Chapter 30
When lakes sing, beware—for they echo not the present, but the shadows of the past.
—Waters of the Deep
Ifind myself seeking the solace of the lake after the duel. Wanting to wrap myself in its calm until my thoughts—and racing heart—finally slow.
My fingers twitch slightly, and from the near-shore water—still unfrozen where the spring feeds in—a thin tendril lifts.
It spirals, coiling, blooming into the shape of a tiny horse, its translucent body glowing faintly.
It flicks its tail as if it’s real, then darts across the surface, followed by another.
And another. Soon, a small herd of water-formed horses dance along the lake’s edge, their silent gallop soothing something frayed inside me.
“I’ve always loved watching them dance,” comes a dark, velvet voice from behind—smooth, low, steady as ever.
I don’t turn. I don’t need to see him to feel the pull of his presence. The crisp January air stings my cheeks, already numb from the cold, but the air changes when he’s near me—thickening, sharpening to a point of almost pain.
The horses keep their pace for one more heartbeat, then I let my magick dissolve back into ripples. And the second they’re gone, I realize I miss them.
A flash of childhood—two kids laughing, determinedly trying to conjure creatures out of water and shadow by a different lake, a different shore. He was always better at it than I was.
I continue to stare out over the expanse of blue that calls to me—the lake surface now flecked with ice, shimmering with late sun. It hums with ancient memory, the soft breath of the winter wind carrying its secrets across it.
“What’s it saying?” Gavrail asks softly.
He’s closer now—close enough that his warmth breaches the space between us.
He smells like shadowed woods at dusk: earthy, resinous, like woodsmoke mixed with amber and warm leather.
His winter coat brushes the edge of my sleeve as he comes to stand beside me—brief, deliberate, as if he’s testing whether I’ll move away.
I don’t.
I can feel the heat of him through my clothes. And despite myself—despite everything—it’s… comforting.
Unfair.
He knows me too well. Knows that when the world tips sideways, I seek the water. Lakes. Rivers. Oceans. Anywhere the element can whisper me still. The lake sings low today. A song of weight. Of change.
“She’s remembering,” I murmur. “She always remembers.”
Water remembers. The echo of my father’s voice drifts through the air.
When I finally turn to him, he’s watching me—not demanding, just… waiting. Like he has nowhere else to be. Like he never left.
Gods, he is beautiful. Still. Always. It’s infuriating.
His silver-gray eyes mirror the lake behind me, flickering with light like waves lit under a full moon.
When I look at him, I see history. I see heartbreak.
I see the boy who once made me laugh until I couldn’t breathe—the same one who vanished without a word.
My arms cross over my chest, an instinctive shield.
He motions to a sun-warmed rock by the water, its edges curved from years of weather. “Care to join me?”
I hesitate, then nod. We walk side by side, boots crunching on frozen sand before we settle on the warm stone edge.
The rock’s heat sends up wisps of steam as it meets the chilled air and mingles with our breaths.
The water breathes in and out against the rock—soft inhalations and exhalations that mirror my slowing pulse.
He breaks the silence first. “Remember when your mom found us trying to fish from our rock using her earrings as hooks?” A slight smile appears on his lips, one edge turned up, causing a single dimple to peek through.
I can’t help the small smile that answers. “I remember her being furious that we lost her diamond earring, and having to tell her that a catfish was likely swimming away with it as we spoke.”
He chuckles softly—a low, warm rumble that vibrates through me, carrying all the comfort of my childhood in it.
We fall into the rhythm of old stories. Rebuilt swings. The time he pretended to drown just to get me to jump in after him. Hunting for marbles and coins. Sunsets on my porch. His notebook sketches. Laughter and nostalgia follow, soft and genuine.
And for a moment, it’s actually easy again. My heart stirs at the comfortable familiarity of it all.
Leaning back, Gavrail tilts his face to the sun, arms behind his head, eyes closed. He looks relaxed—peaceful in a way I haven’t seen since we were kids. My heart aches with the memory of that boy.
Then, the shadows shift.
The evergreens above us sway, dark needles drifting in the breeze and casting mottled shapes on the snow-dusted ground.
One shadow detaches—moving with purpose.
It brushes over the frozen grass, then plucks a hardy winter bloom somehow still standing, roots curled in defiance of the cold.
It carries it toward us with gentle, eerie grace.
It stops, hovering before me, waiting—like some quiet tribute to resilience.
I sigh and shake my head. “Show-off,” I mutter, taking the flower.
The shadow coils around my arms before slinking back to the rock’s edge like a cat satisfied with its mischief.
I don’t need to look at him to picture the smirk on his face. That arrogant half-smile that used to simultaneously infuriate and undo me.
We lapse into silence again.
He sits up finally, speaking softly. “About earlier. The Grotto.”
My chest tightens. He doesn’t have to say more.
I still feel it, like a velvet bruise beneath my skin.
Soft but ruthless in the way it lingers.
The moment our magick collided—water and shadow merging not in battle, but in instinct.
In protection. In something older than both of us.
Something dangerous, familiar, and so seductively powerful that for one single moment I wanted nothing else but to drown in it.
In him.
But I don’t say that.
“It wasn’t just a shield,” I say quietly. “It felt… alive. Like something else.”
“Shadowmire,” he murmurs. The word lands heavy. Like something old, weighted. “I didn’t—” He stops. His gaze cuts toward the lake, then the trees, checking with the shadows to make sure we are alone. “It responded. Not just to me. To you. Us.”
The word us hangs in the air, suspended between possibility and danger.
He reaches over, plucking a pine needle from my hair with practiced ease. His hand lingers, fingertips grazing my temple, my cheek, before resting against my chin.
Time stops.
His breath stills, and so does mine. The pull is magnetic, inescapable. His eyes drop to my lips as he leans in closer. Heat arcs between us, sharp as a struck chord. Waiting. The moment stretches—intense, fragile, trembling.
I turn my head abruptly and rise.
And the spell breaks.
“I have to go,” I say, too quickly. My heart thuds against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.
Gavrail doesn’t stop me. He just nods slowly, his expression once again shuttered, but his eyes still give him away.
I step off the rock and into the frost-scored sand below, keeping my back to him because I don’t trust myself to look at him.
“I’m with Noa,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
“I know” is all he says. But it sounds like he’s swallowing a thousand other words.
I walk away, but the lake sings louder now.
And I don’t know if it’s remembering for me… or warning me.