I look at my wrist, where there’s only a few smudges left of the rune cuff Syrus gave me.
He said it was to protect me from ephilium power. But if he suspected me of being nephilim…
That buzzing sensation—the hum of my magic—has been there in the background since I hit Kaliban with my lightning. But it was there before then too, first flexing its wings when I spoke to the ephilium at the rift, and Magnus put his hands on me.
Then I came back to Malice—and Syrus immediately put that band of runes on.
Forces beyond our control.That’s what he’d said when I told him not to be suspicious of me working with the ephilium.
The bottom of my stomach’s fallen out, but I cling to the idea that I must be misunderstanding the situation—jumping to the wrong conclusions. And luckily enough, the man who can put my anxieties to rest has just walked through the dining room door, looking put together and handsome in his blue doublet and long cloak.
“Syrus,” I say, my voice coming our harsher than I’d like. I want to give him the benefit of the doubt. I want that so badly. “When did you start suspecting I had ephilium heritage?” I ask.
He eyes me carefully as he sits down at the head of the table.
“I was suspicious you weren’t entirely human when you first kicked me out of your head in that dance hall in Malice,” he says gently. “Stratans aren’t supposed to be able to do that. You having ephilium heritage was always a possibility after that, though there was no way to be sure until Hathwell.”
“So, suspecting that, why did you put those runes on me?” I say, holding up my wrist. “Were you trying to hide my heritage from me?”
I don’t think I’m imagining the discomfort in his eyes, and it’s doing nothing to ease the lurch in my gut.
“I thought—and to be clear, I was never fully sure—that if you were nephilim, you might not be aware of it,” he admits. “But believe me, those runes were to protect you.”
“From what, my own power?” I ask, my voice rising a few decibels.
A muscle in Syrus’s jaw clenches. “Yes, actually.”
That’s why I didn’t start feeling my magic again until after Kaliban’s blood had helped wipe them off.
“You deliberately suppressed my magic without telling me,” I say, every word tense with anger.
Viz’s papers rustle as he stacks them nervously. “Maybe we should wait to have this conversation after?—”
“It was for the best,” Syrus says, his eyes narrowing slightly. “I thought that if I was right and we suppressed your magic, then your ephilium side might not develop, and everyone would be safer.”
I want to believe in his good intentions. I really do. But all I can hear is him saying that he felt entitled to take my magic from me—to keep me from becoming my full self. For the first time in my life, I have some real, genuine power, and he’s suggesting that’s too dangerous to be allowed? And after everything—the training, pushing me to take what I’m owed. I thought he wanted me to be stronger, both in body and will. But was that only as long as it was convenient to him? Now that I might have something—want something—he considers dangerous to him, it seems like he’s okay with shrinking me down again.
“Safer how?” I demand. “What’s so bad about me being part ephilium?”
He sighs, running his hand through his hair. “That’s not what I’m saying. I don’t have a problem with it in itself; I?—”
“Saferhow?” I repeat.
He looks frustrated, and there’s an edge to his voice when he replies. “If the pale-bloods find out about you, they will want to claim you as one of their own. They will take you to Aradis and force you to become like them. You don’t know what their culture is like, Leah. You’ve only ever seen them from a distance. But they are cold and brutal, and becoming one of them would destroy you. It could destroy—” he stops himself, looking like he’s searching for the right words. “They turn their best and brightest into fighting machines who only love war. Is that what you want? Is that what you see in your future?”
I don’t understand the intensity of his anger. He looks afraid. But is that a fear of losing me? Or of not being able to control me anymore?
“I know you hate them,” I say. “But you can’t let what happened three hundred years ago dictate how you treat me now. What if I don’t want to suppress my power? Are you going tomakeme?”
Syrus seems lost for words, and Viz takes the opportunity to jump in.
“Syrus, we really must go,” he says tentatively. “If we’re late to this meeting, the lords may not be interested in hearing your side of the story.”
Conflicting emotions cross Syrus’s face as he looks from me to Viz. Then he pushes his chair back, having not eaten a bite, and rises to leave.
“Look, I have to leave now,” he says, his tone marginally softer, like he’s trying to make us part on a decent note. “But we can talk about this when I get back. The fact is, it’s just not safe for you to have your powers. You’ll realize that when you have some time to think it over.”
I want to tell him how betrayed I feel. I want to shout and curse at him and demand a better explanation. But he’s already walking out the door with Viz.
