She sighed and dropped his hand. “How about I give you a few minutes to yourself? Would that help?”
“Sure.”
While she slipped off, Domenic roamed the aisles. The warmth he’d noticed earlier had strengthened into a smothering heat, and he forced down slow, deep breaths. He wasn’t in danger, even if his body swore otherwise. And if he had a breakdown here, Hanna would blame herself.
He passed more wands: Firaxi, nicknamed the “Daughter of Sunshine”; Lorth, another nature wand, which was the third and final class of magic; Guinvallah, a defensive asset on a battlefield. Then Domenic began to slow. Deeper within the Vault were the most powerful Living Wands, many of which had gone years, even decades, without a magician to wield them. Ulthrax, which could fell a monster from a hundred yards away. Iberiad, the wand that had single-handedly constructed a town. And in the farthest depths of the chamber, Valmordion. During its last historical appearance, it had dispelled a winterscurge that would’ve annihilated Alderland’s entire eastern coast, sacrificing the life of its magician in the process.
After three more paces, Domenic froze altogether, staring at the few remaining candles that shined ahead.
He’d been wrong—this didn’t hurt. This was agony.
This,thiswas the life he was supposed to have. If he could only get over what had happened, he could stop playing this senseless game of waiting for a wand strong enough to satisfy him but weak enough not to terrify him. He could stop disappointingeveryone he cared about. He could, maybe, go back to the person he used to be.
But he couldn’t. He could only stare at the wands andwant,want so badly he ached.
“Dom?” He jolted, Hanna’s call rousing him as if from a trance. “Come here.”
He wiped his eyes and followed her voice into the bowels of the Vault.
With irritation, Domenic realized she stood in front of Ravfiri, the very wand she’d suggested to him outside. The famous enchantment wand was curved like a crescent moon, its rowan wood coated in amber, its magic radiating an immense, ardent warmth. Ravfiri was a wand of spectacle, of heroes.
In its forty-seven years of slumber, tendrils of ivy had woven over it in a stranglehold.
Domenic squeezed his eyes shut. “I already told you no.”
Drip.
Drip.
“You’re too good for Octorion. Or Welk, or Dyad, or any of the other wands near it.”
“I mean, I already knew I was better than Welk. I’ve gotsomestandards, you know.”
“Don’t be an ass. YouwantRavfiri. You want it so badly you can’t even look at it.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“Why?”
“Because…”
Because it didn’t matter what he used to want—what part of him would always want.
He’d already proven he was no hero.
She groaned. “I know how strong Ravfiri is—its wielders were some of the best enchantment magicians the Order ever had. And sure, it’s a stubborn wand. It’s picky. And it has its dangers, just like all Living Wands. But I looked through Syarthis’s memoriesabout it. It’s never had an unbonding, and each of its old wielders, they were so…bright. When they held Ravfiri, its amber lit up, and it was like once you saw them, you couldn’t look away. And you… I’m not going to give you some bullshit about duty, and I know you hate that everyone knows what happened. But if you just let people look at you,reallylook at you…”
Drip.
Drip.
“Do you hear that?” he asked, opening his eyes.
“Seriously?I’m begging you to listen to me, and you’re not even—”
“No, I mean it. I hear something. It sounds like… water.”
Domenic couldn’t explain why he turned away. Maybe he wasn’t brave enough to face her desperation. Or maybe it was the sudden, insistent pain in his chest, like roots squeezing his rib cage. Ignoring Hanna’s gawking, he treaded deeper into the Vault. Here, so few lights shined that he couldn’t even see where his steps fell.
