A stack of letters.
Her name is on too many of them.
Some are nothing but torn pages and half-finished sentences written in the hours when I couldn’t sleep and my shadows wouldn’t stop pacing. But there is one I try not to think about. I’m not sure why he wrote me, only that I’m glad he did before it was too late. It’s almost as if he?—
Fuck. No.
I won’t go there.
I take one of the letters out. The paper is worn where my thumb has rubbed it too many times. Edges soft from being handled and handled again like repetition might turn ink into courage.
I don’t open it.
If I open it, I’ll read it.
If I read it, I’ll remember exactly who I was when I wrote it—a younger version of me, stupid and certain I could keep her safe just by wanting it hard enough.
I shove the letter back into the trunk with the others like it’s alive. Like it might crawl out and ruin me. I slam the lid hard enough to make the lock rattle. The sound echoes in the quiet room—final, violent, satisfying.
For a second I stand there, fists clenched, shadows crawling up my wrists like they want permission to tear something apart. The lake is still humming in my bones. And somewhere out there, Celeste is probably walking through the campus with Noa Gallegher’s hand in hers?—
While my magick still remembers the shape of her.
So do I.
And I don’t know how long I can keep pretending that doesn’t make her dangerous.
Or that it doesn’t make me want to be worse.
CHAPTER 32
The layer in which the thread of magick is woven will ultimately determine how hard it is to untangle.
—Principles of Elemental Fusion and Resonance
CELESTE
In Arcanarchaeology, we are now covering ancient sites and artifacts—shadowsteel that drinks light, stardust that whispers futures, fire-laced blades, metal-magicked rings, water-infused jewels. We’ve also started on symbolism: sigils, glyphs, runes, and family crests. Remnants of the past that survived long enough to be inherited.
Noa has the Emberlain crest proudly displayed on his bedroom wall—his mother’s family crest. A flame encased in a sword hilt. Power wielded with discipline.
Duty above all.
When we get to the water family crests, recognition sparks. I’ve seen them before. Back in the Cavern.
The three ancient families—Thalrien, Virellan, Morvaine—stories that must have been carved there long before Whittaker stood.
The guardians of water’s primal magick.
Thalrien—a mermaid, symbolizing water’s tie to the self: emotion, transformation, and truths uncovered.
Virellan—the moon over the ocean, representing the tides: the unseen exerting will, intuition guiding. A distant moon shaping a restless sea.
Morvaine—a waterlily, still and silent: a symbol of serenity and poise, yet its roots reach deep into the dark. True strength lying in unwavering grace.
It is the Thalrien crest that brings me pause. Memory tugs at the corners of my mind, faded pictures floating like mist over a still lake.
I’m fourteen, looking through my father’s study. Searching for unique coins for Gavrail to add to his collection. We have so many from all our travels around the world and I promised I would bring him some.
