Chapter 20
ARK
The ice at Thimble Creek gleamed beneath the lantern light, glossy and pale.
Ark sensed the spells woven into it—reinforcement charms, likely drawn from village archives, meant to keep the sheet stable this early in the season.
He stood at the edge of the rink, watching the Starlight children spiral past—scarves trailing, cheeks flushed with cold and excitement.
Their laughter cut through the sharp winter air, rolling across the frozen surface.
Cassia stood beside him, her shawl slipping off one shoulder, her breath clouding in the dusk.
Lilibeth and Opalina were already on the ice, herding the younger ones away from the bonfires that crackled along the banks.
The smell of mulled spices and hot chocolate drifted from somewhere down the creek, curling through the lantern-lit dark.
Ark flexed his right hand beneath his glove.
The ache was still there—a dull throb, familiar and ignorable.
But aside from that, he felt . . . at ease.
Unexpectedly. He hadn’t realized how much he’d been bracing until now—waiting to feel out of place.
But no one looked twice at him here. To them, he was just a tall stranger trailing a woman with cinnamon in her hair, children orbiting her like moons.
They found an empty bench by the edge. Cassia patted his arm. “I’ll be right back. Don’t let anyone steal my spot!”
She slipped away before he could answer. He watched her go, noting the sway of her shawl, the way she ducked under a low-hanging garland, the easy nod she gave to a passing family. Then he scanned the tree line, the rooftops, the iron railings across the creek, the bridge.
No bird Construct.
He was just beginning to fully relax when his phone chimed. Ark pulled it from his pocket and scanned the message. His forehead furrowed. He read it the second time before slipping it back into his coat.
Cassia returned with two cups, steam rising from their rims. She handed him one. “Little Mineola’s best hot chocolate. Mr. Adamson, the owner, has been coming to the bakery for decades. He asked if you were a friend of the orphanage.”
“What did you say?”
“That you’re helping out.” She smiled. “Technically true.”
She took a sip, and a smear of chocolate clung to her upper lip.
Her tongue darted out, catching it without thought.
Ark watched, his own cup forgotten for a moment, before he looked away.
He took a careful sip, if only to take his mind off her lips.
The chocolate was overwhelmingly sweet, but beneath it, a velvety richness he hadn’t expected.
The skating rink was now filled with adults and children alike. The night echoed with shrieks and laughter, the steady scrape of blades against ice mingling with music. Imogen ambled away from the crowd toward them, waving both arms.
“Miss Aura! Can you do fireworks?”
Cassia looked up, brow arching. “Fireworks?”
“Like the Summer Solstice ones!” A young half-elf boy joined her, and other children followed. “With sparkles and colours and booms!”
Cassia chuckled. “I think you’re giving me too much credit. I haven’t quite mastered pyrotechnics.”
“But you froze the garden last year,” Imogen insisted, full of tragic betrayal. “And made the mini caramel tornado!”
Devlin glided up behind the cluster of children, arms folded. “Unless you want singed mittens and property damage—which means we’ll have to go home early—don’t push your luck.”
The disappointment hit the children all at once—a little chorus of groans, dropped shoulders, theatrical sighs. Cassia tried to smile through it, but Ark caught the subtle shift in her shoulders. The faint frustration. The guilt.
She always wanted to give them more.
He didn’t plan to speak up, but the words spilled out. “I’ll do it.”
Cassia turned to him, eyes widening. “What?”
“I’ll do a single show and keep it above the tree line.”
A pause stretched between them. The children went still, their eyes shifting to him—some with awe, some with suspicion.
“Really?” Devlin asked, like he couldn’t quite believe it.
Cassia blinked. “You don’t have to—”
“I know.”
He passed Cassia his cup and turned away from them all, using his teeth to remove his left glove. Cold air bit at his fingers.
But a different cold, from a different night, brushed his memory.
A young Oromon, small and trying not to cry.
The vast silence of the Varil manor pressing down on them when their parents left for yet another interminable Regency Council session.
Ark had stolen into the courtyard and, with clumsy, early attempts at pyro magic, conjured a handful of miniature silent stars to dance above the rose bushes.
He hadn’t been able to bring their parents back, but he could fill the void with light. He could take his brother’s eyes away from the back of the carriage and turn them up to the sky.
Now, Ark stepped into the clearing at the edge of the ice, just far enough from the crowd. The stars stretched wider above him. The first thing he did was drop the glamour, freeing his energy for the magic the fireworks required. A shimmer of false skin gave way to the true self that lay beneath.
The air shifted. The children went quiet behind him—even the adults paused mid-conversation.
Ark raised his left hand. Magic flowed. Fire—alive and coiling—crackled with heat just shy of combustion.
He let it rise into the air and shaped it with precision: a spiral of red, a burst of blue, a crown of silver stars that unfolded like a slow bloom.
Then, a series of cascading lights, timed in intervals, falling like glittering meteors across the treetops.
For a moment, he let the final arc hang in the sky—an ember trail that flared gold and collapsed into soft light.
As the last of the display vanished into darkness, the crowd erupted. Cheers, claps, whoops of surprise. The children jumped up and down. It was as though Yulefrost had come early.
Ark exhaled, shoulders lowering as the magic dispersed, warm smoke curling around him. The pyromancy had demanded more than he had to spare. His injured hand screamed in protest, the burn flaring white-hot beneath the bandage. He ignored it.
Some things were worth the pain.
When he turned, Cassia was still standing where he’d left her. She was staring at him like she hadn’t looked away once. The weight of it landed somewhere tender in his chest, a place he didn’t usually let anyone reach.
