Page 148 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

She turned, startled.

He didn’t look at her. He was watching the far end of the corridor where Caius had gone. “He hasn’t said it aloud. Maybe he never will. But we’ve been with him for twenty-five years. We’ve seen what he’s like with everyone else, and what he’s like around you.”

He finally met her gaze. “Trust me. You don’t look at someone that way unless it means something.”

Cassia’s throat tightened.

“As someone of mixed blood,” she said at last, “you already know there are two Merediths. Sir Elios gave you his name, his protection, a place in Elios’s Book of Names. I’m happy for you. But my story isn’t the same. I’m Untethered. People see what I am and decide what I’m allowed to be—I’ve stopped trying to explain.”

Her voice softened. “I do love him. I’m done denying that.” She glanced down the corridor. “But his father is fighting for his life. Whatever peace he has left shouldn’t be burdened by me. And I won’t tear Ark in two—forcing him to choose between me and the people who need him now.”

She met Rhodes’s gaze. “Take care of him. Please. Be his friend the way you always have.”

He studied her for a moment—something unreadable passing through his eyes, like he was seeing her properly for the first time. Then he stepped forward, his broad frame casting hers in shadow. His hand found hers, warm and firm. “I don’t care what anyone else says,” he said, a gruff rumble. “Miss Aura, you’re a first-rate witch. And a remarkable person.”

Cassia blinked, the sting behind her eyes returning. “Thank you,” she whispered. “That means more than you know.”

Gently, she pulled her hand free, turned, and walked down the corridor.

She didn’t look back.

37

ARK

Inside the hospital room, Ark stood near the foot of the sickbed, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the pale rise and fall of his father’s chest. Nurses moved briskly, checking vitals, murmuring stabilization spells. Sir Harland’s elf physiomancer—violet-eyed, composed—conferred with the human surgeon, her partner for this difficult surgery, over a floating pane of his father’s organs.

His mother stood at the head of the bed, her hand resting on his father’s shoulder. Oromon lingered by the door, too still to be calm.

Ark said nothing. Every part of him felt like a bowstring drawn too tight. He hated this. Hated hospitals. Hated not being able to fix it himself. Power burned under his skin—and still, none of it could keep his father from failing.

A warmth flared at the back of his neck—sharp, unmistakable. His breath caught.

Cassia.

The room collapsed into irrelevance, drowned by the pull beneath his ribs dragging him toward the door. His jaw locked against her name.

Then the warmth began to ebb—a slow retreat, like fingers laced through his, slipping free one by one. She was leaving. Each step she took dimmed the mark further, until the blaze became a whisper, and the whisper became an ache he couldn’t reach.

A tap on the glass door pulled him back. Caius stood just outside, motioning for him to come. Ark took one last glance at his father, then followed.

In the corridor, Caius held out a thick glass vial wrapped in cloth. “Miss Aura brought this. Told me to tell you to give it to your father. Before the surgery starts.”

Ark blinked. “She was here.”

Caius met his gaze evenly. “She handed it to me herself. Said it was important to have your father drink this.”

Ark’s throat locked. For a moment, he couldn’t move. The vial was warm in his palm, the aquamarine liquid within catching the low light.

“She came all this way,” he murmured, voice rough. “Why didn’t she come and see me herself?”

He looked up, and for one wild second, he thought he might bolt after her. Might chase her through the city, past festival lights and snow-slick streets, just to⁠—

“She already left,” Rhodes’s deep voice sounded behind him. “She didn’t want to make things harder for both of you.”

Ark’s breath caught. Of course she didn’t. That was Cassia all over—selfless to the last, even when it hurt. Even when she was the one hurting.

He stared at the bottle in his hand, the warmth of it slowly seeping through his glove, faint traces of magic still clinging to the glass. No one had to tell him how precious this liquid was. He didn’t know what she had to do to conjure this, but he knew her.