
Children born with less power than they should.
Birth rates plummeting. The survivors of the Severance have either hidden themselves away or hoard what power remains.
" He pauses, jaw tightening. "We are a dying world, Raven. We just haven't all realized it yet."
He goes quiet, head cocked, eyes still drilling into mine like he's trying to find the secret code buried in my soul. When he finally speaks, it's not the clinical Emerson I'm used to. It's something softer. Something that sounds like he's handling something precious.
I'm not sure what to do with that. My body, however, has several ideas.
“As for your… performance,” he says, the word sounding more like a prayer than an accusation, “never apologize. To witness you is to observe a force of nature. You are a living, breathing masterpiece, and I am merely an unworthy scholar granted a glimpse of divinity. Do not mistake my silence for disgust. It was reverence.”
I understood about eighty percent of what he said before he short-circuited my brain with what was essentially devotional poetry. I try to form a response, but my mind is just a spinning beach ball of death, desperately rebooting its entire perception of the universe.
While I’m desperately trying to form a single coherent thought, Em simply walks to his desk, grabs a bowl full of random writing utensils, and dumps them out with a clatter. He then returns to the bed, meticulously scoops all of my rescued chocolates into it, and brings the bowl to me.
I should have known it would take chocolate to jump-start my motor functions. I reach out and take the bowl, wasting no time in snatching one out and popping it into my mouth. He turns to get the giant leather-bound tome from Silas, looking like he’s about to settle in at his desk.
A weird, panicked gurgle escapes my throat. Well, apparently, chocolate didn't completely fix my vocal cords.
Get it together, woman.
“Um,” I say, super eloquently, before clearing my throat. “I thought maybe we could do this in your workshop?” I motion to the closed bookcase, hiding the much cozier atmosphere behind it.
He nods without a word, walking over and placing his hand in the same place I did.
The runes on his hands light up and a soft snick sounds in the space as the bookcase swings open, and the warm, amber light from the antique bulbs within beckons me.
I'm helpless to resist. Then, remembering my promise, I glance over at MORDRED's glowing vacuum tubes and give a little two-finger salute.
See? Told you we'd include you.
One of the tubes pulses brighter for just a second. I take it as approval.
Also, should I be telling Em that his super-secret, magically-locked, definitely-not-for-public-consumption workshop let me in after it basically felt me up?
I glance at the elf in question. He's already moving toward the shelves, utterly unbothered, already in his element.
Right. So either I mention it and deal with the fallout of explaining that I've apparently been granted access to his most sacred space without his knowledge or permission, or I keep my mouth shut and assume MORDRED was just doing me a solid.
I watch the amber light as it pulses once more, steady and warm. I take that as an affirmative.
One more partner in crime has been successfully won over to my side. Team Raven: ravens, giant squid named Jim, Widget, and MORDRED. Honestly, at this point it's looking like world domination might actually be more achievable than getting all of these guys to fall for me.
The ambiance in his workshop is top-tier, and I’m hoping it will calm the nerves currently doing jazz hands in my stomach about being in close quarters with a man who could be labeled as both a supermodel and a genius. For hours.
I’m excited, but a larger, more vocal part of me is screaming in panic. The man is a certified genius, and I’m just… me. How can I possibly keep up? There’s no way I’ll be anything but a massive bore to him—a chore he has to begrudgingly get through before he can get back to his real work.
Instead of letting my brain fall into that trap, I focus on a tried and true distraction.
My eyes slide lower, appreciating the way the black denim seems to cling to his ass in a way that should be classified as perilous to mortals.
By the gods, it’s a masterpiece.
Focus, Raven. Also, take that back immediately, those gods don’t deserve thanks for that incredible work of art.
I finally drag my gaze upward, taking in the full, glorious contradiction of his outfit.
The gifted T-shirt from Kieran, which reads “Won’t Bite but Will Stab,” is peppered with a few small burn holes and tucked loosely into a pair of ripped black jeans that should be considered the gold standard by every tailor.
An old, grandpa-style cardigan, its wool worn soft, is thrown over it all, completing the look.
I’m not sure what he’s going for, but it's a weird combination of "guy who reads Keats by candlelight" and "guy who knows exactly how much pressure it takes to collapse a trachea. "
“So,” I say, my voice a little huskier than I meant it to be. Clearing my throat, I continue, “Where do you keep all your knives?”
I watch as a curtain seems to fall away. First the glamour, then the grandpa cardigan as he slips it off. The cozy academic vanishes, replaced by a walking armory.
A leather harness crosses his chest over the wonderfully stupid t-shirt, holding three wicked-looking blades against his ribs. Another strap hugs his thigh over his jeans, holding two more. Slim sheaths are strapped to his forearms, the hands positioned to peel from under the cardigan's cuffs.
Even the worn felt slipper seems a lie, as I glimpse a leather strap around his ankle. It’s all perfectly, terrifyingly organized.
I need a second to process all of it. When I finally force myself to look away—because looking at him like this is akin to staring directly into the sun—my gaze catches on the sharp, elegant sweep of his ears, no longer hidden by glamour.