Page 139 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

Ark sent another Shadow Quill, this time to the dressmaker, and resumed pacing, each step tight with restless energy. The reply arrived not as ink or parchment, but in true Opalina fashion: a shimmer of golden thread unspooling midair, needles dancing through empty space to stitch her words, letter by glowing letter.

Alderrath used Starlight to corner her.

Said she was standing between you and your father.

Told her to step aside while there’s still time.

He clenched his jaw, fingers curling into fists, resisting the urge to slam them against the wall. He thought of the tiny altar hidden in her cabinet, where she’d left an offering in the form of a harvest loaf. He knew it. He knew she didn’t leave because she wanted to. She did it because she knew the pain of losing a father intimately, and couldn’t bear to be the reason he missed a single moment with his own. Because she believed, with all that soft and stubborn courage of hers, that stepping aside was the right thing. The kind thing.

A very Cassia thing to do.

His phone buzzed. For a split second, his breath caught—hoping it might be her. Hoping she’d changed her mind and that she’d tell him where she was. That she missed him too. He looked down so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash.

But it wasn’t Cassia or Opalina.

It was from his brother.

Train’s arriving in thirty minutes.

The train screeched into the station, brakes hissing, magic humming beneath the wheels. Ark stood just behind the painted yellow line, coat whipping in the breeze, his hair still damp from his quick shower. He glanced at the empty spot beside him longingly. Cassia should be here, meeting his brother for the first time. Instead, her absence weighed him down like a stone.

Passengers spilled onto the platform, a blur of strangers he barely registered—until a familiar broad-shouldered gait cut through the crowd.

Oromon.

His younger brother scanned the platform until his golden eyes found Ark. No smile, but his shoulders eased. The same reserved expression—but Ark saw a tightness around his mouth that hadn’t been there last winter.

They hugged. Ark felt the powerful squeeze of Oromon’s arms.

“Welcome back,” Ark said quietly.

They stepped back. Oromon raised a dark brow. “Didn’t think you’d meet me yourself. You could’ve sent a driver.”

“How could I not? You’re my only brother.” He patted Oromon’s back. “Good to see you.”

Oromon’s lips thinned. “I wish I was returning under different circumstances.”

“Me too, brother.” Ark looked him up and down. “Why does it seem like every time I see you, you’ve gained another stone of muscle and a few inches of height?”

His brother stood a head taller than everyone else on the platform—thick muscles, calloused hands, obsidian-dark horns sweeping back from his temples. Years of lifting stone and scaffolding had carved him like a monument, and he moved like a man who didn’t waste effort impressing anyone.

One corner of Oromon’s mouth lifted. “Must be all the heavy lifting.” Then his expression sobered. “How are you holding up?”

The question hit hard. The weight pressed down on Ark’s shoulders. His limbs felt leaden.

“Not good,” he admitted, voice low.

A flicker of understanding passed through Oromon’s golden eyes. He looked around the platform. “I thought your witch would be with you. Why didn’t you bring her?”

Ark guided his brother through the bustling station—the air thick with magic and coal dust, vendors selling mulled wine and roasted chestnuts beneath the vaulted iron and glass ceiling. Once they were settled in the car, Oromon nudged him with a broad elbow.

“So? Where is she?”

Ark’s hands tightened on the wheel as he eased them out of the lot. “She left.”

Oromon was silent for a moment. “What did you do?”

Ark shot him a sidelong glance. “Why do you assume I did something?”