Chapter 6
CASSIA
Today, he wore dark wool—sharp tailoring, fabric looking so soft her hands itched to touch it—but again, no Daemaric blue.
In Meredith, colour was identity: demons wore that specific cobalt with a hint of indigo, elves royal purple, witches verdant green, humans crimson red.
Cassia had no claim to green or red. She was both, but not enough of either.
Ark, by blood and status, had every right to Daemaric blue. He chose not to wear it.
But . . . why?
She knew what it felt like to stand outside a circle, to press her palm against the barrier and feel the warmth she couldn’t reach. Every orphan at Starlight knew that ache. She’d spent her life wanting—craving—a door that would stay open.
And here was Varil Arkenoth, born with every door already unlocked, yet he wouldn’t walk through a single one.
Idle. A waste of good blood, as the society pages said. But Cassia had learned to read the space people left behind them. Ark’s was not empty with laziness. It felt more like a fortress.
And she wanted to see inside.
She came out to open the gate when he reached the sidewalk.
“Thank you for the lily this morning,” he said, the hint of a smile on his lips.
Cassia grinned. “I like yours better. Shadowy ravens—very mysterious.”
“Yours looked prettier. And smelled better.”
Of course it did. Her Flora Notes always carried the essence of whatever she’d been baking. This morning, pumpkin loaves.
“Did you try some of the cakes the other night?” she asked, motioning him to follow her across the front yard, kicking a ball aside to clear their path.
“Some? We polished them off within minutes.”
Cassia blinked. “Oh.”
“There was magic in them,” he said, but the remark barely registered. Her focus had snagged on a different word he’d let slip.
We.
He hadn’t eaten them alone.
She recovered quickly, tilting her head. “You noticed the magic?”
Ark arched a brow. “Was I not supposed to?”
Cassia chuckled, pressing her hand on the entrance door as she paused.
“Most of my customers have just enough magic to get by, or none at all. They know my food tastes good, makes them feel good—but they don’t recognize what’s behind it the way you do.
” She glanced back and smiled. “You, however, actually tasted it.”
His own smile widened a touch. “It was delicious.”
She propped the door open for him, but he stopped half a step from the threshold. She’d expected him to want to get this over with. Instead, he stood there, gaze sweeping the frame and lintel as if reading text carved into the wood, his gloved fingers flexing at his sides.
“Are you waiting for a formal invitation?” she teased, leaning against the doorframe.
His mouth curved—a faint, practiced smile, but his eyes didn’t follow. They were still fixed on the threshold, sharp and searching, as if he expected the house itself to answer him.
“Let’s see if that helps,” he said.
She chuckled. He was certainly acting a little strange. Perhaps he wasn’t used to being around children and was nervous about meeting them.
“Fine. Arkenoth, please come in.”
With one smooth, effortless step, he crossed the threshold, the scents of cedar and spice brushing past hers as he entered. She closed the door and turned.
“Welcome to Starlight Orphanage,” she said, spreading her arms.
Ark’s gaze scanned the interior. The entry hall was warm—heat spilling from the large hearth in the sitting room where a merry fire crackled and hissed, casting long shadows across the wooden floors.
The boards gleamed softly, polished by decades of tiny footsteps.
A few coats were slung haphazardly on hooks by the door, and a pair of small, mud-caked boots sat abandoned beneath them.
She wondered what he was seeing. A place that would never suit an Echelon’s taste? A building held together by stubbornness and hope?
Starlight wasn’t grand. The furnishings didn’t match, and the light fixtures were decades out of fashion. But it was warm. It smelled of butter and cinnamon and something savoury simmering in the kitchen. It never lacked people who cared for each other.
And, most importantly, it was full of love.
“You’re in luck,” she told Ark. “The children are still at their lessons upstairs, so you’ll have a moment of quiet before they come barreling in.”
He turned to her. “Should I be concerned?”
“Only if you’re unprepared for questions,” she said. “They’re a curious bunch. They’re bound to have some.”
“Do they attend school here? Do you have teachers in your employ?” Ark asked, his gaze drifting over their simple furnishings.
