Her breath, a soft whisper of warmth, ghosted my cheek, sending a shiver through me. Her fingers, a feather-light touch, curled slightly against my chest, creating a spark that radiated through my core.
A low huff broke the spell.
Bran sat nearby beneath a willow tree, head on his paws but eyes alert, watching us like a chaperone. His tail thumped once in judgment.
Beside him, I caught a glimpse of Gideon standing at the edge of the trees.
Gideon grinned. “Shhh, Bran, I’ll wait ten more seconds.”
But Bran’s second huff was louder this time.
“Oh, am I interrupting something steamy?” came Gideon’s voice, bright and amused. “Should I pretend to have gone blind?”
Wyn let out a squeak and scrambled off me. I rolled away, swearing softly.
Gideon stood at the edge of the trees, tossing an apple into the air with a smirk that belonged in a tavern.
“We’re done,” I muttered, brushing off my shirt and walking back to camp.
Wyn didn’t follow right away.
…
Later that night, the fire was low, and the group had fallen into one of those rare, meandering conversations that happened only when the world was quiet enough to make room for them.
Gideon was comparing the court dances of Tharnhal, “so stiff even their bowing has a curtsy,” to the wild music of the coast.
Jasira snorted. “You like the coast because people there wear less.”
Gideon grinned. “Yes, but I also appreciate people who are proficient with a drum.”
Alaric leaned forward, plucking softly at his lute. “What about Vireth? Or Caerthaine? I’ve heard rumors of magic in their courts. Actual elemental gifts.”
“Rare,” Jasira said, suddenly more serious. “But not impossible.”
Wyn stirred. Her fingers twisted around her mug as she spoke, knuckles tight. “It’s said that gods give those gifts. They choose whom they bless based on their values. And even that kind of grace has a cost.”
The firelight flickered over her face. I noticed the faint line between her brows.
“The old texts say it feeds on the soul if wielded without balance. And some gifts...aren’t gifts at all.”
“False gifts?” Tyren asked, rubbing his hands together.
Wyn's head dipped, her gaze carefully fixed on the ground. “Magic born of grief, blood, or blasphemy. Power taken instead of given. There’s extraordinarily little written about them.”
A profound stillness descended, swallowing the chatter, leaving only the echo of what had just been said.
Alaric frowned. “So, it’s not only a tool?”
“It’s never just a tool,” I said.
They all turned to look at me.
I rarely spoke during these talks. Never felt like I had anything worth adding.
But Wyn met my gaze, quietly curious. And that was enough.
“If you shape wind or earth, fire or water, it shapes you back,” I said. “Even the strongest get hollow if they don’t know who they are.”
