I looked up in time to see him strain, muscles locked, boots rooted to the floor as if the boards had become a vise.His jaw clenched.Veins stood out in his neck.
He couldn’t move.The sword in his hand was frozen.
The man’s smile deepened, satisfied.
“Good,” he murmured.“I was hoping you’d bring the caretaker.”
“Stay away from her,” Owen snapped, voice tight with effort.
The words cut through the haze—firm, commanding, grounding.
The pressure recoiled at the sound of him, lessened enough for me to inhale.Enough to remember myself.
But not enough to move.
The man’s gaze dropped to the grimoire—where it lay on the worktable, half-shadowed, like it wanted to hide and couldn’t.
“That book has been quiet for a long time,” he said softly.“And then you picked it up.”
My throat tightened.“Who are you?”
His eyes glinted in the windowlight—predator assessing prey.
“A problem you inherited,” he said.“A door your aunt left cracked.My scout said you smelled like her.I had to find out for myself.”
He paused, smile sharpening.
“You can call me Garrat.”
He took one slow step forward.Every instinct in me screamed to back away.
The sword in my hand warmed—alert, offended—like it hated him on sight.
“Don’t,” Owen growled, and the lights above flickered as Owen’s magic pushed against whatever held him.
Garrat didn’t even look at Owen.He looked at me.
“Do you know what it’s like,” he murmured, voice lowering, “to listen to a boundary tear and not be able to reach through it?”
My stomach turned.
He lifted his hand—not toward my face, not to touch me—
Toward the grimoire.The leather cover shuddered.The shop groaned.And the air thinned, like something behind the walls had leaned closer.
“No.”The word scraped out of me.“Don’t touch it.”
His smile sharpened.“Ah.There it is.”
He shifted his fingers, delicate as a pianist.
The grimoire’s clasp clicked.
Not open—
Just enough.
Like a lock testing itself.