“Yes. We have two live-in teachers for the core lessons. A few friends and graduates volunteer their time for extras—sewing, bookbinding, that sort of thing. And Mrs. Thimble runs the kitchen like a small army, with Matilde as her loyal second.” She smiled. “It’s a patchwork, but we manage.”
Cassia pushed open the wide double doors leading into the dining hall.
The room was long and rectangular, its centre anchored by a table so worn the wood had softened to a silken sheen.
Mismatched chairs clustered around it, their seats rubbed to gleaming by decades of children squirming through meals.
Sunlight slanted through the tall windows, spilling warm pools of gold across the dark-stained floorboards.
The room was quiet, but she knew it wouldn’t stay that way—not once the children arrived for tea.
She let Ark step in first, watching as his gaze swept over the space.
He said nothing, but she wasn’t surprised.
She was beginning to learn he wasn’t the kind of man to give opinions freely, though she caught the subtle way his attention lingered—first on the neat rows of cups and plates stacked on the long sideboard, then on the floor beneath his feet.
“So,” he finally said, “how did you come to be the owner of Starlight?”
“Oh, I’m not. I think of Starlight as being as Untethered as its residents.
It doesn’t really have an owner.” She chuckled and tucked a stray curl behind her ear.
“I make sure the staff gets paid. I manage donations, and I do my best to keep the roof over their heads. Our cooks feed the children. Our teachers train them to wield magic safely, help them find jobs and communities when they age out.”
She looked around them. “Starlight belongs to all of us. But it belongs to the children most of all.”
Ark nodded, his gaze now holding hers. “You love them.”
The words landed somewhere soft and guarded. She’d spent her life loving these children—feeding them, fighting for them, building a home around them—but rarely had anyone spoken of that love without mockery or condescension.
“Of course,” she said.
For a moment, he just looked at her. Then his gaze shifted, lifting past her shoulder. Her eyes followed.
The Memory Wall. A patchwork of frames covered the upper half, filled with photographs—old, new, and everything in between.
Smiling faces, moments captured in time.
Generations of children who had called Starlight home.
Some had long since grown up, left to forge their own lives.
Others . . . well, not every child was lucky enough to find a family.
At the centre of it all, just above eye level, hung a framed photograph. Two young children—one red-haired girl, one brown-haired boy—grinning at the camera, both dressed in the simple but well-kept clothes of an orphanage.
Cassia approached it and brushed her fingers along the frame.
“My parents,” she told him. “Both were raised here. They fell in love, got married, and left to start a life of their own.”
She glanced at Ark, wondering what he made of that.
It was a confirmation of what she was: an orphaned daughter of orphans.
A second-generation Untethered. Her parents had no Book of Names, no lineage inked in magic going back generations.
The great families guarded their Books fiercely, adding new names only through birth or a carefully plotted marriage.
She had no illusions any of them would ever open theirs for her.
Ark didn’t react. Though his eyes were fixated on the photographs, she knew he was listening. He said, “Your mother was a witch, you mentioned. Your father was human, then?”
She nodded.
“They never found a family?”
“Few Untethereds are lucky enough to be adopted. Prospective parents stay away from them.”
Ark finally turned to her. “So your parents built a family of their own.”
“They did. But they knew what I was up against. They left Angelene to raise me somewhere I wouldn’t always have to prove my worth.”
And Little Mineola had welcomed them. Over the years, others like them had followed—families with tangled bloodlines and no grand legacies to their names. She had never resented her parents for that decision.
She only wished it hadn’t been necessary.
“These children—” Her throat tightened. “Most of them are of mixed blood. With so much stacked against them, keeping Starlight going is . . .”
She trailed off.
Ark was quiet for a moment. Then he said, simply, “I understand.”
She stared at him. In her role as Starlight’s steward, she’d given countless presentations to potential patrons—talking until her voice went dry, watching their eyes glaze over as she explained why the orphanage mattered. They would say the same words—‘I understand’—to end her speech.
But Ark, strangely, was nothing like that.
It didn’t feel like empty sympathy. He said it like someone who knew—not just her words, but the weight behind them. His gaze held hers a beat too long.
Then, a faint clatter echoed from the kitchen, followed by Mrs. Thimble’s voice speaking to Matilde.
“Come on,” Cassia said, motioning for him to follow her. “You should meet our resident kitchen tyrant before she finds you first.”