8. Torin #2
The studio is quiet around us—the hum of charged crystals, the soft flicker of candles, the distant sounds of Mistvale settling into night. Through the glass walls, the mist moves in slow currents, pale and unhurried.
“The mist likes when we’re near each other.” She follows my gaze. “It turns gold. I’ve noticed.”
“Thalia keeps a journal.”
“She what?”
“Documenting your atmospheric moods. It’s her new hobby. Eternal marriage apparently leaves a lot of free time for strong opinions about romance.”
Sakura buries her face in her hands. “This is mortifying.”
“Apparently Zeph started it.”
“I’m going to kill her.”
“You’d have to get in line. Leire has first dibs for unrelated reasons.” I pause. “Something about a batch of ale that made everyone’s hair temporarily change color.”
Despite her embarrassment, she laughs. The sound loosens the tension in my chest.
“Tell me about the other towns.” The words come before I can stop them. “The ones before Mistvale.”
She’s quiet for a long moment.
“What happened?”
“The usual. Flooded a town square during a festival. Lightning struck a mayor’s house during a council meeting about whether to let me stay. Froze a water supply during a heat wave.” She wraps her arms around her knees. “My magic has spectacularly bad timing.”
“That wasn’t your fault.”
“It was my power.”
“Not the same thing.”
She looks at me with an intensity that makes my chest constrict. “You keep saying that.”
“Because you keep being wrong.”
Silence. Her breathing unsteady. Mine too.
“That’s...” She swallows. “That’s a lot of conviction from someone who claims stoicism as a personality trait.”
“Maybe I’m making an exception.”
“Why?”
Because you’re worth making exceptions for. Because I’ve been waiting for something without knowing I was waiting. Because I write bad poetry about your storms and I wouldn’t change a single word.
“Because you’re worth making exceptions for.”
The air between us shifts. Warm. Heavy. Electric in a way that has nothing to do with her magic.
She breaks the moment by laughing.
“What?”
“Nothing.” But she’s grinning. “Just—Leire mentioned you write poetry. I assumed she was joking.”
My stomach drops. “Leire needs to stop sharing.”
“Is it true?”
“No.”
“You’re lying.”
“Absolutely.”
Her grin widens. “I want to read one.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Just one.” She leans toward me, eyes dancing. “I promise to be kind.”
“You will definitely not be kind. You will mock mercilessly.”
“I’ll mock with compassion.”
“No.”
“I’ll make it rain in your cabin.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.” She raises a hand, and the air grows humid, heavy with gathering moisture. “I can be very persistent when properly motivated.”
“This is blackmail.”
“This is negotiation.” She’s close now. Too close. I can see the individual strands of silver in her hair, the way her lips curve at the corners. “One poem. That’s all.”
I should refuse. Should maintain some dignity.
“Her storms could level cities,” I hear myself say. “I would let them. I would stand in the rain she makes and call it sunshine.”
Silence.
Her face changes—surprise, understanding, vulnerability—softening into something that makes it hard to breathe.
“That’s about me.”
“Yes.”
“You write about me.”
“I write about a lot of things. You happen to be most of them lately.”
She laughs again, but it’s different this time. Watery. Close to breaking.
“No one’s ever written about me before.”
“Then no one’s been paying attention.”
The air grows heavy again—not with moisture. With possibility. With the weight of words that have been circling for weeks.
She leans toward me. Just slightly. Just enough.
Her wards flare.
The shock of magic ripples through the studio, breaking the moment. Sakura jerks back, eyes widening, power crackling to life.
“Someone’s outside.”
I’m already moving. Through the door. Into the square. The mist churns with agitation, disturbed by a presence it doesn’t recognize.
But by the time I reach the street, there’s no one there.
Just shadows. Just empty cobblestones. Just the lingering sense that we were watched.
I search for twenty minutes. Check every alley, every doorway, every corner. Find nothing.
When I return, Sakura is standing in the doorway, arms wrapped around herself.
“Anything?”
“No. Whoever it was, they’re gone.”
“They were watching us.”
“Yes.”
She shivers. “The Preservers?”
“Probably.” I don’t want to leave her. Every instinct screams to stay, to guard, to keep her safe. “Double your wards tonight. I’ll have Elio’s people increase patrols.”
“Okay.” She’s small in the doorway. Scared in a way she rarely shows. “Torin?”
“Yes?”
“The poem.” She manages a weak smile. “It’s awful.”
“I’m aware.”
“I love it anyway.”
My heart does ridiculous things. “I’ll write you more.”
“I’d like that.”
I walk home through empty streets, frustration sharpening with every step. We were close. So close.
The mist eddies around me as I walk, taking on silver undertones I’ve learned to read as agitation. The whole town seems unsettled—lights flickering in windows, distant sounds of night creatures more active than usual.
Someone was watching us. Someone knows.
The Preservers. It has to be. Valesh’s people, monitoring their target. Making sure they know our patterns.
I reach my cabin as the first hints of dawn touch the sky. Don’t bother sleeping. I write for a while.
I set down the pen. Stare at the words.
Overwrought. Melodramatic. The kind of writing that would make my father raise an eyebrow and say nothing, which is worse than criticism.
I keep the page anyway.
But she smiled. She said she loved the awful poem.
The watcher, whoever they were, just made a mistake. They showed their hand. Revealed that they’re paying attention, that they consider us a threat worth monitoring.
Now I know to watch back.
And when we find them—if it is Valesh and a cell of believers—they’ll learn what it means to threaten the woman I love.