Then her friends’ voices cut through, shattering the moment.
“I see,” Opalina murmured behind her, wry and unblinking. “So this is what we’re working with.”
Lilibeth let out a low whistle. “Cass, if this is pretend, remind me to fake-date a Nocturne next time.”
Cassia didn’t answer. The children spilled back onto the ice, energy unbroken, their cheers scattering like birds across the frozen air. The crowd’s attention shifted as quickly as it had gathered. That left the two of them, standing at the edge of the ice.
Ark carefully slid the glove back over his left hand. Cassia stepped closer—close enough that her shoulder nearly brushed his. Her scarf had caught a stray spark of gold dust, winking in the night.
“You didn’t watch the fireworks,” he said quietly.
“No.”
A self-deprecating laugh bubbled in his throat. “They were that unimpressive?”
“They were beautiful.” She turned to meet his eyes. “But I’ve seen fireworks before.”
She looked at him with none of the calculation most people wore when facing him unglamoured. And Ark, who had spent most of his life behind illusion, felt suddenly, stupidly bare.
“You’ve never dropped your glamour like that in public, have you?” she asked, softer now.
“No.”
A beat passed.
“I figured I ought to see it properly,” she said. “The real you.”
His throat tightened, his gaze flicking sideways. “You already did. In my office.”
“That was different. You didn’t have a choice; you were already unconscious.” She paused. “Tonight . . . you allowed it to fall.”
Ark couldn’t refute her. He could excuse vulnerability when it was unconscious, unintentional, reflexive. But this—tonight—had been a decision. He’d stood in full view of strangers and children and let the mask slip away.
And not just for the sake of fireworks.
The children had been reluctant to leave, their cheeks pink and voices hoarse from laughter, but eventually they’d clambered back onto the bus in a tangle of scarves, skates, and sleepy satisfaction. The teachers—two from Starlight, along with Opalina and Lilibeth—herded them efficiently.
Opalina paused at the bus steps and looked back, “We’ll take them back to Starlight. So, you two just . . . relax.”
Lilibeth grinned. “I give you both permission to do anything we wouldn’t do.”
With a wink and an exaggerated wave, she disappeared into the bus. The doors hissed shut. The vehicle rumbled to life.
And then, they were alone.
The festive noise faded behind them as they left the creek behind, walking side by side beneath trees wrapped in ribbons of soft gold light. Ark kept his coat buttoned, his injured hand tucked away, and—significantly—his glamour down. Every step felt like a conscious choice to remain that way.
They walked in silence. Streetlights flickered past. A few blocks later, Cassia said, quietly, “You handled the crowd well.”
Ark glanced over, watching her profile etched in the lamplight. “That’s a polite way of saying I didn’t growl at anyone.”
Her unguarded smile tightened his chest. “I mean it. You were . . . magnificent.”
He shook his head. “You’re better at navigating people than I am.”
They passed a stretch of homes decked with garlands. The space between their arms, swinging as they walked, felt like a tangible thing. A fraction of an inch. Enough to make him keenly aware of the possibility of contact.
After a moment, she said, “You didn’t have to do the fireworks. The children would’ve been disappointed, but they would’ve forgotten.”
“I know.”
“Then, why?” Her voice was softer now. “You dropped your glamour. You used magic you must’ve been conserving to heal. You let an entire village see you.”
Ark looked ahead, the truth pressing against his ribs. He could lie. He could make a joke, change the subject entirely, but the night felt too raw for that.
“It wasn’t for the village,” he admitted.
He felt her gaze on him; he didn’t turn. If he looked at her now, he’d say too much.
“Who was it for?”
Exasperation clawed at his chest. Did she really not know? He stopped walking, and she stopped beside him. He turned to face her fully. He had no choice. If she asked, he would answer—without the shield of deflection.
Snow drifted down, catching in her hair, and he had to force himself not to reach out and brush it away.
“You were frustrated,” he said. His voice sounded distant, scraped raw. “You wanted the children to have something magical. You wanted to give them light.”
He let the implication hang in the cold air: It was for you. Everything tonight has been for you.
Cassia’s breath misted between them. She searched his face, her eyes wide, and in the quiet, he could hear her heartbeat—or perhaps it was his own, hammering against his sternum.
She didn’t thank him. Instead, she reached out and brushed a stray spark of gold dust from his sleeve. Her fingertips grazed the wool, sliding down until, for a heart-stopping second, she grazed his bare wrist where his glove ended.
The touch was fleeting, but it burned.
“You realize this means you’ve officially earned it now,” she said.
He blinked. “Earned what?”
She shot him a look—sideways, her lips twitching. “The tart.”
A beat passed. Ark’s lips curved. “I was beginning to think the tart was a metaphor.”
“Oh, it absolutely is. For trust. Or patience. Or something equally inconvenient.”
“And if it’s earned?” he asked.
They had started walking again, and her gate was just ahead. She paused, her hand on the latch, and turned to face him.
“Then maybe it’s time to find out if it was worth the trouble.”
He took a half-step closer, the space between them undeniably intimate. “I don’t take tarts lightly,” he said, his voice low.
She looked from his eyes to his mouth and back again. “Neither do I.”
The gate creaked softly between them. Ark held her gaze—the weight of the night, his vulnerability, his hope, all lingering in the silence. He could kiss her now. He wanted to. The desire was a physical ache. But this—she—felt too important to rush.
“Then, let’s not keep it waiting,” he murmured.